Well, I've done it. I've crossed some final boundary that was, without my knowledge, holding me back. After last month's column, I am utterly without fear. I am like Bill O'Reilly of The O'Reilly Factor: I'm not afraid to tell it like it is, to blow the top off the whole sordid world of the comic business, showing you stuff that sickens working-class joes like you and me. (Also, like Bill O'Reilly, I make my shit up and am only posing as a working-class joe, but you already knew that.) In the last 30 or so days, I've been flooded with calls by comic pros who've wanted to thank me for shooting straight, for, as one prominent writer put it, "telling it exactly like it is, even though you're making all of it up and very clearly need professional help."

So this month, you're in for a treat, as my notoriety has bagged me a Fanboy Rampage exclusive: excerpts from the diary of an inker at CrossGen comics! Yes, this brave soul, requesting anonymity, provided me free access to his papers, which I am excerpting here, in the hopes of finally informing the industry of what goes on behind closed doors at the CrossGen compound in Oldsmar, Florida. I read the documents of the man I'll call "Tracer X" in slack-jawed awe, amazed at what my eyes beheld. That this could happen in America? Unbelievable!

Anyway, read for yourself, and see if you don't find your dearly-cherished beliefs in comics toppling like poorly balanced McFarlane figures!

***

January 17: Nervously, I get off at the Oldsmar Greyhound bus station, jumping slightly at the squeal of the bus's air brakes. The ride from Tampa was short and uneventful, but I'm still not used to this Florida climate, which is wretchedly humid outside and air-conditioned to the point of refrigeration inside; I feel like I'm coming down with something after ping-ponging so much between hot and sweaty and cold and clammy. Fortunately, I've made the last leg of the trip with an artist, Stencil, another recruit to the CrossGen Associate program. Stencil showed me his portfolio on the way down and regaled me with all the CrossGen stories he's heard at various cons. I'm just doing this to break into comics, and so have barely researched CrossGen other than making sure they pay their people on time, but Stencil appears to be just as excited about the CrossGen lifestyle as the opportunity to get into the field. "Dude," he must have said at least three times during a not-long bus trip, "I hear if you pencil the same book for two years without the sales dropping, Mark Alessi buys you a CrossGen jet-ski! Your own jet-ski, dude! With the CrossGen logo on the side? Wouldn't that be badass?"

"I, uh, don't jet-ski."

"Dude, this is Florida. You gotta jet-ski! How do you think everyone commutes to work? It's like the Jetsons, except you're catching air off alligator heads and shit! It's badass!"

"Hmmm."

Despite my doubts about Stencil's information, I'm glad to have him beside me in the sagging bus station. "Look, dude!" Stencil says, pointing. "It's Mark Alessi and the CrossGen van! Let's go!" And with that, he drags me over to a happy-looking man in front of a garish purple mini-van emblazoned with the CrossGen logo. Although I've only talked to Alessi on the telephone interview in which he hired me, he greets Stencil and I with open arms, clapping us firmly on our backs and addressing us correctly without proper introduction. "Please, please, get in the van and relax. I'll drive us back to the compound. Don't worry, I've got the air conditioning cranked up so it's nice and cool in there." I shudder inwardly but smile at Alessi's graciousness, nonetheless. I'm very impressed that the President of the Company would personally drive us.

"I call shotgun!" Stencil hollers and jumps over to the far side of the van. Alessi and I exchange smiles at Stencil's youthfulness—Alessi seems like a very happy man—and then I climb in back and we depart, Stencil and Alessi singing along to the N'Sync song on the radio. Myself, I'm happy that I'm far enough away from the air conditioning that the sweatstains on my shirt can dry rather than turn ice cold.

The CrossGen compound is an impressive structure, several stories high, surrounded by a high wall and located just off a river. Tall palm trees ring the perimeter, upended malachite mops turned to a faded azure sky. It looks familiar, which I mention to Alessi.

"Yes, very good," he says over his shoulder. "This place was actually used quite frequently on Miami Vice. Whenever they wanted to show a drug dealer's impenetrable fortress, they usually used exterior shots of this place."

"Badass," Stencil whispers reverently.

"Then it was bought up and turned into a Ramada Suites, but they found themselves unable to turn a profit. I was able to buy it up for quite the reasonable sum."

"It must have a killer swimming pool," Stencil says, practically bouncing in his seat like a five year old.

Alessi gives a wide knowing look. "You will not believe our swimming pool." He lowers his voice conspiratorially. "It's wicked boss."

The swimming pool is indeed impressive, practically the size of a football field, and a small section is roped off and used for a water volleyball game when we arrive: laughing pink-faced men swat a jaundiced ball over a net, stopping briefly to wave at Alessi and us as we walk by. Alessi and Stencil wave back; I feel self-conscious and ridiculous.

Inside, Alessi, shows us to our room, a wide workspace with bunkbeds and a closet in one corner, top of the line drawing boards in the other, a very small window with a nonetheless lovely view of the river. The walls are already decorated with colorful CrossGen art—powerful looking men and women standing on mountain peaks under star-filled skies. "Top bunk!" Stencil cries, running in and throwing his bags in a high looping arc. Without wanting to admit it, I'm slightly disappointed. I turn to Alessi with a slight smile, "I didn't even know I wanted the top bunk until I lost it."

Alessi nods, still smiling. "We like to reward initiative here at CrossGen." He calls to Stencil, who's already up the ladder and on his bunk. "Stencil, I'm giving you an extra bonus for your fast thinking!"

"Badass!"

I look at Alessi, trying not to show my confusion. But Alessi can see it in my eyes and nods again. "You'll see."

January 18: Alessi's comment from the other day becomes more clear when I meet with Kara Bartlett, the Office Admin. After the various insurance forms are filled out, and I've watched an almost refreshingly tedious safety video, Kara hands me a CrossGen PeeChee and small leather bag, like a stash bag. "What's this for?" I ask her. "Homework?"

"That," Kara says with a very serious expression on her face, "is your key to success at CrossGen." Kara is a very serious looking woman in the first place, so I find myself almost alarmed. "Open up the PeeChee."

I do. Inside is a sheet with my photo clipped to it and a list of stats. "You'll be starting at CrossGen as a first level inker," Kara says to me. "Take a general look at the stats and see if you think we've estimated them correctly. Although Mark is usually a very good judge of stats, there's a series of tests you can take that'll gauge your abilities to within a tenth of a point. I'll give you a copy of the Employee's Handbook so you can get yourself acquainted with the rules here, price out your equipment, and give you a better idea of how things work here."

I hold up the stash bag. "Uh, what's in here?"

"Your dice," Kara says. "Two twenty-siders, twelve sider, three six siders and a four sider."

"Umm.…"

"Don't sit on the four-sider," Kara tells me. "The damn things can do some serious damage. That's how George Perez started missing deadlines."

I try to take all this information in, but apparently my brain is no longer working properly.

"From time to time, you may be called upon to make saving throws while working here at CrossGen. Or you might dispute a call Mark's made, in which case you may have to dice for it. And although conflicts with co-workers are rare, we do have a system in place to deal with it."

Kara looks at me levelly. "You look like you may have some questions."

"Well, I…I don't know. The whole thing just seems like…like…"

"Yes?"

"Well, like those games my friends used to play in school. You know. Role-playing games."

Kara nods and then stands up. "Mr. [Tracer X], you have to understand. Mark Alessi made his millions in the tech business, then retired from it to start CrossGen Comics. Mark is incredibly wealthy and incredibly successful, and he did it through hard work, research, and well-thought-out business plans. But he also did it by making sure he incorporated what he loved into what he did. I don't know if you've read any of the interviews with Mark Forbes did the last couple of years, but he talks quite openly about how role-playing games, or RPGs, as they're called, along with comics, taught Mark a framework for understanding human interaction and ethical standards he calls the cornerstone of his success. It's a system that has worked very well in his other businesses, and here at CrossGen he's taking it to the next level, if you don't mind the pun."

I look up at her, agog. She opens a drawer and passes a well-worn hardcover Employee's Handbook to me. On it, a clan of writers, artists and inkers dressed in armor, cloaks and hoods clamor about an enormous red-faced idol who bears a strong resemblance to Mark Alessi. "Read this," she says. "It's all in here. Oh, and let me know your shoesize. While you're working here, you're required to wear the official CrossGen sneakers in royal purple." She smiles at me. "Mark finds they add to a sense of camaraderie and unity."

January 25: My first week at CrossGen is finished, and I'm think I'm beginning—finally—to get the hang of things. By contrast, my roommate, Stencil, has already completely acclimated to the simultaneously relaxed yet stringent rules of the place. The bonus Mark gave him ("500 experience points!" Stencil confided to me late one night) seems to have served Stencil well, as he excitedly told me this morning he was almost halfway to becoming a second-level penciller. I broke out my handbook afterwards and checked my charts. By contrast, I am just barely a third of the way to being second level.

Of course, it helps that Stencil has more charisma than I do; charisma is a huge factor in being able to balance your life here. The supervisor will let you take a longer lunch, go out and swim on an extended break, or borrow the CrossGen van and go into town, if you make your charisma roll. I haven't even bothered, as I've never had much luck with dice. Just three days ago, Garner Peason, one the main editors showed up at our room just as I was getting ready to leave for dinner.

"Hey, buddy," Garner said after knocking on the open door. "You need to make your saving throw against fill-ins."

"Oh," I said. "Uh, okay." I checked my charts: I needed to roll a sixteen or better. I rolled a five. Garner clucked sympathetically.

"Ouch," he said. "Well, George Perez passed out after his old four-sided die injury acted up—I'm not sure he ever finished the volley of antibiotics. We need to get eight pages finished by tomorrow or the Meridian Special will be late, so you and anyone else who fails their saving throws have got to get to it."

In the end, Mark Pennington, Tom Simmons and I stayed up the whole night just so we could get the assignment done. Mark stopped by in the morning and gave us each a 250 point bonus, which was kind of him. He also offered leftovers from his 9:00 a.m. conference call with New York publishers but I failed my initiative roll and the others got it all.

"Wow," I said to Mark. "I've been up for thirty-six hours straight. I am beat."

"Really?" Mark said. "Gee. Make your safe versus fatigue. What's your constitution?"

"Umm, eleven."

"Okay. If you don't make that roll, you'll have to ink all your pages left-handed."

Fortunately, I made that roll. I shivered with relief and Mark clapped me on the shoulder. "There," he said. "That puts the wind back in the old sails, doesn't it?"

February 9: "Excuse me, sir," I say to the aggravated businessman with the angry eyes. "We'd like you to have this comic book with our compliments."

"Bug off, you nut." I am at the airport with six other CrossGenners. We have all failed our saving throw against public service and so are trying to give away promotional items to busy types. The people at the airport are all particularly harried and pay us little heed but we press on, trying to get a bonus that'll help us level up. The other night, I got into an argument at the foosball table with Brandon Peterson over who played Charlie X. Even though I was right, Brandon called in Mark and announced he was going to attack me with his "psionic powers." I didn't even realize that pencillers got psionic powers, plus I had to make my saving throw at minus two because my wisdom was less than nine. Even though I knew it was wrong, I had to announce to everyone that Nicholas Hammond played both Charlie X and Peter Parker, and also had to give Brandon all my food for a week.

"A week?" I hollered, and Mark spread his hands in a "what can you do?" gesture.

"You did fail your save," Mark said, "and that is what 'Brando' wants you to give him."

"But I'll starve!"

"No, no," Mark said. "I'm sure you can get some extra food if you pick up extra work."

"Comic book, sir?" I say in a trembling voice reading a newspaper. I am weak from hunger and am barely sleeping. "It's Mystic, one of the best books on the market."

The man glances at it. "Looks like warmed over fantasy adventure crap to me."

"No, no!" I am close to tears. "It's one of the best books on the market!"

February 14: I have failed my saving throw against Chuck Dixon. He is sitting with me in the CrossGen cafeteria. It is the first real food I've eaten in a week, which may explain why I'm so woozy I don't even try to make a saving throw against him when he first sits down, although other CrossGenners had mentioned him in passing.. "So," Dixon says, "I don't think I've seen you around here."

Dixon is just a nice guy who likes to talk. And talk. And talk. After about half an hour, I get up and he says. "Wait, where are you going?"

"Well, I have to—"

"You have to make your save against Chuck Dixon to leave."

I sit down and break out my twenty-sider and roll. A twelve. Dixon grins. "Well, you'll get another role in twenty minutes. Anyway, another thing that bugged me about 'Crouching Penguin Hidden Panda' as I like to call it is…"

I am there for six and a half hours. Chuck never lets up. He just sits there with an open notebook, doodling as he talks, giving me opinions about comics, ideas for stories, a recipe for spaghetti pie ("You gotta try it!"), anything that comes into his mind.

"Don't—Don't you have scripts you should be working on?" I ask, somewhere around hour three. People come and go from the cafeteria, careful not to get to close to our table.

"Oh, I'm working on a script right now," Dixon says, then tilts the notebook to me. "I can write while I talk. It's a trick I learned from this biography of a famous naval commander. I've finished off two issues while we've been talking. Hey, you know what's weird? Sean Connery looks more and more like me in every movie he does. If I didn't know better…"

Finally, I roll a natural twenty and sigh loudly (I've had to urinate for over two hours). Dixon just stops talking and looks at me. He doesn't look hurt but he has stopped talking in mid-sentence and I actually feel guilty.

"I'm sorry," I say to him, rising from my chair. "Nothing personal, it's just—"

"Wow," Dixon says. "Are you re-initiating conversation? Now you have to make your save again."

I feel faint. "But I—"

"Ah, ah. Those are the rules. Make your save."

I roll a six. I look up from the die to Dixon's face. He lifts his eyebrows and sweeps a hand to indicate I should sit back down. I do. "So, anyway," Dixon continues, "the best crime novels are the novels where both the cop and the criminal…"

February 17: Time for my monthly measurement on the Sigilometer. Butch Guice straps me into the chair, and tape electrodes to my eyelids and chest.

"This doesn't hurt, right?" I ask Butch.

"Not at all," Butch says. "It's a painless process in which we ask you a series of questions and these electrodes measure how cleanly your 'dynergy' is getting through."

"That's right," Barbara Kesel says, standing behind the glass booth. She is talking into a microphone. "You read in your Employee Handbook about dynergy, didn't you?"

My mind goes blank. "Ummm…"

"Your dynergy," Barbara says, flipping her long brown hair back and adjusting her glasses. "is your primal life-force, a cojoining of creativity and willpower. Traumas from early childhood or young adulthood can block your dynergy, and these questions allow us to determine where the blockage might be and what we can do to unblock it." Barbara walks over to the door of the booth. "In the end, this process that Mark Alessi's designed will make you a stronger, more creative person."

"Uhh," I say, and then cough. "Do I have to roll any dice during this?"

"No, no," Barbara says, and a sweet wave of relief rolls through me. She opens the door. "You just have to answer the questions as honestly as you can."

"Great," I say. "That's great."

A man who looks a bit like George Costanza comes into the booth and greets Barbara. They chat warmly for a minute or two, then the man steps up to the mic. I suddenly realize it is Mark Waid. He is still talking to her, but the mic picks up what he's saying. "—Only reason I'm still at this stupid place," he says to her.

"Okay," Barbara says to me. "Just relax and answer all the questions honestly."

"Yeah, yeah," Mark Waid says. "Remember. For each question you get wrong, you lose five experience points, okay? They go to me. Got it?"

"Wait," I say. "What?"

"Okay," Waid says. "First question. 'What is Clark Kent's social security number?'"

March 10: I sit in today on a plotting session for the First, where Ron Marz is the GM and Bart Sears, me and the two guys in production role-play through the next seven issues. My character gets killed opening a booby-trapped chest, which isn't going to play very well as the climax to the epic storyline. Bart, normally a nice guy, scowled and threw a four-sided die at me. Mark Alessi stops by on his way to a meeting. "This is what makes CrossGen unique, people," he says to us, not upset at all. "We were going to do an epic storyline called 'The Rise of The Sigil,' but now we'll just call it 'The Revenge of the Chest.' We'll work something out."

March 15: Stencil has disappeared, all of his stuff packed up in the night. I ask a few people around the pool where he's gone. "Oh," Greg Land says to me, "he's gone up enough levels, he was invited to join the Inner Compound."

"The Inner Compound?"

"Yes," Andrea Di Voto says, floating by on an inflatable chair. "I hear his dynergy tested clear."

Greg Land whistles. "That's impressive."

"Well, can I talk to him?"

Greg Land shrugs. "I'm sure he'll pop up."

March 18: I'm awakened from a heavy slumber by Barbara Kesel. She has come into my room without knocking and wears a flowing white gown.

"Barbara?" I ask. "Did we miss a deadline?"

Barbara takes my hand and smiles. Her eyes look at me expectantly. "Come with me," she says in a soft lilting voice. "Mark Alessi has chosen us to renew his sigil."

I sit up and start to say something, but Barbara puts her finger to my lips. "Come," she says. "Watching the mixing of our dynergy will renew Mark Alessi's sigil."

I want to ask her how our dynergy is to be mixed, but then the folds of her white gown envelop me as she leans in close and I can't think of anything to say.

April 2: I am talking at the bank of payphones in the rec room to my parents. My father sounds alarmed when I call him, telling him I need another $5,000 to help shift the color of my dynergy. "I thought this was a job, son," Dad says to me, his Midwestern voice cracking in puzzlement. "Aren't they supposed to pay you?"

"Oh, they are paying me, Dad," I tell him eagerly. "I just can't put the money from CrossGen into the Dynergy Investment System. Mark Alessi says it would confuse ownership issues."

"I don't know, son."

"Dad, for crying out loud! I'm living my dream! I'm making comics for a living! And if sales break big on Paxilon, the new title I'm developing, Mark Alessi's assured me I'll make third level."

There is a long, crackling pause on the other end of the line. "Hello?" I say. "Dad, are you still there?"

"Son, who is this Mark Alessi fellow? He sounds like a con man."

"What?" I say shocked. My eyes suddenly blur with tears. "Mark Alessi is not a con man! He's a genius! He's a successful businessman and entrepeneur who built a sizeable fortune in the advanced technology arena and retired at 43!"

"Son…"

I am crying into the payphone. "He's a genius! You don't understand! He publishes Ruse! He created Crux!"

My father sounds either hurt or concerned. "Son…"

I wipe my nose on my sleeve. "I have to go," I say, sniffling. "Mark Waid wants to use the phone, and I just failed against his non-verbal intimidation."

May 10: I'm a fourth level inker today! Praise Alessi! I knew fasting would help unblock my dynergy! Hail the Sigil! I go now to spread his word by leaving copies of Forge and Edge in local libraries!

June 1: Finally, in an isolated cabin in the woods of Montana, the deprogrammers break me. I weep for days on end, and my parents visit. I feel ashamed, knowing that they had to spend so much money to rescue me from the CrossGen compound.

"It's okay," Mom says. "We were afraid we'd never get you back." She and my dad walk out to the front porch, not wanting to crowd me.

I tell the deprogrammers, Bill and Joe, about the things I've seen, the things I've done, some of which I'm not sure actually happened, to help them deprogram others. The orgies. The fastings. The saving throws. Chris Oarr laughing evilly as he passed out Harvey Award ballots and told us how to vote. Having to swap out girlfight videos for George Perez while he cross-hatched. Mark Alessi on the mountaintop. The spaceships are coming, he is telling us, from the CrossGenverse. Stencil's head in the swamp, whispering to me. The spaceships were coming to take us back to our planets, Alessi is saying in a voice like thunder, and we have to publish as many high-quality comic books as we can in the limited time allotted to us. Stencil in the swamp, grinning with dead eyes atop a CrossGen jetski. The horror. The horror.

Bill and Joe look grim, but remain unsurprised.

"You're one of the lucky ones," Joe says to me. "Most people don't make it out of comic books alive."

I slump in my chair, exhausted. "I'm sure you're right."

"And I'm sure you're a helluva inker by now," Bill says.

"It's true," I agree. "Either right or left-handed."

"In fact," Joe says, "We know a great company that could probably use a guy like you."

"The rates aren't the best," Bill adds, "because they're not bankrolled by AOL."

"But it's a vibrant wellspring of creativity there," Joe says. "Plus some of the most iconic characters ever created."

"Really?" I ask. It sounds almost too good to hope for.

"Sure, sure," Joe says. "We know some people there. We can hook you up. It'll help you get back on your feet."

I look out through the gauze curtains, at the silhouettes of my mother and father in the sunlight. I owe them so much—it'd be good if I could make some money to pay them back.

"Sure, give me their number." I say. My lips are numb. "It sounds badass," I say and grin at them.