FOREWORD
By Brian Azzarello (and Mr. Crime)
This is a true story.
Growing up in Cleveland during the seventies, my favorite store was Kay’s Books. It was on Prospect Avenue—the stomping ground of hookers, winos, dealers, mack daddies and dopers! The perfect location to mold a young mind! I think they sold new books on the first floor, but what interested me were the endless aisles and stacks of used books on the second floor—specifically, the comics. Ah yes, the seduction of the innocent . . .
I’d take the creaky wooden stairs up and catch that treasure smell . . . musty pages. At the top of the stairs were the science fiction paperbacks. I’d pass them, because just beyond to the left were wooden and cardboard crates full of dog-eared comics. And to the right, smut! Racks and racks and racks of faced-out hardcore skin magazines and paperback salaciousness—right next to the comic books! Hundreds of cheap comics, the price written in black on the upper right hand corner. What? This miscreant merchant defaced the covers with a crayon? Usually 5¢. And never over cover price.
So there I’d be for hours, under the watchful eye of the old lady that ran the place (literally under—she stood above and behind the cash register which was up on a three-foot raised platform), rifling past scads of superheroes in search of war comics. Keep your head down, and stop glancing over at those dirty magazines ... War comics were my vice. I was never much for the fantastic; I liked things real. Well, she looks really fantastic. Can you guess what’s behind that black bar? What about these paperbacks? I know the covers aren’t photographs—they’re drawn—like your comics. But just look what the drawings are! Look what the titles are! Stop looking! It was on an afternoon like this when I came across it . . . a comic I’d never heard of. It was old . . . older than me. Like the naked ladies . . . It was called Crime Does Not Pay, and on the cover was written All True Crime Stories! Also on the cover, in black crayon, was 75¢.
Seventy-five cents? But the original price is clearly marked ten cents. That old lady is trying to rob you. The book was in bad shape—even for Kay’s; the cover was being held by only one staple, and it had some other kid’s name written on it in blue ink. The edges were brittle, stained, and crumbling. None of that mattered though, because on the cover were photographs of actual gangsters and an illustration of shot-up, bloody men shooting guns at cops. It spoke to you, didn’t it? I had to have it, but seventy-five cents was a good chunk of the money I had on me. Meaning I’d have to put some other comics back. Or when no one’s looking you could stuff it under your shirt. Seventy-five cents . . . that was more than it was worth. You hear that? The ringing? It would probably fall apart if I read it more than once. Old lady Kay’s on the phone—now’s your chance! Nobody’s looking at me. Go on! It would be so easy . . . Of course it would for a smart guy like you! Take it! It’s time you stopped paying for things . . .
That book is stashed somewhere in my basement, along with a dozen or so other issues of Crime Does Not Pay. It lead me to seek out biographies of gangsters and true crime accounts, which Kay’s had stocked in spades. I got my first copy of The Killer Inside Me at Kay’s as well, which started a love for genre that persists still and inspired me to create 100 Bullets. You could say that comic started me down the path I’m on today.
Best seventy-five cents I ever spent.
What, you think I would risk stealing a comic book for stealing glances at XXX adult mags? Crime pays!
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