 Gang, let's read the first story from impact number three from 1995 by EC comics and the first story is called Life Sentence. The script is Al Feldstein, the pencils is Reed Crandall, the inks by Reed Crandall, and the colors by Mary Severin that did a lot of work, a lot of colors for a lot of the books for EC comics. And beautiful, beautiful artwork. Look at this. Looks like a murder mystery. Life Sentence. The room is a pigsty littered with the filth of 30 years. Somewhere in the dank, reeking old house, you can hear rats scurrying. The stench clogs your nostrils. You stand for a moment in the doorway as a pastor. Edwards hurries towards you. And there's no pity in you as you stare at the ragged corpse on the splintered floor. Paul, I knew you'd come. I stopped by to see him and found him like this. I'm sorry, Paul. Sorry, pastor. Why? I came because you called me, but why should anyone be sorry, he says. Paul, it's your father. He's dead. Your father, the pastor says. And I'm supposed to speak well of him now because he's dead, pastor? Well, his death bring, will his death bring mom back? Will it make up for what he did to us? The son says. I assume you call me to claim his body. Well, I'm sorry. He was nothing to me. The state can bury him in Potter's field. I see, the pastor says. I was afraid you feel like this. How else should I feel? Look at those people out there. His neighbors. Even they hated him. I've heard stories. I've not only heard the stories, Paul, the pastor replies. I saw some of the things your father did. You have reason to despise him, but don't you still wonder sometimes why he did what he did? Sure, I wonder, pastor. I wondered when I saw mom breaking her heart. I wondered when I buried her. But I'm through wondering. I don't care, he says. Yet he was your father, Paul. And you don't know all the story. Will you have a cup of coffee with me and listen to it? The pastor says. You don't want to listen, but you owe so much to pastor Edwards. He's been a part of your life for so long. You walk across to the coffee shop with him and you listen patiently. Now, the pastor says. Do you remember your brother, Paul? Danny. You were seven and Danny was five when you lost him. Do you remember now your father cried? Do you remember how your father cried? Do you remember how tall he was till then, Paul? How straight, how his shoulders bent and all the life seemed to go out of him when the doctor told him and how he held your mother. Dead? Our baby is dead? What can I say, Mr. Cooper? I did the best I could, but sometimes typhoid strikes like that. Quickly. I wish I could have done more. I'm sorry, the doctor says. Do you remember afterwards, Paul? Your father just sat there holding your mother's hand. Then he called you over. You're all we have now, Paul. Danny has gone away. Do you understand? Do you know what it means to die? I think so, dad. He replies. It means Danny won't ever come back. We'll never see him again. Is that right, dad? The son replies. That's right, son. We'll never see him again. Never, never saw the father's cry. You didn't hate your father then, did you, Paul? He changed after that. He didn't speak much, but he went on. He ran his small hardware manufacturing business just that he'd done before. Ralph, you must go. Can't you miss this convention? Is it really so important, the mother says? I'm afraid so, Margaret. I've still got to earn a living. No one wants to know about a man's personal sorrow. People are like that, he says. So long, Paul. Be a good boy and I'll bring you something from New York. Something nice, he says. Take care of yourself, Ralph. And Ralph, don't be bitter. Promise, she says. So your father went to that hardware manufacturing, manufacturer's convention, but he didn't bring home something nice. Remember, he brought home coldness, anger and pain. Ralph, I didn't expect you back so soon. I made up my mind on the spur of the moment. I got fed up with hardware and crowds, he says. Ralph, aren't you even going to kiss me? Hello? I'm going to go into my room. I'm tired. Dad, the sun runs in. That was when things really began to change, wasn't it? Your mother told me afterwards, how you ran to your father eagerly, and how he greeted you. Dad, you're back. The kid replies, or states, get out of my way. I said I'm tired, he says. Ralph, Ralph, please. What's wrong, Ralph? The mother says. Mom, he pushed me away. He acts like he doesn't want me. Why, mom? Why? The son replies. How many times you ask your mother that question, Paul? Her heart ached for you. You never knew that she came to me a few days later, did you? Pastor, it's like a nightmare. Ralph isn't Ralph anymore. He acts as though he hates us, as though he hates everyone, she says. He stays in his room. He won't let us have visitors. Pastor, what's happened to him? Why does he hate the whole world? There's only one explanation, Mrs. Cooper. Somehow the death of your son has warped him, but your husband is a good man. Suppose I talk to him. I'll stop by this evening, the pastor says. Only I didn't speak to your father, not that night. Remember, Ralph? I arrived too late. I didn't learn what happened until afterwards. Your father did a terrible thing that night. Ralph, where are you going? She says. It's pretty obvious, isn't it, Margaret? I'm leaving you, he says. You're leaving? Ralph, no. You're joking. Why? At least tell me why. I'll do without the last found and farmed embrace. As to why, I'm just sick of the treadmill. That's all. I'm sick of work, of routine, of people. What difference does it make why I'm leaving? This way is best for all of us. Do yourself a favor, Margaret. Forget me, the way I'm going to forget you. If you began to hate your father after that, well, I can understand, Paul. But your mother never stopped loving him. Not even then. I know I tried to do something about the situation. Mrs. Cooper, don't you understand? I know where your husband is. I asked the police to locate him. He bought that old house on Elm Street. I know Ralph. Ralph told me. Ralph has sold out his business, too, she says. Then there be money if you don't care where he is. At least have him brought into court. He owes you support if nothing else, the pastor says. No, I won't make trouble for him, pastor. I couldn't. Paul and I will manage somehow. I saw your father about a month after that, Paul. The change in him was great, and it wasn't a pleasant thing to see. Hey, mister, can we have our ball back? There's a kid, missed the throw. See the hit? I forget what that's called with the stick when they play, and the ball goes over his head. This is a very New York thing, I think. In the states, they do it. I've seen a lot of old school movies. Hey, mister, can we have our ball back? No, he says. Get away from there. Get out. Please, mister, we didn't mean to bother you. You're not going to bother me. I've told you before. I don't want you coming near my property. There, there's your ball in the fire. Stick ball. Thank you, Cheryl. You old sour puss. You hate everybody, don't you? Get out. I warned you. Oh, strong rocks at the. Get out. Leave me alone. Stay away from me. Ralph, stop it, the pastor says. I talked to your father that day, but he wasn't the Ralph Cooper I'd known. He was like a rock. He offered no explanations. After that, your mother's heart ached and humiliation really began. No, no, I can't. Pastor, I can't take charity. Oh, the pastor's giving her money. It isn't charity, Mrs. Cooper. Believe me, it's really your own money. Call the return for all the charity you've given others. The pastor says that's a nice pastor. I knew how you felt during those years, Paul, but I never did succeed in planting the seeds of forgiveness in your soul. Did I? Oh, she's doing, he's doing shoe shines. Look at that. Paul, Paul, has it done any good? Has any of what have set, crept into your heart? Can you forgive? Last night, mom worked until two in the morning doing laundry, pastor. Other people's laundry. What do you think? He says. Those years weren't pleasant. Pastor Edward, because of him, he had to take charity. We had to take charity. We suffered. How could I forgive? He says. But didn't your father suffer too? In his own way? You've seen how he lived. The pastor says, suffered. No one forced him to become a recluse. Other men have lost sons. Danny's death didn't give him the right to do what he did, he says. No, it didn't, the pastor replies. And you're right, Paul. No one forced him to become a recluse. But his life wasn't pleasant. Believe me, I used to see him once in a while. And I plead with him, the pastor says. Ralph, for your own sake, get out of this. This place, it's not fit for a human being. How long can you go on like this? For the rest of my life, the father replies. I didn't ask you to come back here. Why can't you leave me alone? That's all I ask. Just leave me alone, he says. Someone throws a brick through the window. Crash. What was that? A brick. Someone must have thrown it. Someone. It could have been anyone on the block. They all hate me. All right. Let them. I don't want them. I don't want anyone. They want to drive me out, but they won't, he says. They never did drive him out. In the end, they left him alone. He locked himself in that hovel, and they almost forgot he existed. I only saw him alive once again after that. Ralph, please open the door, the pastor says. Let me talk to you. I can see you. I know you're there. I told you. I don't want anyone. Go away. After this, you won't see me, he says. Next time, there were planks nailed over the windows, and your father didn't answer when I called. How he lived from then on? I don't know. Ralph, are you in there? Answer me, the pastor says. After the first months, he didn't burn his trash. He just didn't bother. It piled up year after year. He lived like a beast. Is that a man? Is that a man to hate? He was a coward, he says. For him, that was the easy way. Life got too tough for him. So he just pulled out. Yes, I hate him. I hope he suffered like mom did. Mom was 38 when I buried her pastor. Only 38, but she died old, old and broken inside. If there is a life after death, I hope my father pays for that in purgatory. Your father has already had 30 years of purgatory, Paul, the pastor replies. It wasn't purgatory to him. He chose to live like an animal. Yes, but why, Paul? There's a great deal you don't know. For example, you and your mother never took charity. That money I gave you was sent by your father. I never told you or your mother because you'd have refused it. Your father only kept the pittance for himself. He sent that money? I never dreamt it came from him. Son replies. But that doesn't change anything. He was just being clever. He knew we could have had the law on him. Well, it wasn't his money. We needed it. It was him. He still deserted us. Yes, but now I know why, Paul. I know why everything happened. Just when and how it did. He holds them out. He holds them out to you, the things he's found. When your father went to New York, he discovered something, something connected with your brother's death. These were in your father's pocket when I found him. You take the things from Pastor Edward's hand, the faded snapshot, and the yellow newspaper clipping. At first, you don't understand. Look at the date on that clipping, Paul. That clipping was cut from the New York paper during the week your father was there. Don't you see? For a moment, no. You don't see. But then you remember something you read once about people like the person in the clipping. Danny died of typhoid, Paul. The doctors were never certain how he became infected. You remember reading about people who can be exposed to a disease, pick up the germ, and infect other people, all without themselves being infected. Police seek cause of near pandemic. Police today are seeking. The man believed to have infected at least 15 persons at a dinner given by the convention of hardware manufacturers in this city is assumed that a typhoid carrier was present at dinner. A check of all convention attendees, however, failed to uncover a typhoid carrier. You're saying dad was the man who infected those people? And Danny, you're saying dad was a typhoid carrier and knew it? Yes, Paul. He probably checked and made certain. Then he came home. They locked away typhoid carriers, Paul, for life. That's why he locked himself in that house and pushed everyone away. Suddenly, it's all so easy to understand. If you'd have looked, locked your dad away. He, we, mom and me, we'd have suffered more. So he tried to make us hate him, tried to make us free, forget him. Didn't he? Yes, Paul. He gave himself a life sentence. He bought that old house and was content to catch rare glimpses of you or your mother when you passed by. And if he drove people away or kept the kids toys, it was for their own good. He lived and died alone in squalor out of love for you and your mother, Paul. Yes, I can see that now, pastor. I, I bet better get going. They're still across the street when you come out. The people, the bitter hating people. You'll never, they'll never know. They'll hate for a little while longer and then they'll forget. But you won't forget not ever. Hold on, Mr. Just where do you think you're going, the cop says. It's all right, officer. I'm Ralph Cooper, Cooper's son. And you left, lift your dad's head properly. I'm going to ride downtown with my dad. Wow, what a story. What an amazing story. Wow, wow, wow. Beautiful. Beautiful. Who knew we're going to read a pandemic story from EC Comics. Life sentence. Wow, wow, wow. What a brilliant story. What a brilliant story.