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Rorschach's Journal

This journal was mailed to The New Frontiersman, by Walter Kovacs, AKA Rorschach. The following are excerpts from the journal...

OCTOBER 12, 1985:

Dog carcass in alley this morning. Tire tread on burst stomach. The city is afraid of me. I have seen it's true face. The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over all the vermin will drown. The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout "save us!"...

They had a choice, all of them. They could have followed in the footsteps of good men like my father, or president Truman. Decent men who believed in a day's work for a day's pay. Instead they followed the droppings of lechers and communists and didn't realize that the trail led over a precipe until it was too late. Don't tell me they didn't have a choice. Now the whole world stands on the brink, staring down into bloody Hell, all those liberals and intellectuals and smooth talkers...and all of a sudden nobody can think of anything to say.

OCTOBER 13, 1985

Slept all day. Awoken at 4:37. Landlady complaining about smell. She has five children by five different fathers. I am sure she cheats on welfare. Soon it will be dark. Beneath me, this awful city, it screams like an abattoir full of retarded children. New York. On Friday night, a comedian died in New York. Somebody knows why. Down there...somebody knows. The dusk reeks of fornication and bad consciences. I believe I shall take my exercise.

OCTOBER 13, 1985. 8:30 P.M.:

Meeting with Veidt left bad taste in mouth. He is pampered and decadent, betraying even his shallow, liberal affections. Possibly homosexual? Must remember to investigate further. Dreiberg as bad. A flabby failure who sits whimpering in his basement. Why are so few of us left active, healthy, and without personality disorders? The first Nite Owl runs an auto repair shop. The first Silk Spectre is a bloated, aging whore, dying in a Californian rest resort. Captain Metropolis was decapitated in a car crash back in '74. Mothman's in an asylum up in Maine. The Silhouette retired in disgrace, murdered six weeks later by a minor adversary seeking revenge. Dollar Bill got shot. Hooded Justice went missing in '55. The Comedian is dead. Only two names remaining on my list. Both share private quarters at Rockefeller Military Research Center. I shall go to them. I shall go and tell the indestrucible man that someone plans to murder him. OCTOBER 13, 1985. 11:30 P.M:

On Friday night, a comedian died in New York. Someone threw him out a window and when he hit the sidewalk his head was driven up into his stomach. Nobody cares. Nobody cares but me. Are they right? Is it futile? Soon there will be war. Millions will burn. Millions will perish in sickness and misery. Why does one death matter against so many? Because there is good and there is evil, and evil must be punished. Even in the face of Armageddon I shall not compromise in this. But there are so many deserving of retribution...and there is so little time.

OCTOBER 16, 1985

42nd Street: Womens breasts draped across every billboard, every display, littering the sidewalk. Was offered Swedish love and French love...but not American love. American love; like Coke in green glass bottles...they don't make it anymore. Thought about Moloch's story on way to cemetery. Could all be lies. Could all be part of a revenge scheme, planned during his decade behind bars. But if true, then what? Puzzling reference to an island. Also to Dr. Manhattan. Might he be at risk in some way? So many questions. Never mind. Answers soon. Nothing is insoluble. Nothing is hopeless. Not while there's life. In the cemetery, all the white crosses stood in rows, neat chalk marks on a giant scoreboard. Paid last respects quietly, without fuss. Edward Morgan Blake. Born in 1924. Forty-five years a comedian. Died 1985, buried in the rain. Is that what happens to us? A life of conflict with no time for friends...so that when it's done, only our enemies leave roses. Violent lives, ending violently. Dollar Bill , The Silhouette, Captain Metropolis...we never die in bed. Not allowed. Something in our personalities, perhaps? Some animal urge to fight and struggle, making us what we are? Unimportant. We do what we have to do. Blake understood. Treated it like a joke, but he understood. He saw the cracks in society, saw the little men in masks trying to hold it together...he saw the true face of the twentieth century and chose to become a reflection of it, a parody of it. No one else saw the joke. That's why he was lonely. Heard joke once: Man goes into doctor. Says he's depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says "Treatmen is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up." Man bursts into tears. Says "But, Doctor...I am Pagliacci." Good joke. Everybody laugh. Roll on snare drum. Curtains.

OCTOBER 21, 1985:

Left Jacobi's house at 2:35 A.M. He knows nothing about any attempt to discredit Dr. Manhattan. He has simply been used. By whom? Russians seem obvious choice: Manhattan and Comedian both key military figures. But Comedian referred to an island. Artists and writers living on it. Doesn't fit. Can't concentrate. Too tired. No sleep since Saturday. Walked home past trashcans stuffed with rumors od war, weighing factors-bodies, motives...waiting for a flash of enlightenment in all this blood and thunder.

OCTOBER 21, 1985

Woken at eleven by shouting. Disturbed to find I had fallen asleep without removing the skin from my head. Tireder than I thought. Should be more careful. Across street, boy's were defacing abandoned building. Memorized their descriptions then prepared for work. First, peeled off face, folded it inside jacket. Without my face, nobody knows. Nobody knows who I am. On way out of room met landlady. Usual complaints Re: Hygiene and Rent. There were purple bite marks on her fat white neck. Fresh ones. Out in street, inspected defaced building: silhouette picture in doorway, man and woman, possibly engaging in sexual foreplay. Didn't like it. Makes doorway look haunted. On Fortieth and Seventh, saw Dreiberg and Juspeczyk leaving diner. They didn't know me. An affair, perhaps? Did Juspeczyk engineer Dr. Manhattan's exhile to make room for Dreiberg? Also, she hated the Comedian. Must investigate further. Entering diner, bought coffee, then sat watching my maildrop, immediately across the street. Passer's by made various deposits: candy wrappers, newspapers. This city is an animal, fierce and complicated. To understand it I read it's droppings, it's scents, the movement of it's parasites...I sat watching the trashcan and New York opened it's heart to me.

OCTOBER 21, 1985:

Someone tried to kill Veidt. Prove's Mask Killer theory. Murderer is closing in. Checked maildrop. Message from Moloch. Connected, perhaps? Next, went to retrieve face from allet. Outside Utopia, police restrained a youth on KT-28's. He was screaming something about bombs. Is everyone but me going mad? Over 40th Street, and elephant was drifting. Beyond that, unseen, spy satellites. If they so much as narrow their glass eyes, we shall all be dead. This relentless world: there is only one sane response to it. The alleyway was cold and deserted. My things were where I'd left them. Waiting for me. Putting them on, I abandoned my disguise and became myself, free from fear or weakness or lust. My coat, my shoes, my spotless gloves. My face. Had three hours before calling on Moloch. Away down alley, heard woman scream., first bubbling note of city's evening chorus. Approached disturbance. An attempted rape/mugging/both. Cleared throat. The man turned and there was something rewarding in his eyes. Sometimes, the night is generous to me.

NOVEMBER 1, 1985:

Final entry? Left Veidt's office just before Midnight. Dreiberg, convinced Veidt's behind everything, is serious about visiting Antarctica. Owlship capable, apparently, but are we? Veidt. Cannot imagine more dangerous opponent. Assuming journey possible, tracking him to his lair only option. Still feel uneasy. Unfamiliar territory. He could kill us both, there in the snow. Nobody would ever know...first night in November. I am cold tonight. Offices below, headstones marking daily graves of thousands. Inside, clock faces, as observed as those of celebrities, hands commence final laps. Oblivion gallops closer, favoring the spur, sparing the rein...I think we will be gone soon. Veidt is faster than Dreiberg. Perhaps faster than me. Return seems unlikely. This last entry. Will shortly mail to only people can trust. Tell Dreiberg I need to check my maildrop. He believes me. If reading this now, whether I am alive or dead, you will know truth. Whatever the precise nature of this conspiracy, Adrian Veidt responsible. Have done best to make this legible. Believe it paints a disturbing picture. Appreciate your recent support and hope world survives long enough for this to reach you. But tanks are in East Berlin and writing is on wall. For my own part, regret nothing. Have lived life, free from compromise...and step into the shadow now without complaint.

-Rorschach, November 1, 1985.