Conversations With Dud People, Part One

(Somewhere on the Planetoid of Peril, August 8, 3008, 10:29 AM...)

*interbloggamunicator lights up, plays tinny version of "Flirtin' With Disaster" by Molly Hatchet*

Blockade Boy: Aw, hell.

*activates visi-phone function on interbloggamunicator*

Blockade Boy (into the device): Hey, Storm Boy.

Storm Boy: Ola, buddy! ...Yikes. You look like shit! Er, but you wear it well.

Blockade Boy: Just tell me what the problem is, so I can save all y'all's asses again and get back to my vacation.

Storm Boy: Sure, because it's obviously doing wonders for your attitude!

Blockade Boy: ...

Storm Boy: Relax, space-ape. There's no "problem." In fact, everything's been aces since you left!

Blockade Boy: Uh-huh. I ain't buyin' it. None of you clods could wipe your own asses without me around!

Storm Boy: If you'd bothered to tell anybody where the hell you were going, I could ship you an industrial levitator. So you could get over yourself.

Blockade Boy: Fine. So why are you pestering me right now?

Storm Boy: Mainly I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay, but you know what? You can go screw yourself.

Blockade Boy: Okay, okay... you're right. I'm sorry. I'm acting like a real bear. I mean, more so than usual.

Storm Boy: We really are doing great, by the way. I'm not shitting you.

Blockade Boy: If you say so.

Storm Boy: It's just -- oh, how can I put this without it sounding all catty? ...It's like, you were kind of the problem.

Blockade Boy: I WAS--?!

Storm Boy: Well, you know... you're kind of... overbearing? And a control freak? And you kind of make everybody just defer to you, even without you doing it on purpose or consciously or whatever? I think that's why all of us were just hanging out at your pod all the time, waiting for you to tell us what to do.

Blockade Boy: Which, of course, I never was. Since most of you annoy the crap out of me.

Storm Boy: Heh. Yeah, exactly.

Blockade Boy: So...?

Storm Boy: So, once you left, it was like a big, hairy blanket had been lifted off of us, and we could finally breathe and move our limbs. The rest of them are really good guys, once you get past their little quirks, and I figured out a cool new direction for us! By whom I mean, "me and Bad Apple Boy and Posture Queen." Not you.

Blockade Boy: What about Phantom Lad?

Storm Boy: Oh, he took off. He said he had a hot lead about rioting on Imsk. Really tiny rioting. He wants to sell the story to U.P. News and Worlds Report.

Blockade Boy: Are you remembering to feed Cootie?

Storm Boy: Rainbow Girl is taking care of her! It makes more sense, if you think about it. They've really bonded. You might have a fight on your hands when you come back! ...By the way, when are you coming back?

Blockade Boy: I dunno. I feel like I can be more like "myself" out here. Sometimes I think I'm not cut out for Polite Society.

Storm Boy: Heh. I think you're right. Oh! I just figured it out! You're on the Planetoid of Peril!

Blockade Boy: What th'--?! You deduced that from what I just said?

Storm Boy: Nope. I just caught a glimpse of the Citadel of Doom over your left shoulder. Well?

Blockade Boy: "Well" what, smart guy?

Storm Boy: Don't you want to know about our exciting new direction? It's the other reason why I called you.

Blockade Boy: Yeah, sure. Astound me.

Storm Boy: We're the All-New Jagged Edge Explosion Balloon! Featuring Storm Boy!

Blockade Boy: You want to lead my old garage band. Really.

Storm Boy: I've reworked our "sound" to really spotlight the Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone. It's astro-ska! Posture Queen is choreographing all our dance moves, and she plays a mean nuclear-powered zither, and we have Bad Apple Boy on glockenspiel, plus of course he raps.

Blockade Boy: Of course.

Storm Boy: And now that Tusker and Dentata Damsel are out of the nervous hospital, I've snagged them for banjo and didgeridoo, respectively.

Blockade Boy: Holy cats! You're serious about this.

Storm Boy: We've played some nightclubs already, and we're auditioning for a scout from Computoblanca Records. Oh! And Element Lad and Invisible Kid want us to play at their wedding!

Blockade Boy: ...

Storm Boy: Blockade Boy...?

Blockade Boy: Um. Wow.

Storm Boy: Yeah, so since you never were all that into the band, I was wondering if I could get the copyright to the name from you. I'll pay you whatever you want for it.

Blockade Boy: You can have it. No charge. I'll have my lawyer visi-phone you.

Storm Boy: Sweet! So you're doing okay? You're having fun?

Blockade Boy: ...Yeah. I'm great! I gotta go, though. I have a whole big day planned.

Storm Boy: Oh! That's cool. Well...! Keep in touch, okay?

Blockade Boy: Sure. Have a good one, fat-ass!

Storm Boy: Right back at ya, fat-ass! Seeya.

*Blockade Boy deactivates visi-phone function, then hurls interbloggamunicator against a boulder. It bounces off, unharmed. He picks it up again, and stalks off into the jungle.*

Good Luck With That

Nemonok is trying to train Chunkstyle, but it ain't goin' too well.

On the plus side, lazy li'l Chunkstyle hasn't batted Nemonok's brain-jar off of any shelves.

Yet.

Briefs' Interlude

Vince Briefs over at the Saiyan King's Blog is now providing an appropriately raucous home environment for feisty Fizzle! The best part is, there are plenty of other "unique" pets for Fizzle to play with. Let's just hope they don't all destroy the world with their tomfoolery.

I'd also like to give a shout-out to Johnathan of Paul and John fame, for giving Chunkstyle a comfy spot on their sidebar. They haven't posted about him yet, but they did make Chunkstyle a link to this blog! Just like Bill S. has done! And that's good enough for me!

Borgsko

Bloggers Dr. Kate Basil and TX have swept dear little Bosko into their eternal battle for supremacy. And the Borg Collective now has its cutest drone yet!

Maybe it's just me, but Borg Bosko is somehow even cuter than Regular Bosko! Look at the little hat! Or brain-controlling helmet. Or whatever. Borgsko is perfectly adorable! Forget "Locutus"... the Borg should have made Borgsko their public relations rep!

It's Not Lost; It Just Got Stuck Between the Sofa Cushions

Fizzle, the cutest, mind-controllingest kitty of them all, has found a home over at Lost Hemisphere! (I'm sure that Fizzle will be running the whole show in no time.)

Thrill Ride

Wow, Cootie's kittens are just flying off the shelves! Usually with one of my priceless knick-knacks in their mouths, which they then drop on my head, like little bombs.

Thank the Luck Lords, people are actually wanting to take the critters off my hands!

In other news? I'm still jobless. I've had countless strategy sessions with the other Eyeful Rejects (as I've taken to calling them) but we can't reach consensus on anything. And the stress must be getting to me, because Posture Queen pulled me aside and said:

"BLOCKADE BOY. You're a BEAUTIFUL SUPER-HERO with a UNIQUE BEARD. When you first invited us over for snacks we were BLOWN AWAY by your SMILE (on the rare occasions we could glimpse it beneath that ginormous mustache of yours) but NOW? You seem to be FADING. Storm Boy said you SNAPPED at him during BRUNCH this morning. And that makes you LESS PRETTY to me. WHERE is that Blockade Boy who DAZZLED US at the BEGINNING? You need to DIG DEEP and FIND THAT WITHIN YOURSELF, because we're starting to question WHY YOU'RE HERE."

And I hollered, "I'm here because it's my goddamn house! Why the hell are you always here?!"

So then she started yelling at me ("I BELIEVED IN YOU! WE ALL BELIEVED IN YOU!"); and Phantom Lad yelled at her for yelling at me; and Bad Apple Boy started stomping around and making all these crazy hand gestures and saying "YO, this shit is WHACK"; and Cootie and several duplicates of her kittens were all yowling because they didn't know what was going on; and Storm Boy was laughing so hard he choked on his protein bar. (But if you've observed the obscene manner in which he eats the damn things, that's not unusual.)

So I hollered for everybody to SHUT THE HELL UP. And like normal, they did. (Even the cats!) And I apologized for being snippy, even though I'm pretty sure I hadn't but I have to use diplomacy, I guess. (And I suppose I have been on edge, lately, since I broke up with most of my boyfriends because they looked exactly like me and it was freaking boring, man, so I hadn't "gotten me some" in at least fifty-two hours.)

And on the spot, in a grand gesture that is typical for me, I told everyone I was treating them to a day at Lallor's famed "Paper Dollar City" amusement park, namely at its newest section, New Jersey Country.

Well, we had a heck of a fun time, until the roller coaster got stuck. The park sent up a technician with a jet pack, to take a gander at it. He was a beautiful freakin' dream, man. Brawny fireplug type, shaved head, handlebar 'stache, and a tattoo of a dark beast skull on his neck. And I couldn't help flirting with him, and Storm Boy was flirting too, only he peppered his dialog with techno-centric engineering talk. So I won, because I speak the language of SEX, brother, and my voice is like fine-grit sandpaper against your nipples.

And sure, okay, maybe it was "bad form" for me to make love to him right in that stalled roller coaster car. But at least I gave everyone a few seconds of warning.

Sweetening the Pot

The kind-hearted individuals who choose to adopt one of Cootie's kittens NOW have the option of displaying one of these handsome images on their sidebar!

JEALOUS...?

(Just right-click and download it to your computer or, y'know, whatever. And if they're too big, still, I can probably shrink 'em, some. Just let me know what a good general size is. Or maybe you can access 'em on my Flickr photostream, where I post as "blockadeboy5440." Heck, I dunno how your dopey steam-powered 21st century technology is supposed to work!)

Cabbage Patch Cooties

FREE KITTIES!

Please, won't you give these adorable super-powered kitties a home? Each kitten is a four-in-one value, since they'll split into four even cuter kitties at random intervals! They're sweet and precious and fun and they totally won't destroy all your valuable collectibles with their out-of-control otherworldly powers. Scout's honor.*

All you have to do is claim the kitty in the comments section of this post, and write about it on your own blog. Let me know when you do, and I'll link to it! Just don't be mean to the kitties, because then I will POUND YOUR ASS, and not in the fun way. Also, I'm totally fine with duplicate claims, although I seriously can't imagine that even happening. But I have a duplicator ray on hand, just in case.

Let's take a look at the merchandise irrepressible li'l munchkins, shall we?

Here's Bosko! Bosko Black can tap into a weird "shadow dimension" to project huge blobs of inky terrifying ectoplasm! Bosko Yellow has a nifty "paralysis" ray that can stop anybody in their tracks with only minor side-effects! Bosko Orange spews acid from various orifices at a range of up to eleven meters! And Bosko Red can shrink down to microscopic size and give you a stroke by gnawing on your brain add the perfect touch to any knick-knack shelf.

Say "hi" to Fizzle! Fizzle Aqua has mind-control powers, so you don't even have to bother with buying food or changing the litter box. That's what the zombie hobos are for. Fizzle Yellow shoots lighting! (Surge protector sold separately.) Fizzle Pink can walk through walls and fall through floors! And not onto your table in the middle of important meetings with your press agent! Nope! Fizzle Purple has super-speed! Try putting Fizzle Purple on a treadmill hooked up to a generator, and watch your power bills plummet!

Look out! It's Chunkstyle! Chunkstyle Bronze can expand into a Harryhausenesque giant monster whose looks will stop traffic... literally! Chunkstyle Gold can transform into a Colossus-style armored juggernaut, which is kinda cool until it's time to "knead bread" on your lap. (Might I recommend wearing a cup?) Chunkstyle Copper can teleport to any location, and positively won't embroil you in an intergalactic scandal by fetching valuable jewels from foreign embassies! Chunkstyle Silver's "freeze breath" is handy for chilling soda pop, beer, or the privates of certain friends who have taken to hanging out at your sweet-ass bachelor pod and are totally jacking with my game, Storm Boy. Er, but I digress.

Adopt one today! It's the latest thing (I've decided)!

*This is not a legally binding guarantee.

Kaboodled

I'd love to write a post for you all today. But as you can see, I'm kind of busy...

Not pictured: the proud mother. Also not pictured: the no-good sumbitch whose cat knocked her up. Razzin' frazzin' frickin' frackin'... *grumbles inaudibly*

Choose My Own Adventure

(If you haven't read last Friday's post, you might wanna go ahead and do that. I'm just sayin'.)

Okay.

So, Eyeful Ethel gave me a more formal firing, later that day.

She thanked me for my "months of service" and gave me a hefty wedge of severance-cheddah. On a more personal level, she pointed out that I would never be comfortable with having a boss. Which is true. She said I should look into getting a job where I can "run the show." That sounds good to me.

But what should I do? My band, Jagged Edge Explosion Balloon, has had some luck playing at small venues, like hover-biker bars and space-mitzvahs. Or I could train as an "ultimate brawler" and battle my way up into the Beat the Living Crap Out of You League. But that would take forever. I want glorious success RIGHT GODDAMN NOW, goddamn it! Is that so much to ask? Maybe I could become a bounty hunter? That'd be easy. And fun! You get to slap folks around... with impunity! Or with whatever else that happens to be lying around.

I invited my fellow firees back to my pod this morning, for a strategy session. And also because I feel kinda responsible for getting them into this mess. Have I mentioned that Bad Apple Boy, that pseudo-gangsta lunk-head, quit? As "a gesture of solidarity (yo)"? So he's here, too. The only ones who stayed with Ethel were Compass Kid (who I don't really know), Frigid Queen (because she's trying to avoid her sort-of-boyfriend, Phantom Lad), and Rainbow Girl (because she actually has an ounce of freaking sense.) I also secretly reasoned that by holding the strategy session at my place, maybe all these other super-heroes could help keep Cootie in check. Yeah, it ain't workin'. I've had to save Storm Boy from getting pummeled to death by mind-controlled hobos, like, four times already!

And Posture Queen--! Don't get me started. Okay, so I'll start. She's driving me bonkers. She wears wigs all the time, and never travels without at least two or three spares. She talks like a crazy person, going in and out of this effed-up cutesy "baby voice" and some kind of sultry whisper which she wrongly assumes is sexy. And she's always posing and telling everybody else how they should be posing, and I'll decide how everybody should pose, thank you very much. And she apparently thinks she's hilarious, but she's not, trust me. (But Storm Boy does think she's hilarious, and he and she are new BFF's, apparently. GUH.) And she has to infuse every mundane moment with High Drama. For example? She volunteered to make a run to the Infernal House of Pancakes to grab breakfast sandwiches for everybody. Only she screwed up the order. So we heard the front door slide open, and we bustled into the sunken living room to find Posture Queen standing in the foyer, looking down on everybody with her "serious face" (which makes her look like a frightened robot) and she intoned, "I see four beautiful super-heroes in front of me. But I only hold three sandwiches in my hand."

We were all kind of taken aback for a few seconds. But then I broke the silence by hollering, "WHO THE FUCK TALKS LIKE THAT?!"

It's going to be a long day.

But while I try to pull my shit together, why don't you guys partake of this nice costume I designed for fellow blogger (and evil genius) Captain Koma? It uses his signature motifs: the blue/black color scheme, and the hood. I also glommed onto a snake theme, based on the time he was turned into a half-snake creature (and because snakes are evil, which was scientifically proven by Lithuanian researchers in the year 2466). So the padding is meant to suggest a snake's belly, and I crafted Ouroboros symbols for the cloak clasps and for the belt. The clasps are joined by a yoke, based on Celtic jewelry. Now Captain Koma can conquer the universe in style!

(Gee, I hope that doesn't make me an "accessory." Er, oops.)

Nothing Left To Do But Parade

Personally? I hold Phantom Lad responsible for this mess.

Okay, so that's not really fair. Big deal. BIG FREAKIN' DEAL! I'm in no mood to be "fair" right now.

And besides... as annoying as that phony hipster was back when I was pretending to be a "straight arrow" imaginary twin brother to my legendarily bad-ass self, and he looked on me with total disdain... well, he's only gotten more irritating now that everybody knows who I really am. Because now Phantom Lad is my biggest fan. He's always hanging around my desk, asking me if I need more space-java, or a new pad of holo-notes, or even *shudder* a foot-rub. GAH. Anything I say, he immediately agrees with, aggressively. Even combatively. And I'm pretty sure he's stalking me. He tried to rummage through my garbage the other night, but luckily Storm Boy was already there, searching for used undershirts. And I've tried screaming at him and threatening his very life having a rational discussion with him, but all he does is nod real intensely and say, "Yes, Blockade Boy, of course, you're absolutely right, Blockade Boy" and then the next thing I know he's hanging over my shoulder again. Balls. And he's gotten even scruffier, which I normally would enjoy, but all that extra hair and beard is just making look even more like the Rob Zombie rip-off he is. And just like one of Rob Zombie's movie characters, his first love is the sound of his own voice, and he just won't shut the fuck up! Granted, he's mostly talking about how incredibly awesome I am, but that actually gets tiresome after awhile. Oh, and he smells. At least he lost that tattered glow-in-the-dark cape. Presumably because the damn thing finally rotted away.

Okay.

So what happened was this:

Phantom Lad, Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and I all had to come into work today, even though it's it's "Co-Dependence Day" on Lallor, and most everything is closed. Except liquor stores, and armories. Over at Eyeful Ethel's Detective Agency (Featuring Blockade Boy) we were the "skeleton crew", I guess. I had to be there because I'm the assistant manager or somethin', and Storm Boy had to be there because Lallor's customary radioactive heat waves tend to cause brown-outs and he's the only guy who can restart the computers. And Phantom Lad and Posture Queen both had to be there even though they're both receptionists, because Eyeful Ethel is making them train as "junior detectives" to increase efficiency. So yeah, the four of us were the only ones in the office, and we were already kind of pissed-off about being there. And I was also pissed off because of some recent personal troubles:

• I tried this new Lallorian tanning method that involves submitting one's body to a barrage of intense cosmic radiation, since that's the only way I can get UV rays to penetrate my dense pelt of sexy, sexy body hair. (And no, I'm not going to shave the hair off and then get a tan and then let the hair grow back! What kind of sick idea is that?!) So anyway, I now have a handsome -- one might even call it "glowing" -- tan, but my DNA has been damaged to the extent that I've lost most of my shape-shifting powers. It's back to just plain ol' steel walls for me! Dang it.
• Meanwhile, my sixteen-legged cat, Cootie, is exhibiting even more powers! This started a few months ago, when she displayed a "paralysis ray" power, kind of like Rainbow Girl has. Now, Cootie has something like sixteen different super-powers. That's one for each leg! And she's gotten hyper as hell, running all over the place, destroying my (manly) knick-knacks with freeze-breath, blobs of inky ectoplasm, and mind-controlled hobos. Also, she's peeing all over everything.
• My press-agent has stopped returning my calls, probably because I've started losing endorsement deals left and right, probably because my signature style has become so popular, a good 70% of all brawny, hairy guys now look just like me. If you refine that sampling to include only the brawny, hairy guys who are my boyfriends, the number jumps to around 92%. Which is at least three-hundred people!

So yeah, I was in a foul mood to begin with, and when I showed up at work, the place was like a dimly-lit oven, because, y'know, no power. And both Phantom Lad and Posture Queen were crammed behind the reception desk, arguing about who cares what, and then Phantom Lad spotted me and about killed himself scrambling over the desk like some kind of broken-legged spider, and one of his big dumb feet knocked the computer terminal flying and it busted into a thousand pieces, and then Posture Queen was pissed at Phantom Lad for breaking it, and Storm Boy was pissed at Phantom Lad because now he had to fix it, and I was pissed at Phantom Lad because... well, because he was goddman Phantom Lad, and that was good enough for me. (Have I mentioned that for all his unwavering devotion, he still won't divulge the nature of this mysterious "extra job" that Frigid Queen once alluded to? He said, "Naw, man, I can't tell you that! You'd lose all respect for me!" And I said, "I assure you, that's impossible." But he still won't breathe a word about it. Which, of course, just makes me want to know about it even more.) So anyway, about an hour passed in total silence, because nobody called, because it's a freakin' holiday, and nobody said a word, because they were all seriously bitter about even being there, and apparently Phantom Lad couldn't stand the tension anymore because he suddenly yelped, "YOU KNOW WHAT WE NEED?! SOME MARCHING!"

Storm Boy and Posture Queen looked at him like he had lost his space-marbles, but I was intrigued. I mean, you all know how much I love marching! And Phantom Lad started doing this crazy high-stepping march, with his gangly, withered limbs flying all over the place. "C'MON, PEOPLE!" he barked, with forced gaiety. "LET'S HAVE OURSELVES A GOOD OL' AMADAN-STYLE MARCH, LIKE BRIGADIER BLOCKADE DID ON THE DECK OF THE H.M.S. EXQUISITE!" He started humming "Cum On Feel the Noize" -- which is my homeworld's planetary anthem -- and maybe it was my patriotism, or maybe I was just moved by the sight of Phantom Lad's flop-sweat, but I hopped up from my desk and started marching around, behind Phantom Lad! He beamed grungily at me and said, "Oh, no, after you! Of course!" And I grinned and said, "Don't mind if I do!" and I took my place at the head of the parade. The two of us did a couple of turns around the office. On our second pass, I heard Storm Boy mutter, "That does kinda look like fun," and then he inserted himself in line between Phantom Lad and me. Posture Queen gaped at us as we marched past the reception desk, and I didn't think she was going to join in. But I guess she gets turned on by the sight of erect spines, because she wound up shoving Phantom Lad out of the way and getting in line behind Storm Boy. I could feel myself really getting into it -- being a natural leader, I guess -- and after a final circle of the office, I booted the door open and led everyone down the frozen escalator and out into the streets!

"Wait, where are we even going?" laughed Storm Boy.

Without even a trace of mirth in my voice, I bellowed, "TO THE MUSIC STORE!"

When we got close to the local music shop, I used my force gauntlets to pry the door open, so we could march inside without even pausing. Stomping about the empty store, we grabbed instruments off the shelves. I nabbed a bass guitar, Storm Boy took the most phallic clarinet he could lay his mouth on, Posture Queen grandly commandeered a "marching harp" (which is like a regular harp but with wheels on it), and Phantom "Maynard G. Krebs" Lad helped himself to a set of bongos. I slapped a big wedge of space-cheddah on the counter, pinwheeled my arm to strum the first chord of "Ace of Spades", and led my impromptu band out the door.

YEAH, boy-ee, it was one kick-ass parade! I could tell that Lallor's usual milling half-wits and vagrants had never seen such a sight before. I marched us to the center of town and right down Beast Boy Memorial Boulevard. People were practically tumbling out of their hovels (or maybe they were pushed) to join us! Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and Phantom Lad wordlessly formed themselves into a single rank, three people across, and the newcomers followed suit. I was still in front, moving with the measured, unstoppable ferocity of a Khundian mail carrier. I entered a kind of fugue state, where my only thought was "MARCH MARCH MARCH" and from what the other three have told me, they were kind of swept up into my mania, as well. I pushed us relentlessly onward, never looking back. I could hear the swelling sounds of the parade as it developed behind us. People sang along with us as we performed numerous inspirational marches, like "Cat Scratch Fever" and "Back in Black" and "Tush." After a while, there were so many voices that it all blended into an articulate roar. The road ahead reflected brilliant flashes of colored light, and the scent of gunpowder teased my nostrils. My mind dimly registered this as "fireworks."

And then the blazing husk of a hover-bike whizzed over my head and slammed into the pavement, not eight feet away from me.

I looked back.

And so, presumably for the first time, did Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and Phantom Lad.

We were speechless. Well, except for Storm Boy, who made a pathetic little gurgling sound.

What we had thought was a harmless (if lively) parade, was -- in reality -- a full-scale riot. It turned out that the native marchers were all drunk off their asses and armed to the teeth, and quite disgruntled. They looted luxury boutiques, overturned hover-cars (which takes a lot of work, believe me, on account of the internal gyroscopes) and generally set fire to everything they could. In the distance, Lallor's brutish police force was tussling with a group of people who were hollering "Revolution! Revolution!" Another, smaller group shouted "Anarchy! Anarchy!" and toddled about in random patterns.

Simultaneously, all four of our Omnicoms buzzed.

It was Eyeful Ethel.

"Congratulations, numb-nuts," she said. "You're all fired."

Suck One, Blocks ( by guest-columnist Storm Boy)

[Being a literary adaptation of an upsetting alternate reality glimpsed at the Time Institute]

I stayed at Hek's about six hours, and except for the fact that I lost one of my calf-spats between the sofa-cushions, and was nearly inhaled by Hek's pet dark-beast (which had grown alarmed by its master's cries) a pleasant time was had by all.

At three-of-the-clock on March the ninth, looking flushed and enervated, I returned to my own bachelor pod, to clean up a bit, and drop into bed.

And it was while I was at the flat, towelling the torso after a much-needed sonic shower, that my man Blocks suddenly brought the name of Tusker Lafeaugh-Snapple into the conversation.

As I recall it, the dialogue ran something as follows:

SELF: Well, Blocks, here we are, what?

BLOCKS: Yes, sir.

SELF: I mean to say, home again.

BLOCKS: Precisely, sir.

SELF: Seems ages since I left on my date.

BLOCKS: An impression, no doubt, made stronger by the marked dearth of text-messaging, sir.

SELF: Now see here, Blocks! I refuse to be one of those men who is a slave to his valet!

BLOCKS: Just as you say, sir.

SELF: Good. Well, Blocks! What news on the intergalactic intraweb? Anybody been blogging or e-mailing or anything since my abs.?

BLOCKS: Mr. Lafeaugh-Snapple, sir, has been a frequent blog-poster.

I stared. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that I gaped.

This Lafeaugh-Snapple, you see, is one of those freaks you come across from time to time during life's journey who can't string three words together without exhausting his vocabulary. When I asked him once if he couldn't find the time to earn his high school equivalence diploma, he said, no, because he had a holo-vision set in his living room, and he studied the habits of reality-programme lingerie models.

I couldn't imagine what could have driven the chap to such prodigious blogging. I would have been prepared to bet that as long as the supply of reality-programme lingerie models didn't give out, nothing could have shifted him from that soylent-puff-stained couch of his.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, sir."

"You got the name correctly? Lafeaugh-Snapple?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, it's the most extraordinary thing."

"Indeed, sir."

"But what on Lallor can have driven him to do so?"

"I am in a position to explain that, sir. No doubt you have observed of late an added note of courage in Mr. Lafeaugh-Snapple's dispostion?"

"Indeed I have, Blocks. Deuced annoying, that. Nobody with Tusker's mouth should be in the habit of smiling so broadly."

"Yes, sir. If I may be so bold, however, I would venture that his friendly muttonchops have the happy effect of mitigating that deficit."

"Yes, thank you, Blocks. I am fully aware of your influence in that matter."

"Yes, sir."

"No further reminders of your stylistic prowess will be needed, Blocks."

"Indeed not, sir."

"They are suitably impressed upon my gray matter, Blocks. If you have any further tales of muttonchops, handlebar moustaches, Donegals, soul patches, or Dundreary Weepers, trouble me with them no more!"

"Very good, sir."

"I should hope so, Blocks!"

"Yes, sir."

"At the end of the day, a gentleman's gentleman must needs preserve the illusion that all decisions a la mode spring fully-formed from the brain of his employer!"

"I hasten to remind you, sir, that I am a valet and not a miracle-worker. But if we may return to the subject of Mr. Lafeaugh-Snapple--?"

"Ah, yes. His courage, or something-or-other."

"Yes, sir. I confess that I exerted my influence in that matter as well."

"Now I follow. Now I understand. But wasn't it all due to Tusker's excessive boinking with this new girl of his? 'Cajun Kid', wasn't it?"

"Regretfully, that person was a lady of the evening whom Mr. Lafeaugh-Snapple had mistakenly contracted for a fortnight. I believe their interactions ended with the young woman kicking him in the 'nads and taking his wallet."

"I say! A rummy patch of luck for old Tusker! A prostitute, eh? I had wondered why she was always looking at her watch."

"Keenly noted, sir."

"Her changebelt was likewise a source of confusion to me."

"Without question, sir."

"Well, don't dawdle, Blocks. You were saying something about Tusker's courage?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Lafeaugh-Snapple confided in me that he was paralysed by feelings of inferiority to everybody he knew. This included his fellow workers in the Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency, as well as several fast-food clerks and small children. And yet, with very little prompting on my part, he could summon whole lists of their defects. I merely advised him to type these lists into his Omnicom, so that he might consult them prior to a meeting with one of these persons. Thus armed with a feeling of superiority -- however ill-deserved -- he could conduct himself with the swagger of a Rimborian ganglord."

"Egad, Blocks! And why was the chap blogging so furiously this evening?"

"It seems that he has misplaced the Omnicom, sir. It is an event, you will doubtless apprehend, of no little concern to him. His initial blog post concerning the Omnicom revealed only the bare minimum of details. As the hours passed, however, his blogging became more candid. He even revealed the Omnicom's password. Said password being, in point of fact, 'password.'"

"Really, Blocks! This is too much!"

"Rather, sir. Furthermore, the anonymous party who recovered the Omnicom has posted its contents on numerous gossip sites. I should, at this juncture, assure you that although your penchant for sniffing my used undershirts is now common knowledge amongst the technorati, I personally have no objection to your doing so. "

A throbbing at the temples told me that our conversation was at its saturation point.

------------------------------

[Author's note: I saw this scenario unravel on Earth-Wodehouse just last night, via a Time Institute monitor. I swear, that place is addictive! Also, I have an addictive personality. Things I've been addicted to: space-wine, doughnuts, Blockade Boy, pointiness. Nobody else wanted to go to the Institute with me, so I "flew solo" as they say on Thanagar. No big whoop. I thought maybe I could pick up a cute guy there. I didn't. No big whoop.

My review of the recording? Two thumbs way up! Cool parts: the clothes (of course!), everybody having an English accent, Blockade Boy as my own personal "monkey butler". Not-so-cool parts: me almost getting eaten by a dark-beast, the idea that Blockade Boy is smarter than me. Yeah, that sucked one. Still, I was in a good mood when I left the Institute... until Blockade Boy called me on my Omnicom, and pretty much hollered, "YOU NEED TO LOOK AT TUSKER'S BLOG! NOW!" And it turned out that all the Cajun Kid/Omnicom list/stolen password/gossip site crap happened in my reality, too! Only a few days later! What the hell, people?

Tusker didn't show up for work today. Which? Is just as well. I mean, now that everybody on Lallor knows about Gadfly Lad's bedwetting problem; and how Dentata Damsel has been moonlighting as an Omnicom-sex operator for people with very sensitive hearing; and that one time Nightmare Boy knocked over a convenience store and only stole a carton of "x-tra petite" space-condoms; and how Rainbow Girl once threatened to kill a Science Police officer's dog in order to get out of paying a parking ticket; and how Frigid Queen hired Sun Woman to burn down Phantom Lad's house; and the intimate details of Eyeful Ethel's insider stock trading; and how, okay already, I still sometimes rifle through Blockade Boy's garbage for any garments he might have thrown away, so I can sniff them. Oh, and all that stuff about Blockade Boy pretending to be his own twin, so the U.P. can't arrest him on fraud charges. So the whole office is in chaos right now. It's positively swarming with Science Police. They arrested Ethel and Frigid Queen and Nightmare Boy and Rainbow Girl, and they tried to arrest Blockade Boy. But after an exciting kerfuffle, Blockade Boy escaped -- but only after making certain everybody heard his vow to "disappear into the night" (it was like, ten in the morning) and "embark on a new career as a dark, mysterious 'fashion vigilante.'" Goddamn Blockade Boy. Oh, and he's taking Cootie with him, and making her wear a mask and a little cape.

It sucks, you guys. Or as English-Flava Me might say, "It's a sticky wicket!"]

(cover image stolen almost wholesale from this)

Invalid Response

Curse that Blockade Boy Revenge Squad! A space-pox on them, I say! Pernicious fuckwads--!

They broke into my bachelor pod Sunday morning, while I was passed out drunk at church! I returned to find the place ransacked, and Cootie gnawing on the severed foot of one of the perpetrators. (Before I could take the lonely appendage to the crime lab, Cootie had swallowed the entire thing. Dang it.) At first, I just thought the Revenge Squad had stolen a few items, like my kangobronc trench, and my fifty-liter drum of Bubble Helmet Cologne For Especially Manly Men. But that night, when I went through my regular "handsomifying" routine (in front of a picture window, natch) I received a horrific shock! No sooner had I slathered my fur-bearing form in moisturizing creme, then all my body hair fell out onto the floor, with a tinkling sound one usually associates with the sickly tree from "A Charlie Brown Christmas." The Revenge Squad had replaced my lotion with a depilatory! I immediately collapsed to the floor, deathly ill, and weak as a kitten. I swear I saw a flashbulb go off in the distance. I've been laid up on my stone slab of a bed since then, while my pelt grows back, even thicker and more alluring than ever before. Klup and Ox have been most comforting, and the gang back at the detective agency sent me a basket of imported space-wines and soylent sausages. It was a real sweet gesture.

I'm sorry I haven't been able to blog in the last three days, and blogging might be spotty for the next week, but I should be back up on my furry feet real soon.

Stay hairy, guys!

Mnemonsemble

Late last night, a flying robo-messenger crashed through my bedroom window. Without a word, it dropped a bulky envelope onto my furry chest. And then, in typical Lallorian (i.e. crappy) fashion, it spun into the wall and exploded into its component parts. A small oil fire broke out. Cootie, bless her, doused the flames by urinating on them.

Turns out, the missive was from my old nemeses, the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad (or as I like to call them, "The Nancy Street Gang"). They had indeed slipped some kono juice inside my jello salad, as Bill S. and I had hypothesized. Not only that, but a Nancy Street Ganger had trailed after me with a camera, to make a journalistic record of any asinine behavior on my part. They claimed to have taken a whole passel of photos! As proof, they had enclosed a couple of samples. Including this one:

(I'd show you the ones taken from the front, but they're obscene.)

So, I'm giving a hearty, back-slapping "congratulations" to DOCTOR TECTONIC! The clever Doc rightly guessed that my juice-warped brain would gussy up my rude, hairy form in a Storm Boy original gown (the shoes were mine) and make a bee-line for the most conservative pub in the city.

The Revenge Squad wants me to wire them an entire wheel of space-cheddah, or else they'll upload all their photos to the Intergalactic Intraweb. As though I would be embarrassed by any of this. Screw that shit! I've always said, it's one sorry-ass Bear who's so insecure about his own masculinity that he's afraid to "get pretty" once in a while. And you know what? I think I worked that tulle gown! I'm like Ruby Keeler, only hot! And sure, the edges of the gown are razor-sharp, which is admittedly quelle butch, but you wouldn't know that until I got you in a sloppy-drunk Bear hug. That's why I'm uploading all the photos they sent me to the Intergalactic Intraweb, myself! Hell, here's a larger version of the above photo, just for you guys! I WIN, MOTHERFUCKERS! AGAIN! HAW! HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA *inadvertently hiccups, then belches* HA HA HA HA HA HA HA...

I Glove You to Death

Storm Boy's cloud is finally gone.

Yesterday, I went looking for the guy, with the plan of clobbering him about the head and shoulders until he cried "Uncle!" (Or "Daddy!" I'm not particular.) But he wasn't at home. I decided to check out his favorite haunts. I looked in dance halls, milk bars, Pottery Pod, Evolvo Lad's Gym, Prairie Maw Funnybook Downloaders. Nobody had seen him. Hours later -- and soaking wet -- my route swung back towards his apartment. Now, there were scores of media lorries pulled up all around it, and a throng of people with cameras. A long red carpet snaked from a rocket-limo up to Storm Boy's door. That could mean only one thing: Eyeful Ethel was there!

I pushed my way through the mob, growling, "Give me some privacy, you vultures!" But nobody was taking any photos of me. Even though I took care to strike several intimidating/sexy poses! What the hell--?!

When I used my special "pirate knock" (so they'd know it was me), a portion of the door shifted into transparency, revealing Ethel. "Not yet," she said. "Maybe come back later. I'll call you." From somewhere behind her, Storm Boy wailed, "LEAVE STORM BOY ALONE!" (Yikes.)

The cloud dissipated by the time I'd made it back to my own place.

Late last night, Storm Boy showed up at my door, looking nervous, his eyes downcast. He cradled a big box in his arms. I didn't know if the box contained roses or a tommy-phaser, but I decided to let him in, regardless. He stammered a few incomprehensible words at me, his eyes red with tears. The box hit the floor. The next thing I knew, he had thrown his arms around me and was sobbing into my beard. "I'M SO SORRY!" he cried. His voice quavered, Mary Tyler Moore-like.

I sat him down on a fur-strewn slab of rock, and poured us some space-java. "I didn't even realize what I had done, when I started seeing Ox," he said, sheepishly. "I thought I was over you! I honestly didn't notice how much the two of you looked alike until that stupid white hair showed up in your beard. It looks really hot, by the way."

"I'm glad you think so," I chuckled. "'Cause I'm keepin' it."

He took a sip of space-java, and smiled haplessly at me for a moment. "Oh! I made you something. To make up for the storm cloud." He presented me with the box.

Inside was a pair of golden metal force-field gauntlets, both of them emblazoned with a light-up display in the shape of a white-and-purple crest.

"They're like your bracers," he explained. "Only the force-fields are shield-shaped, and they shoot out of the palms. Also? You can project a shield and then move it around by moving your hands. The shields maintain their integrity for up to six seconds, although I'm working on ways to make them last longer."

I pulled them on and strolled over to a mirror to admire myself. Through an open window I could see a stray vran digging a hole in my yard. I slid a force-shield under the beast, and flipped him like a pancake over the fence. He ran off, yelping. I grinned at Storm Boy. "These are kick-ass! I'm gonna design a whole new costume around them!"

"That'll be... nice," Storm Boy offered. I could see by his face that he was still feeling uncomfortable.

I sat down next to him, and put my arm around his shoulder. "Listen, buddy. I'm gonna get you through this. I know plenty of beefy, furry dudes. And a lot of them would love to meet you, I bet! Say! Ox has this friend who calls himself "Stink Bug", maybe we could double-date, if you don't have a problem with short guys, and--"

"No, no!" Storm Boy exclaimed, laughing and crying all at once. "I've had enough of smelly men. I mean, it was hard enough when I was just dealing with your odor!"

"Ha, ha, ha! Wait, what?"

"Never mind." He wiped the snot from his nose, and got up to leave. "See you at the office tomorrow?"

I showed him to the door. By then, Cootie had curled up inside the open box and had fallen asleep. I spent some time playing with mastering my new gauntlets. Then I grabbed some fabric and some leather, and sat down at my sewing machine.

(And a larger view.) I wanted to show off my sweet new tats, so this outfit is topless. (You're welcome.) I continued the crenelation them on a snappy new metal belt. The boots feature my signature "calf spats", plus a cut-in on the front that mirrors the crest on my gauntlets. A domino mask completes the look. As for my hair, well, I had been thinking of growing out my goatee even before I got assigned that "Undercover Santa" mission. I had hesitated, though, because I was worried it might start to block the nifty castle cut-out that Silvercat had designed. With the castle shape moved to the left, I can let my beard get longer and still show off my logo. Y'know, I might have trimmed my whiskers back just a tad too much, but I can grow them back out quickly enough. If I feel like it. And I buzzed my hair both out of necessity -- because Storm Boy's cloud had zapped multiple bald patches into it -- and just because it looks more bad-ass.

Oh, and the white in my beard? I'm guessing some of you might complain that it makes me look old. You know who doesn't think it makes me look old? Everybody else from my home planet, where it's the norm for twenty-something dudes to have white in their beards. HONOR MY CULTURE, JERKS! Er, sorry. I guess I'm just a little sensitive about these things.

Finally, since I got the crenelation tattoo idea from "Extreme Blockadeover" finalist, Dr. Tectonic, I'd like to offer him the same prize I gave to Silvercat: I'll draw a picture (or two) for him. Whatever he wants! (He knows how to get in touch with me.)

D-List Monsters of Super-Hero Land: The Mole, Part One

I still have a lot to say about the Spook -- in fact, I just snagged a "Detective Comics" with one of his earlier appearances -- but I figure you all might be anxious to see some different D-List monsters. So I'll get back to the Spook (and his suction-cup shoes) another day. And now, let's all brace ourselves for the pants-wetting terror of... the Mole!

Oh, I can sympathize with Batman. Only last month, I had this Plantar's wart that just would not go away. I tried putting some dry ice on it, and I swear to the Luck Lords, not only did the damn thing actually get bigger, but a squeaky, scoffing voice issued from it, informing me that it "washes [its] balls in ice water," just like that Russian mob guy that Paulie and Christopher tried to kill in the snow, on "The Sopranos." One night, when when the wart was about the size of a bottle cap, it just opened up like a flower, and a handsome, well-hung (proportionately, anyway) little faerie-man (with hummingbird wings!) flitted out of it. He was beautiful. I was moved beyond words. I didn't cry, though. AND I'LL FIGHT ANY MAN WHO SAYS I DID! *looks around, menacingly* Anyway, the tiny fella pretty much immediately slammed into my patio door and knocked himself out.

And then Cootie ate him.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah. The Mole. I don't understand why the Batman's minor medical crisis warrants an entire cover, but...

Oh.

Yeah, that'll jack up your prize-winning rose bushes.

And yes, this is a Roy Thomas story. Which means it's chock-full of horribly, wonderfully bloviated caption boxes like these:

"Not quite the Witching Hour"? Then who gives a shit?

And if you ask me, this comic would have been a lot better if they would have added an accent mark to the "e" in "Mole". 'Cause then the story could have followed a mysterious figure, named after a type of delicious Mexican sauce. I'm picturing a cross between "El Mariachi" and "Iron Chef." ("Today's mystery ingredient is... a machine gun!" *cue kick-ass gun battle*)

But wait! What's that intriguing poster I spy on the left side of the frame? Computer, zoom out!

Why, it's an advertisement for Batman's lounge act, "Urban Terrorist", in town for one night only, at the Gotham Cabaret! Thrill as his rendition of "September Song" devolves into a prolonged rant about America's criminal justice system! Then retreat into the lobby and buy one of his cassette tapes from that creepy college kid in the scaly green shorts.

The Mole is so mind-bendingly goofy horrifying, I don't dare fully show him to you, just yet.

But as a consolation, please, enjoy this panel of Doctor Abraham Lincoln, Freudian analyst:

Legion of Substitute Costumes: Phantom Lad

I'm off of work now, sitting nudely in my condo, with Cootie curled up on my lap, and a two-liter bottle of Sun Beam whiskey in my paw, so I can finally write about what happened yesterday morning.

*drains bottle in one swig*

Okay. So it turns out Frigid Queen was working overtime because she was avoiding going home to Phantom Lad. So of course, Phantom Lad has started hanging out at our office, pretty much all day, every day. What the hell? I know he says he has a job, but... ugh. I'd better start at the beginning.

It's 8:28 AM. Frigid Queen is at her desk, making notes from a reverse visi-phone directory. Nightmare Boy is zonked out at reception, with his long, raven hair tumbling onto the desk in an attractive fan pattern. There's a smug smile on his pallid face. Meanwhile, the com system is buzzing like mad. Then, Phantom Lad breezes in, like he owns the goddamn building. And I swear to the Luck Lords, the fucker looks skinnier and dustier and more washed-out every time I see him. And he smells all tangy and shit, like a mix of cinnamon and body odor, but at the same time he has this attitude that just makes me want to... gah! I'm getting ahead of myself again. You'll see.

So Phantom Lad sweeps past me in that dumb, tattered glow-in-the-dark cape he always wears (with matching boots!) and even though it's never done me a damn bit of good all the other times I've tried, I say "good morning" to him, and he doesn't even look at me. He plops his bony ass down on Frigid Queen's desk with his back to me, and the two of them start arguing about something. The gist of their spat is: he'd said something just hideously insulting to her while they were having sex the previous night, she'd kicked him out of their apartment, and now he was back with some cheap-ass "make-up" gift. (Her first words to him were "What's this crap?" if that gives you any idea.) But I can tell by her tone that they're headed for a messy, desk-clearing makeout session (they've always stopped at "third base"... so far) and so I mosey on over to the only other person in the office just then: Nightmare Boy.

The lazy Lothario's nap has kicked into high gear, and he's smacking his lips and mumbling things like "Oh, yeah, baby... you like that, baby? I think you do...!" And then his body starts making these humping motions, so I slap him upside the head to snap him out of it. With a snort, he jerks awake, yelping an obligatory "TERRIFYING VISIONS OF THE FUTURE!" as he does so. He rubs his eyes. "Man, that one was a doozy," he confides, his crimson eyes huge with feigned innocence. "Bad... stuff, happening... soon. So, what can I do ya for?"

I ask him if he has any messages for me. He just shrugs, and says "How should I know?"

So naturally, Phantom Lad takes this opportunity to rattle his bony frame over to the reception desk as well, and he starts bullshitting with Nightmare Boy about some hot dame Nightmare Boy had picked up that weekend. And he's still ignoring me. But I can't stop looking at him, because he's wearing my clothes! By which, I mean he was wearing pants and a top from my old menswear line, back before it tanked and forced me into a life of space piracy. But of course, he'd somehow managed to screw it up. It's simultaneously bleached all to hell and grimy. I'm pissed. The funny thing is, he still looks better than how he used to dress. Here's a before, from his "Legion of Super Rejects" phase:

Also, and I can't find a picture to back this up, but trust me, I'm pretty sure he wore his hair in one of those high-up samurai ponytails. Heh. But yeah, Phantom Lad kind-of, sort-of tried to do the "Legion of Substitute Heroes" thing, only his group was solely focused on trying to convince the Legion of Super-Heroes to admit them. (Bank being robbed? House on fire? Old Durlan needing help oozing across the street? Well, tough shit, because the Legion of Super Rejects is too busy with their letter-writing campaign.) And the group disbanded after a month, and then I never heard anything else about Phantom Lad, until I met Frigid Queen.

And here he is, now:

Don't ask me what happened to his eyebrows. They probably dried up and blew away. And boy-howdy, is his complexion scary. He looks like he's made out of wax. Which would be cool if was from Plant Lad's planet and not from Bgztl, where they all look like Earthmen. Anyway, Nightmare Boy says something douche-y like "Diggin' the threads! Vintage, am I right?"

And while I'm reeling from the idea that something I designed two years ago could be vintage, Phantom Lad proudly informs Nightmare Boy, "It's an original Blockade Boy." He glances over at me for the first time ever and adds, "Y'know, the Blockade Boy. The cool one."

Meanwhile, I'm still so horrified by the idea of this tool wearing my clothes -- albeit badly -- that all I can say is, "You're not supposed to wear those pants with that top; they match too closely, and it makes the whole ensemble look--"

And he just makes this raspy scoffing noise, without even turning his head.

And I lose it.

I grab his shoulder with one of my furry mitts and I say, "Are you brain-dead, ya dumb bony bastard? I said, you're wearing my clothes wrong!"

He goes intangible and flounces out of my grasp. "I don't talk to rats," he sneers at me. "I step on 'em."

Okay. So now I have this mammoth urge to kick his ass, but at the same time my better nature is telling me:

1. He weighs about as much as two kindergarteners, so it's not a fair fight (even with his phasing ability).
2. He's the boyfriend of a coworker.
3. I really can't afford to lose this job. Yeah, yeah, so I have a big pile of space-cheddah salted away somewhere. It's all tied up right now. In real estate... I don't wanna talk about it.

Instead of whaling on him, I just grit my teeth and demand to know what his snide remark was supposed to mean.

He says, "Everybody knows the only way you even got this job is by squealing on your brother. And whaddaya mean, 'your clothes', anyway?"

Reminding myself I'm masquerading as a fictional twin brother nowadays, I hurriedly grunt, "Phyl stole a lot of my ideas."

Phantom Lad gives Nightmare Boy a look, like "Can you believe this asshole?" and then he says to me, "That's what makes him a legend! He sees something he wants? He takes it! Naturally, he was the best space pirate ever, and when the U.P. tried to reign him in, he told them where they could put it! And he's still out there, doin' his own thing. I heard he's got a raygun-running operation goin' on with the Braalian Underground, and a couple of robo-brothels out by Colu. He's a freakin' counter-culture role model, man! But you? I never even heard of you before! So, what was your biggest accomplishment up 'til now? Finishing space-trucking school on your third try?" (His skinny ghost-hand phases tauntingly through my bushy goatee.)

How I keep from knocking his stupid block off, I'll never know. Instead, I stick to verbal sparring. I give him the withering once-over and say, "And you do... what, exactly? Play in a pod bay band? In between sash-shopping and not exercising?"

For the first time, he acts all defensive. "No! I'm a journalist."

"For what?" I smirk. "The Xanthu Shopper?" (And now Nightmare Boy is watching the two of us with bemused wonderment.)

"Screw that noise! I'm a gonzo journalist, on the political beat! You've probably read my stuff in Mother J'onzz or Rolling Asteroid."

"Ah, so you're one of those dim-bulbs who couldn't make it as a fiction writer, so you spot Marte Allon on a space-platform from twenty meters away and turn it into an 'arty' six-page piece about her doing shrooms on Jupiter." (And yes, I did the air-quotes when I said "arty." I despise myself for it.)

Phantom Lad is sputtering now. His jaundiced cheeks are desperately trying to blush, but all it's doing is making his head look like a dried-up nectarine. And Frigid Queen throws her two credits in with this fascinating comment: "Oh, that's not all he writes about! Tell him, honey!"

And she's laughing, and Nightmare Boy's laughing (although I can tell he doesn't even know what he's laughing about), and Phantom Lad darkly mutters that he has to leave. Frigid Queen still won't tell me what she was alluding to. It's driving me nuts not knowing. Huh. Well, I'll pry it out of her. Eventually. I'm charming that way.

But at least I shouldn't see Phantom Lad around the office again, anytime soon.

Right?

But this whole "fake twin" nonsense... it's gonna drive me bonkers! Look at me! I've turned into Mike Murdock, for Pete's sake! After all these years of railing against the stupidities of "secret identity" plotlines, I've stumbled right into one. The talons of Karma have got me by the balls.

...No, wait. That's just Cootie. Skedaddle, girl!

Where I'm At

Well, it finally happened... weeks ago, actually, but I didn't have the time to blog about it before.

A few days after our big blow-out sales event on Rimbor, and after Plant Lad had gone on his merry way, the U.P. showed up with one of their tow-cruisers, zapped the H.M.S. Exquisite with a repo-beam and hauled our asses up, up, and away from the planet.

And we were right in the middle of breakfast! The jolt knocked everybody on their asses, and I wound up with strawberry-flavored protein powder all over my crotch. Storm Boy offered to "clean that up" for me. Having a good idea of his preferred method, I politely declined.

I'd prepped the crew for this event, and we'd already settled on our future plans... I think that helped everybody to keep from losing their shit too much. Well, Tusker kept a firm grip on his dental tools and kept clacking the pliers together (menacingly) whenever a U.P. goon passed too close by, and in any other situation I'd be pretty proud of him. (I've been talking to him about sublimating his fears and replacing them with something more productive, like violence... which may or may not have a positive effect on his love life, provided he ever gets one.) I just had to remind him that the "silent threat" stuff is inappropriate for dealing with the Law. Cootie, bless 'er, managed to stay a couple of steps ahead of all the U.P. officers the entire time, or else they would have impounded her as an unknown species under the Please Don't Eat Our Native Fauna And/Or Flora Act of 2871.

So anyway, once the U.P. had combed the entire vessel and found no evidence of stolen merchandise, they set about frisking me for metal parts. Of course, they didn't find any, which meant the end of my Space Pirate Captain career. (And good riddance.) They weren't about to buy a story about my getting a new, identical body, especially when the videotape makes it look like a cheap magic trick involving a robot and a smoke bomb.

"Blockade Boy," harrumphed the U.P. captain, "You're under arrest for acquiring a Space Piracy license under false pretenses! We have a nice cozy cell for you on Takron-Galtos!"

I cleared my throat, and on cue, Storm Boy produced a holo cartridge (from the Luck Lords know where) with our pre-arranged alibi on it. It was a message from the renowned detective, Eyeful Ethel!

Naturally, the U.P. captain was so thrilled he demanded to view it on the spot. He was seriously excited, people. He even did this thing where he held his hands out and fluttered his fingers and squealed "OOOH-ooh! Gimme!" He snapped the cartridge into a portable player from his belt and an image of the gorgeous Ethel flickered into the center of the room. She was attired in the sweet new ensemble Storm Boy and I had designed for her. Which means it's time for... Legion of Substitute Costumes!

Ethel's gimmick? A ring of eyeballs all around her head, like a cross between a goddamn hippie and a Tim Burton character. Ethel honestly had no business trying out for the Legion, since she couldn't really do anything. Like a lot of kids, she just did it just for fun. So, she wasn't too broken up when she didn't make it. She did have an interest in law enforcement, however, so she worked her way up to the rank of "captain" in the U.P. Security Agency before striking out on her own as a private investigator. It was rough going for a while. By universe-wide lottery she was matched with Storm Boy as his designated "fag hag" and they spent many tear-stained, wine-soaked nights commiserating with each other. At her suggestion, he designed an admittedly cool set of goggles for her to wear: each lens allows her to see into a different spectrum, like x-rays, infrared and the like. Thus attired, she cracked a headline-making case by capturing serial peeper Radiation Roy. She brokered her new fame into expanding her detective agency, and she's now a brand name in the security biz! Aside from the goggles, though, she still dressed kind of frumpy -- too many baggy pants and overcoats. As advance payment for getting me out of my mess with the U.P., Storm Boy and I designed these new duds for her!

The whole thing is inspired by her sweet goggles, with iridescent colors and a modest amount of straps. There's also some interlaced detail on the bodice. The haircut is edgy-cool, and it's way more practical than the long, tangled mess she used to sport. Now she's ready for the cover of Heavy Metal!

Aaaaannnyway, in her recorded message, Ethel said:

To Whom It May Concern:
These four fine individuals work for me. Also, there's probably a sixteen-legged cat-like thing somewhere, but it's just four cats in a pantomime cat suit so don't worry about it. Er, anyway, the man you think is Phyl Staad, the notorious pirate, is really his long-lost twin brother, PHYNN Staad, who looks just like him and even uses the same code name but has different finger prints and all his original genitalia, as I'm sure you can authenticate. Attached to this message is all the necessary paperwork confirming his identity. I'd like to commend my operatives -- Storm Boy, Rainbow Girl and Tusker -- for infiltrating Phyl Staad's piracy operation by pretending to be his loyal crew, when the whole time they were transmitting vital information to my headquarters.

(At this, Tusker blurted "Wait, I don't remember any of--!" but Rainbow Girl elbowed him in the gut and he dutifully shut his dumb pie-hole.)

And finally, I'd like to give a special thanks to my newest operative, the other Blockade Boy. Yes, let's all give a round of applause to Phynn Staad, who is so loyal to the United Planets that he would turn on his nefarious twin, going so far as to impersonate him, sort-of, after the latter's mysterious disappearance, in order to keep the dread pirate's spacecraft from falling into the wrong hands before the U.P. could take charge of it.

(The beauty part is, the U.P. goons really did applaud me, some of them stomping their feet and saying things like "Here, here!" and "YEAH, boy-ee!" and I'm pretty sure the U.P. captain cried a little bit.)

I will be happy to transmit all the information I've gathered on Phyl Staad to the U.P. so they may continue the investigation. But for now, I need to recall all of my operatives and those four cats, the ones in the big, unremovable cat-suit, to my agency, because I have other jobs for them. Thank you, and keep up the good work!

And as you may have guessed, our scam was a total success!

So, to the relief and sheer delight of everybody involved, my former crew and I are working as Special Agents (or some shit) for Eyeful Ethel at her headquarters on Lallor! We've all managed to remain really good friends, although our closeness seems to have driven a wedge between ourselves and Ethel's four other employees. I mean, they're friendly enough, but I don't really feel like I know them, y'know? Here they are, and I'll tell you what I know about them so far, going from left to right:

• Gadfly Lad: from Imsk; can shrink to a dainty size; gets around with an old flying harness Storm Boy had designed; has a detailed, well-researched opinion on everything, apparently; is in denial about the fact he can't grow a decent mustache (or sideburns!) to save his life
• Dentata Damsel: from Bismoll; can eat anything, and does, constantly; won't stop smiling; never blinks; constantly cheerful for no good goddamn reason; can reduce Tusker to jelly with the mere wiggle of her hips
• Nightmare Boy: from Naltor; alleged clairvoyant; Ethel's receptionist; can barely be bothered to work the whole "Goth" angle and is in fact a "smoove playa" and "ladies' man" (a role model for Tusker, maybe?); his hair always looks absolutely perfect, even when he's just gotten up; sports skull-and-crossbones birthmark situated just above his crotchal region; I'm not sure why but I kind of want to slap him
• Frigid Queen: from Tharr, ice powers, rocks a tall faux-fur hat, hard worker, way too chatty about her apparently effed-up relationship with Phantom Lad (think "Sid and Nancy" with super-powers)

The awful part is I'm not really that interested in knowing them any better, but I know that's a shitty attitude, and for all I know they're actually fantastic individuals. But I doubt it. Ah, well. Maybe I can talk Ethel into sponsoring some kind of employee bonding activity, like a fantasy moopsball league, or a pub crawl. We'll see.

Extreme Blockadeover: Chawunky

The costume contest submissions are multiplying, fruitfully! (Take that as you will.) Here's one from Chawunky, who writes:

This is definitely a minimalist design, shading towards the outright nondescript. Such is my own tendency; however I did set myself the goal of incorporating numerous elements that recur in your wardrobe, hopefully without replicating particulars.

The colors are typical but of a darker, richer shade. I've incorporated what I THINK is a new logo into the medallion and the stitching on the belt. The overall intended effect is evening casual, with slim expectation of a Computo attack.

Again, hardly adventurous, but you should have seen the concept I rejected for being way too fussy in the Perez tradition. Mr. Frenz would have no trouble with this one.

I look forward to your reactions!

~Chawunky

P.S. The inclusion of Cootie is not meant to curry favor, mostly I just leapt at the opportunity to illustrate the little dickens.

In one word? Bangin'. This design may not be "adventurous" but from a design standpoint it's graphic and clean... and more importantly, it's visually striking. The handsome logo is new and to be honest it's worlds better than any one I've designed for myself. I dig the overall vibe of this look: simultaneously bad-ass and debonaire. As you know, I have no problem with bleaching my hair white (all over, heh-heh) and I like how the spiky, tousled hair is a youthful contrast with the "friendly" muttonchops, i.e. the type that join to a mustache. By completely exposing my chest -- and yet creating a visual "collar" via the chain -- and by shortening the sleeves, you've used my magnificently-furred skin as another design element... well done, sir! (And you certainly didn't neglect my nipples. They're large and in charge! Just like in real life!) I also appreciate the detail of the small buttons on the sleeves, which tie in with the same-size buttons or posts on the collar.

Good work, Chawunky! This one's another contender!

Prophecy and Loss

Friends, I extend to you the warmest of greetings. My name is Leopold "Sturdy" Sturdevant, also called "Stockade Boy" by my fellow mountain men. I may also have been called by another name, in another place, and perhaps some day I shall learn it.

The man and woman who reared me were not my true parents. They told me I was found as a babe within a great hole in the ground, near the ruin of a cyclopian Engine, the origin of which they dared not guess. In childhood I was blessed with a miraculous gift: through mere thought, I could transform my body into any manner of wall, be it sod, plank, log, stake, or even brick! At twelve years of age, I looked to all who saw me like a man of twenty-one, and so I left my rustic home to make my way in the world. At fourteen I met an Indian soothsayer who told me I would one day espy a double, and that another day I should come to his aid, when my journey would at last lead me to a realm beyond the tread of mortal man. In this manner, quoth he, I should be of service to his own people, who called themselves the Wolf Clan. Much of his prophecy has already come to pass; the remainder will very shortly occur.

I saw my lookalike, your captain, six years ago, through the window of a telegraph agent's. He was attired as a dandy and conversing with a band of adventurers from another Era, one of whom had seen fit to imitate me. This mimic was of a garrulous disposition, and despite his many skills as a storyteller, he could not long hold the attention of your Captain, who doubtless possesses as active and restless a mind as myself. Indeed, his gaze wandered with great frequency from the mimic's clownish gesturing and gamboling to the buttocks of a ranch hand, namely a young Mister Oswald "Acorn" Oakley. In this I cannot blame him, for Acorn's firm, taut posterior has oft brought great comfort to myself as well, albeit in more intimate circumstances. It occurred to me that I should introduce myself to your captain, but alas, a sudden cramp in my bowels forestalled me. By the time I'd sufficiently recovered, he had vanished. Today I am able to give him my aid, and I do so joyfully, for to help those in need is my dearest pleasure.

I should perhaps explain at this point how my voyage to this distant age was accomplished. My life's path brought me often into the company of the Wolf Clan, and through my good deeds they came to accept me as a friend. At the last they bestowed upon me the greatest honor they can offer to one not of their blood: I was to join a host of Spirits, thereby to assist in the selection of the tribe's new Saganowahna (or "Super-Chief" as the white men call him). I was made to remove my weapons, buckskins and furs, and my hair and beard were alike unbraided and stripped of their many charming adornments. In this plain fashion I was led into a lodge, there to join in the chanting of their most holy and reverent elder, and to draw frequently from a ceremonial pipe, so as to prepare my senses for the Spirit Realm. After a period of time unknown to myself, my Soul slipped my rude, hairy form and flitted into the Ether, there to search for its new vessel. The earthen floor below my feet spun like a child's top and dropped away, the firmament swept over me in a shower of sparks, and peculiar beings paraded themselves before my newborn eyes. Again I saw my double, now a jolly brigand, piloting his craft between the stars themselves, and I saw within him a cancer. I looked ahead, precisely one year beyond your own, and I saw him dead, eaten from within by this metal blight. And so I sent my Soul within him, both accelerating and devouring the disease, until only this shell and the invisible spark of his own Soul were left.

I will now take the shell into the Infinite, thence to test the mind and mettle of the prospective Saganowahna and, the Fates willing, enjoy many further adventures. As repayment for your captain's suffering, I give to him my own fleshly form, and he may take it with my compliments, to do with however he pleases.

Farewell.

...And from what they tell me, tobacco smoke poured out of the metal body's mouth, filling the room. When it cleared, the metal body was gone, and there I was, in a daze, lowering an ancient pipe from my mouth, bare-ass naked. Er, not that you could see anything, what with the hair and the beard. Meanwhile, everybody else was hacking up their lungs.

Storm Boy broke the tension by shouting "Huzzah!" and although I was still kind of out of it, I instinctively slapped him -- albeit kind of weakly. It didn't even make any noise! (Damn it.)

As for the business with Weight Wizard... well, you'll excuse me if I don't feel like talking about it right now. I don't blame Plant Lad for what he did, though. I mean, it was one of those situations where it's him or you. Except I was already kind of dead. I don't know. Sorry. I'm not making a ton of sense, am I?

One thing's for sure, I'm hella thankful to have a 100% genuine organic body again, and the fact that it's from my home planet is just gravy. And Stockade Boy was right about that time way back in Ye Olde Weste. Chameleon Boy was so long-winded and that ranch hand was so hot that I missed the part where Cham said he'd been imitating a real person. Go figure, huh? I'm sorry I didn't get to meet him. He sounded like a cool guy.

I do have some issues with the ridiculously impractical length of my new hair and beard but I don't want to cut them until I can figure out what my bangin' new look will be. Which could take a while. My brain's kind of a total mess at this point.

Still, Cootie seems to enjoy the long beard. She climbed into it and she's asleep right now, just above my knee area.

And I'm standing up!