An Interview With The Voodoo Walrus

The ride through the winding mountains in the dark, stormy night was rough. It didn’t help that I wasn’t allowed to know the secret location of the Voodoo Walrus headquarters, so I was stuffed into the back of a windowless van that smelled vaguely of Cheetos and Mountain Dew. There had been a fairly accurate painting of a limousine on the side of the van, however, so at least there was some semblance of the class and luxury I was usually afforded for these sorts of things.

There was a storm brewing overhead, and as we made our way further into the darkness of night, I could hear peels of thunder rolling through the sky and the metallic sound of fat drops of rain beating down against the roof of the van. I thanked the powers that be that my purse was not only water-resistant — to help protect the tools of my trade — but also large enough to carry a small umbrella. As the van slowed to a stop, I pulled the pink umbrella out of my bag and pressed the release button as the door to the van slid open.

A flash of lightning illuminated a large castle in the distance, which surprised me quite a bit, considering that I didn’t know there were castles in Virginia. West Virginia, perhaps, but certainly not Virginia. As I headed into the large and not-so-humble Voodoo Walrus headquarters, I was greeted by something called a Frankobo; a creature so vile and repulsive that any attempt to describe it would do it no justice — and would only serve to turn your stomachs.

The Frankobo was polite, as grotesque as it may have been, and soon I was led down into the depths of the castle and into a laboratory that easily could have been used as a set straight out of an old 1920s silent horror film. I had the sudden urge to watch Nosferatu, but the thought was quickly abandoned as the Frankobo gestured for me to enter the dimly lit chamber. I avoided the low-hanging lamps as they swung precariously close to my head and found my seat at the middle of the lab at chair with a fold-down desk, like something you might find in the lecture hall of a university.

Grymm Grymmwoski and Villemous CreepKnight sat in an above-ground spa a few feet away, silently at first, until I settled into my chair and pulled out the tools of my trade: a recorder and a small pad of paper and a pen.

CreepKnight was what one might describe as the dark and mysterious type, with a meticulously groomed soul patch and dark eyes that seemed to stare into one’s soul. Or down one’s blouse. Grymm was a bit shorter than CreepKnight, and fairer in complexion, with a magnificent goatee. He wore a strategically placed top hat, which seemed out of place for hot tub attire.

I pressed the little red button on my recorder and dropped it gingerly at the center of the table with a small clearing of my throat. “First of all,” I said, “thank you for taking time to sit down with me for an interview. I’m honored to have been invited here today.”

“Happy to oblige,” CreepKnight answered. There was an air of regality about him, as if he were perhaps king of this particular castle. “Quick question though,” he added with a quick up and down glance at me. “Why aren’t you naked like us? Also, where’s the tequila? I was told there’d be tequila.”

“She’s not naked because she’s not in the hot tub. We’re in the hot tub, and are therefore naked,” Grymm answered. “Actually,” he added, “you’re naked. I’m wearing a swimsuit. Why are you naked?”

CreepKnight opened his mouth to answer, but I cleared my throat again, gaining their attention once more. “Grymm, why don’t you begin by telling me a little bit about CreepKnight,” I suggested.

“You see this guy?” Grymm asked in reply, waving a hand toward his companion. “I once saw him wrestle a Grizzly bear while chugging a Mountain Dew.” That certainly explained the smell of the van I’d arrived in. “It was amazing. He’s amazing. And he’s single, ladies — and he can cook.”

CreepKnight flexed a bit, as if in response, but rather than await an invitation to the gun show, I spoke to him, “CreepKnight, tell us a little bit about Grymm.”

He quit flexing and rubbed his soul patch thoughtfully. “This guy secretes humor and genius from every pore in his body, so much so that he even smells funny,” he replied. “And smart. Waitaminute… no… that doesn’t sound right. He’s awesome, okay? And talented. He can draw crazy good — and it’s good to make people crazy, which his art can also do.”

Intrigued by their respective answers to my questions, I pressed on. “You two have obviously been friends for a very long time,” I ventured. They both nodded in agreement. “How did you meet?”

“An ad in the Penny Saver,” CreepKnight replied quickly, shooting a look at Grymm, who waved a hand dissmissively at him.

“That’s actually an urban legend. We met in Mexico,” he clarified, “when we were both competing in the Los Luchadores Lucha Libre Wrestling League.”

“You were Lucha Libra wresters?” I asked, sounding a bit dubious.

Grymm nodded. “I was competing as The Crimpson Chupacabra and he was El Padre Grande,” he explained. “For years we were billed as rivals, trading blows in a variety of matches, until the promoter decided to team us together in a legendary tag team match against forty midgets.”

“Forty midgets?” I interrupted, but Grymm held up a hand, silencing me so he could finish his tale.

“Forty midgets,” he affirmed. “It was such a successful pairing that they teamed us up again and again for a variety of matches against a number of strange opponents: more midgets, mutant cacti, a bear.” His eyes glazed over a bit as he looked off into the distance, somehow haunted by whatever memories were conjured up by regaling me with the tale of how he and CreepKnight had met. “We were extremely successful until an unfortunate incident involving the league’s star luchadore and a battery-powered blender led to our expulsion from the League and eventual deportation from Mexico. We haven’t been back since.”

I was close to calling shenanigans on the story until CreepKnight spoke up, a somewhat forlorn tone to his voice as he said, “I sort of miss it. Not the scorching heat or waking up with sand in my butt, but the lizards. And the tequila. And the senoritas.”

I hunched over my notepad, scribbling down notes and promised myself to verify the accuracy of their words later on Wikipedia — because as we all know, the internet never lies — and then looked up. Grymm and CreepKnight climbed out of the hot tub — and thankfully the Frankobo blocked my view of them as they dried off and changed. When the Frankobo left with their towels and Grymm’s swim trunks, they were dressed immaculately in tuxedos. Now the top hat made more sense.

CreepKnight beckoned to me to follow them, and so I stood, grabbing my recorder and tucking my notepad under my arm as I let them lead me to another part of their headquarters. “Where does the name ‘Voodoo Walrus’ originate?” I asked, pushing forward with my interview.

“Well…” CreepKnight began to answer, stroking his soul patch thoughtfully with his thumb as we walked. “I’ve been a practitioner of Voodoo since I came to America, much preferring it to traditional Catholicism, and he looks like a walrus. It seemed a natural combination.”

Grymm blinked in surprise at the answer. “I don’t look like a walrus.”

“If you shaved your goatee and grew your mustache a little thicker you would,” CreepKnight countered.

Stopping to examine himself in a mirror along the wall of the corridor we now walked through, Grymm frowned. “No I wouldn’t…”

CreepKnight made a small tutting sound. “Haven’t you learned by now that arguing with me is hazardous to your health? Does it still hurt when you crack your eyelids?”

Grymm turned away from the mirror to look at CreepKnight. “I got better…”

“Do you want to stay better?”

The two men looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Finally, Grymm sighed.

“Thought so,” CreepKnight said cheerfully, then turned to continue on his way. I followed behind them, admiring the art on the walls — it was all very dark, macabre. It fit the style of the old stone castle. At least, until CreepKnight threw open a pair of doors and we found ourselves in a giant ballroom where at least a hundred guests gathered together, dancing to music that sounded like it belonged in the 1930s.

I felt extremely underdressed until I was accosted by two attendants and suddenly found myself dressed in a long, red evening gown. I had heard many times that what went on behind the doors of Voodoo Walrus headquarters was sometimes odd, but I tried not to let it bother me.

“If I may continue with my interview,” I began. CreepKnight nodded, so I asked, “How would you describe Voodoo Walrus to someone who has never read the comic before?”

CreepKnight took my recorder and notepad from me, and Grymm offered me a hand to dance. “We’re the other other white meat of comics; no gaming, no pop culture, and no weird math stuff. Just good old fashioned geeky fun.” CreepKnight stepped up, clearing his throat. Grymm took my recorder and notepad from him, and he cut in.

“Take a Fudgesicle and unwrap it and place it firmly on top of your head, then watch as your tongue beats your brains in trying to get to it, it’s so delicious. Then replace the Fudgesicle with awesome. That’s our comic; brain splattering awesome,” CreepKnight explained as we danced, twirling me around.

“That works, too,” Grymm agreed from next to us. The song ended and Grymm returned my tools of the trade before leading the way to the bar at the end of the ballroom.

“Three Shirley Temples,” CreepKnight said to the bartender, leaning against the bar and doing his best to look rather suave for someone ordering Shirley Temples. “Extra cherries.”

“Can you tell us a little bit about how you came up with the current incarnation of the Voodoo Walrus comic?” I asked as we waited for our drinks.

“It all started with us sitting around in a restaurant,” CreepKnight explained. “We had already attempted to do this web comic twice before and, at this point, we were more interested in working on professional comic projects for the traditional format. Then Grymm confessed to me a deep, dark secret.”

I looked to Grymm. “I had been drawing short, three panel, monotone strips based on my Twitter posts and was thinking about posting them on our old site,” Grymm confessed. “So I told him. He was, to say the least, displeased.”

“I had grown tired of the whole web comics process; the constant deadlines, the bugs in the sites, and the logistics of it drove me insane,” CreepKnight said, affirming his displeasure at the idea of writing web comics again. “When we did it the last time, we kept missing deadlines because life and other projects kept getting in the way.” He sighed. “At the same time, we weren’t seeing a whole lot of traffic, and that was a little frustrating to both of us. So I told him if we did it this time, we would have to do it right; make it a priority and keep to a schedule that we could maintain. I also wanted to try a whole different approach to the creative process. So we reached an accord.”

“I also had to give him my collection of Mutant X comics,” Grymm said, sounding rather reluctant about that part of the accord.

“They needed to be destroyed,” CreepKnight said. “In a bad way.”

The bartender returned with our drinks. Grymm took a sip of his. “I thought you liked Mutant X,” he mused.

“Leave me alone in my secret shame of X-Factor fandom,” CreepKnight grumbled, eating the cherry from his Shirley Temple.

“I liked Mutant X,” Grymm confided to me, handing me my drink.

“Shhh,” CreepKnight hissed. “We can’t let anyone know we liked that book. New question!”

I raised an eyebrow, tempted to ask more questions about their secret affinity for Mutant X, but I decided it best to move on; after all, these gentlemen — if they could be called as such — had shown me their own… unique brand of hospitality. I took a sip of my drink, letting the cherry-flavored lemon-lime soda roll on my tongue as I thought of my next question. “I know that at least a few of the characters in Voodoo Walrus have real-life counterparts,” I began. Both men nodded in agreement, so I asked my question. “Are many of your characters based on friends or people you know?”

“They used to be friends,” CreepKnight said.

There was a long, lingering silence as he contemplated his drink. I considered asking another question, but Grymm spoke up, breaking the silence.

“But seriously, we use them because we only seem to attract pretty people — and pretty people should be put into comics.”

“What about Shmeerm?” CreepKnight piped up.

“Shmeerm is…” Grymm hesitated for a moment. “Shmeerm.”

Having known Shmeerm as an acquaintance in the past, that was answer enough for me. I pressed on. “Care to walk us through your creative process?” I asked. “How does a Voodoo Walrus strip make it from your mind to our computer screens?”

“Setting is important,” CreepKnight answered immediately.

“We start off each new strip sitting in our hot tub,” Grymm explained, “except we fill it with the salty, bitter tears of our enemies. We also have a bottle of chilled, sweet cider and the TV cued to Netflix On Demand. We then sit and talk about the ideas for the next story arc, or issue, or t-shirt, whatever it is we need to discuss at the time.”

“The process that follows is not dissimilar to the five stages of death,” CreepKnight added. “Firstly, Denial: we don’t have a comic to do. We can just sit here and luxuriate in the tears of our enemies and watch old episodes of Avatar and The X-Files.”

“Secondly, Anger,” Grymm continued. “‘You fat, bloated idiot, we have a gods damn comic to do! I’m storming off now, and I’m going to sit at my art table, draw and color the comic, and when I’m done you’d better be ready to fucking write the dialogue and letter it!’”

“Thirdly, Bargaining,” CreepKnight said. “‘Alright, I’ll letter the comic when you’re done, but I want a pizza first, and to finish this episode of Law and Order, even though I’ve seen it a dozen or so times before. Deal?’”

Grymm shook his head, downing the last of his drink before setting the empty glass down on the bar. “Fourthly, Depression: ‘My artwork is terrible. His head’s too big; her feet are too small. I didn’t draw that facial expression right; I colored the background the wrong shade of blue. I suck! I should just go drink some Coke and watch cartoons with CreepKnight in the hot tub.’”

CreepKnight took my drink and set it down on the bar along with his own and Grymm’s, then motioned for us to follow him as he made his way through the ballroom and to a different door than the one we’d come through. “Finally, Acceptance: ‘It’s good you overcritical, self deprecating man whore. The letterings done, you laughed, I laughed, it’s all good. Now post it, write some rambling in the news box, and get your ass back in this hot tub. The latex clad nurses are here and they brought Vito’s chicken parm subs!’”

Grymm chuckled, seemingly amused. “Our lives really are based in hedonism, aren’t they?” he asked.

“Yes,” CreepKnight answered. “Yes they are.”

I followed CreepKnight and Grymm down a long hallway that reminded me a bit too much of a scene out of The Shining until we came to a bright red telephone box. “It’s a TARDED,” CreepKnight explained.

“Oh, like a TARDIS,” I said. He and Grymm exchanged a look.

“Yes,” Grymm answered. “After you.”

We piled into the red box, barely able to squeeze into the tiny space. “It’s quite cramped,” I pointed out. “And something is poking me.”

“It’s smaller on the inside,” CreepKnight said. “Never you mind about the poking.” He somehow managed to reach up to push a series of numbers on the keypad and we began to sink into the floor and plunge us into darkness. I wondered if Maxwell Smart ever had problems with fitting into his telephone booth.

The telephone booth ride seemed endlessly long, and whatever was poking the small of my back was becoming increasingly uncomfortable; I also didn’t like the sound that someone or something made when I shifted from one foot to the other. I figured that instead of standing around, stuffed inside of a small box like a sardine, doing nothing, I would press forward with my interview. I cleared my throat and spoke to the darkness around me, “What makes publishing comic books such a perfect fit for a bastion of evil such as Cyradwee, your web comic’s main villain?”

“Well, Marron,” a voice answered from the dark — CreepKnight’s — “we know you’re a fan of mainstream comics, and while major titles such as The Avengers and Batman go in… Waitaminute, what am I saying again?”

We finally made it out of the dark tunnel and into a lighted area, somewhere far below ground. The corridor that stretched out in front of us as we piled out of the red box seemed to be made of cement with annoyingly bright fluorescent lights. Grymm spoke up where CreepKnight left off. “Have you ever met Joe Qu–”

“Shhh!!” CreepKnight hissed. “No names!”

“– any comic publishers?” Grymm amended.

“Fair enough,” I relented.

“Much like popular fiction editors,” CreepKnight explained, “mainstream comic book publishers, for the most part, lack both compassion and a human soul. And while Cyradwee is a parody of mainstream comic book publishers, he is a parody in the same way that Chris Claremont is a person; it may technically be true, but only by the literal definition. Yes, I think that sums it up nicely.”

“Vague, hard to understand, and yet it sounds insulting. Yep, it works for me,” Grymm agreed.

“Who has better dance moves? Shmeerm or Bowler?” I asked, since we were on the subject of characters within their web comic.

“Oh, you are so lucky that she’s still at work right now,” Grymm said, looking somewhat scared and amused all at once. “Otherwise we would have to call her and tell her that you had the metaphorical balls to suggest that he even has one iota of talent comparable to hers.”

“Bowler knows I love her,” I offered, batting my eyelashes.

“But off the record,” CreepKnight said, nudging my side with his elbow, “if you were to put fire ants and honey down Shmeerm’s pants… he would beat the ever-loving snot out of you and the dolphin you rode in on.”

“That sounds like the Shmeerm we all know and love,” I agreed.

We walked through the corridor and past two swinging doors, and I was surprised to find that we had returned to the laboratory I had first been led to, hot tub and all. Since we had come full-circle in our tour of the Castle de Voodoo Walrus, I decided to ask more questions about my two interviewees themselves.

“As the creators of a webcomic,” I asked, looking anywhere but directly at CreepKnight as he and Grymm returned to the hot tub, “who are some other web comic creators that you look up to?”

“The works of Andrew Hussie, Scott Kurz of PVP, Gabe and Tycho of Penny Arcade, and Trudy Cooper and Danny Murphy of Platinum Grit,” Grymm answered, giving it some thought.

“Jeff Jaques of Questionable Content, R.K. Millholland of Something Positive, Danielle Corsetto of Girls with Slingshots, and Sam Logan of Sam and Fuzzy,” CreepKnight added.

“Also,” Grymm chimed in, “Doctor McNinja.”

“Not the comic,” CreepKnight clarified. “Just the guy.”

“Doctor and a Ninja,” Grymm said, nodding in agreement,

“It’s inspiring.”

“What about other creative minds?” I asked. “What cartoons and comic books are you both into?”

Grymm stroked his goatee thoughtfully. “I’d have to say that my favorites are Jhonen Vasquez, Warren Ellis, Grant Morrison…”

“Grymm sometimes thinks he’s a writer,” CreepKnight said, very obviously amused.

“You’re a dick,” Grymm said, shooting the other man a dirty look. “I like Umbrella Academy, Transmetropolitan, and the spirit of Spider-Man, if not the execution. Cartoon wise… I’m a big fan of Invader Zim and Venture Brothers.”

“I’ve always been a big fan of the British writers in comics,” CreepKnight offered. “Aside from Ellis and Morrison, I really like Neil Gaiman, Alan Moore, and Garth Ennis. I was, and remain, a big fan of Sandman, Preacher, and The Books of Magic. I’ve also gotten very into Fables and its spinoffs. Joe Hill’s Locke and Key. Oh, and The Invisibles.”

“The Invisibles was awesome,” Grymm agreed. “And Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.”

“Eastman and Laird are freaking gods!” CreepKnight exclaimed with enthusiasm. Well, nearly. He used much more colorful language, but for the sake of the readers who are sharing the tale of my adventure interviewing these two individuals, I have spared you from the NC-17 version of the expletives that were spouted.

“I don’t know if I’d go that far,” Grymm said in response to CreepKnight’s colorful metaphor.

“Yeah…” CreepKnight agreed after a moment, “but still, a good franchise nonetheless. Though in recent years I haven’t been really into cartoons. I usually like what he shows me,” he added, tilting his head toward Grymm.

“We’re also both big believers in the X-Men six year philosophy, where the X-Men books get good again about every six years,” Grymm added.

“I also used to read the Midnight Sons books–” CreepKnight began, but Grymm reached across the hot tub and gave him a hard slap across the face. “But I got better,” CreepKnight murmured as he rubbed his cheek.

Sensing that it may be time to wrap things up with my interview, I cleared my throat once more. “Thank you both so much for taking the time to sit down with me in this secret underground laboratory and answer my questions. Is there anything else you’d like to add to my readers before we wrap up?”

“Cell shading art makes it look like everything else out there,” Grymm said at once. ” Experimentation is not something to be avoided. And lastly, never underestimate the super human feats of Christopher Walken.”

“Once a day, spend time staring at the clouds, or the grass, or the wall and think for yourself,” CreepKnight suggested. ” If you want to be a writer, write; don’t call yourself a writer and sit there and watch T.V. Read a friggin book.” I thought for a moment he was finished, but he went on. “Drink water. If you listen to nothing else I say, drink water: it makes up seventy percent of your body, it’s refreshing, and it’s a nice change from cough syrup and Mountain Dew. It’s a proven fact that people who don’t drink water are 100% more likely to die of dehydration than people who do.

“Support independent publishers, both in paper and net form,” he added as the Frankobo turned on some patriotic sounding music and waved a flag behind the hot tub. “It’s only the ‘wave of the future’ if you’re looking at it and telling the people who produce it that you like what they’re doing. Or that you don’t like it. But if you don’t like it, offer constructive criticism or keep your mouth shut.”

“Boy, you got preachy,” Grymm said, shooing the Frankobo away.

“Dude, seriously,” CreepKnight said, turning to look at him. “We may never get another chance at this again. How many people actually have the balls to come down here and interview us?”

“Point,” Grymm relented, then shouted, “BUY VOODOO WALRUS STUFF!”

“SHAMELESS SELF PROMOTION IS AXIOMATIC!” CreepKnight yelled. “WE LIKE MONEY!!”

“IT BUYS US PIZZA!”

I looked at the Frankobo, who seemed torn between being shooed and wanting to return to his flag waving, and I quickly gathered my things and snuck out while the two continued their shouting tirade.

From down the hall as I left, I could hear CreepKnight’s voice. “IT FIXES OUR HOT TUB!”

“IT… Hey, did she leave?” I could hear Grymm asking CreepKnight.

“Probably,” he answered. “I shouldn’t have stood up there at the end.”

“No. No you shouldn’t have.”

As I exited the Voodoo Walrus headquarters, I found an actual limo waiting for me rather than a van with a limo painted on the side. I graciously accepted the ride back into the city, enjoying the view of the countryside. I looked back, once, just pondering all that had transpired, and found myself surprised to see that the old castle had vanished.

Had everything I experienced been a dream? Or was there something more to these two men, the co-creators of the web comic Voodoo Walrus? I suppose that only time will tell — although visiting their website and reading their comic may tell as well. The comic updates twice a week on Tuesdays and Fridays. Today is Friday, isn’t it? So, what are you waiting for? Go!