Worst. Legion of Substitute Heroes Member. Ever.

She has the power to give anybody "perfect posture" for up to half-an-hour. Bad Apple Boy showed me the holo-vid of her Legion of Super-Heroes audition from a few years back -- somebody dug it up, slapped some dance music over it, and put it on UniversoTube. At first, I was going to just ignore Bad Apple Boy, due to the manner of his address. ("Yo yo yo! B-B! Check it out! This ho is wack!" ...AAAGH.) But I have to admit, the holo-vid was a knee-slapper. Posture Queen suffered from the old "M-my power--! I can't control it!" syndrome, so the Legionnaires wound up with their spines bent backwards. Sun Boy's scalp was practically touching his ass, which I found delightfully symbolic. Anyway, Bad Apple Boy goes off on a rant, liberally peppered with "street" lingo, all about how Posture Queen looks like a "straight-up skank" with a "broke-down booty", but admitted that he'd also "like to hit that." And so of course, we hear somebody clearing her throat and we turn around and there's Posture Queen herself (cue musical "stinger" on a phlegmy trombone) because she's Eyeful Ethel's latest hire! Posture Queen is apparently Ethel's new "personal assistant", which turns out to mean that she has to sit at the receptionist's desk while Ethel does Who Knows What in her office with the actual receptionist, Phantom Lad.

Yeah, Phantom Lad. I know. It'd be like making out with a shrunken apple head doll.

But it's not like he's cheating on his girlfriend. Not exactly. I guess Phantom Lad and his paramour (and co-worker) Frigid Queen have been on the skids even more than usual lately. She booted his ass out of their one-bedroom pod, and have settled into a routine where Phantom Lad goes on the town and "gets hisself some" (to quote Bad Apple Boy) while Frigid Queen stalks him and is glimpsed through windows and binoculars, making threatening gestures with a melon-baller.

And in a month or so, they'll switch.

Hey, bonus!

Looks S-H-O-D-D-Y and D-A-N-G-E-R-O-U-S!

It's only $1.98 for the whole set, plus another $5000 to warranty against the dolls coming to life and murdering you in your sleep. (With the warranty, the worst they'll do is smack you around a little.)

...And with that, I'm taking a short break. Undercover space-detective stuff. I'd explain it, but then I'd have to travel back in time and kill you all.

Don't fret! I'll be back on the blog job, next Monday!

The Legion of Substitute Blockade Boys (from the case files of Gadfly Lad)

Howdy, pals! It's your friend from the future (and also a parallel universe): Gadfly Lad!

I'm 87.028% certain that you're all begging me to know: have I located Blockade Boy yet?

The short answer: no.

The long answer: yes, in a way. Blockade Boy is at least three times more popular as a fugitive than he was as a private detective, a space-pirate, or a fashion designer. He's certainly good at it; I'll give him that. But now, tough guys across the galaxy are imitating his look, right down to the tattoos! So every time I think I've spotted Blockade Boy, it turns out to be some dude I don't even know.

67.4% of them are annoyed and say "Get your tiny hands off me, kid" (or something equivalent).

14.8% of them think I'm trying to sell them something or that I'm going to mug them, and they toot on a little whistle and then the pigs show up, and I gotta lam it. (Freakin' space-cops...!)

9.2% of them are pleasantly surprised by my attentions, and ask me to do something sexy to them. (No, thank you.)

5.9% of them threaten to kick my ass just for looking at them, which seems like an overreaction. One of them said he was going to "fold my [anus] into a tesseract", which I don't think is even possible.

2.7% of them just grin at me, real friendly-like, and without saying a word, they dart into a crowd or around a corner, and just disappear. Some of these guys may actually have been Blockade Boy, for all I know. (It was late, and it was dark, and I was tired).

So nowadays, if I see one of these jokers and he's not lurking atop a space-gargoyle or dangling from a U.P. hover-chopper, I just assume he's not the real deal.

What else is going on? Well, I see from the holo-news that Eyeful Ethel is back from jail already, but she has to wear an ankle monitor and a brain monitor, which looks a lot like one of your pillbox hats, with the lacy little veil on it and everything. She held a big press conference at the agency. I saw Frigid Queen and Phantom Lad there in the background, playing footsie with each other (and then they started kicking each other in the shins, hard). Rainbow Girl was there, too, split into her four energy-selves, presumably to create the illusion that Ethel employed more people. Storm Boy looked completely humiliated as Ethel tried to spin his tenure as manager as "a practical joke gone horribly wrong."

I didn't see Nightmare Boy anywhere. I'm sure he'd be out of the space-pokey by now. He's probably just embarrassed now that everybody knows he has a mini-dingus. (Welcome to my world, Nightmare Boy! And don't let 'em get you down. You fly your freak-flag!)

Of course, Tusker is still missing. Although... I've heard some underground rumors of a mysterious "one-tusked man" who alternately shambles/rampages through Lallor's underground vacu-tubeway and who swipes folks' bags of Soylent Doodles when they're not looking. I take this to mean that Tusker has hocked his gold tusk, for the space-cheddah. Yipes. Well, after I locate Blockade Boy, maybe we can track him down. I'm sure we'd only kick his ass a little before we brought him home.

I've also heard through the criminal grapevine that the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad is pissed about this upswing in Blockade Boy's popularity, and that they're planning to "mobilize." Yeah, good luck with that.

The Tinytanic (by disgruntled guest-blogger, Gadfly Lad)

Sure, make the Bgztlian do all the work. And the Protean doesn't even get to sit in the boat! It has to swim alongside. Unless, maybe it's in training for the Space-Olympics...?

It's me, again. Gadfly Lad. I'm not blogging because Storm Boy asked me to. In fact, he's stopped asking me to!

Let me back up.

I guess I should have realized that if Storm Boy was going to ask me to guest-blog, that he might actually read what I wrote. He called me into his office -- by which, I mean Eyeful Ethel's -- to chew me out over my "insubordination." He demanded to know why I didn't respect him. (And that's the hallmark of an effective manager, double-eyeroll.) So I told him! I said that while I respected his scientific genius, I thought he was a disaster as a leader. I started to give him what I'm sure would have been only between 6.8852 and 7.0023 minutes of explanation for this, but he only let me get to the 1.7304 minute mark before he interrupted me. He shouted, "I ONCE RAN A MULTI-BILLION-CHEDDAH COMPANY!"

And I said, "Yeah, INTO THE GROUND!"

And then he fired my ass. That's right!

I told him I was planning on quitting, anyway. (Confession time: I totally wasn't, you guys. But that's just between us.) Dentata Damsel poked her head through the door and murmured that she was quitting, too, since she'd gotten an offer to (subliminally) narrate a new line of "better sex" holo-vids from Paramount-Universo. Out of sheer spite, I snatched up a big stack of Storm Boy's comics off his desk (YOINK!) and I buzzed out the door. Storm Boy's sole remaining employee is now Frigid Queen, and she spends most of her time macking on and/or pummeling Phantom Lad. It gets hard to tell the difference, sometimes. Not that I'm any expert, mind you. But I'm pretty sure a lady wouldn't like it if I punched her in the boob.

...Hang on. I just heard the buzzer go off on the sonic clothes-tumbler.

Okay. Let's see, here... spare costume (all warm from the clothes-tumbler!), three cans of concentrated space-java, one pack of soylent jerkey, polymer underpants, road flare, my super-disguise kit... and I'm good.

Screw this nonsense!

I'm gonna find Blockade Boy.

Tomorrow in this spot: who the hell knows anymore?

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)

Sweet Smell of Distress

I got a heck of a shock, this morning.

I suppose the whole thing started around 4 AM, when I stopped off at Ox's house for some krullers and space-java and three solid hours of violent, frothing-at-the-mouth sex. After showering, I noticed that Ox's musky scent was still lying heavily upon my person. Since I rather enjoy that singular odor, further ablutions were out of the question. So the smell of Ox isn't to everyone's liking! It's an "acquired taste." (And so is the way Ox's taste.) So what? It's really only noticeable to folks when they're within five or six feet of me.

I decided I'd have to nip my office-mates' objections in the bud. As soon as I strolled into the agency, I cleared my throat, and called everyone to attention.

Me: I'd just like to say something to you about the way I smell...

Frigid Queen (interjecting): OH THANK GOD. I thought you were never going to bring that up.

Me: Huh?

Nightmare Boy (grinning): It's no big deal, 'bro! We're pretty used to it, by now.

Dentata Damsel (barely audible): It's nice of you to finally acknowledge it, though.

Me: Wait, what are we talking about--?

Rainbow Girl: Your odor. Don't worry, I warned everybody about it when we first started working here.

Frigid Queen: Yeah! You know. Your odor. It's like a really old corned beef sandwich, heavily impregnated with rocket ship exhaust, and maybe a touch of sewer gas? That smell.

Me: I don't--! Wait a minute, you're saying that I've always smelled bad?

Tusker: Oh, no, no... it ain't bad, exactly; it's just that you don't expect a human being to smell that way.

Nightmare Boy: But hey! If you can't help it, then who are we to judge?

Me: Um. Thank you.

I stumbled over to my desk, past Storm Boy, who was laughing his ass off. He started to say something, but I growled "Shut up...!"under my breath, and he clammed back up. As I sat down in my chair, I could hear his muffled snickering.

I believe the way I feel right now can best be summed up by this panel from the Split-Man story in "Strange Adventures" #203 (August, 1967).

Some Live Like Ozymandias

Yesterday, my coworkers and I went up to the First Planetary Bank of Lallor, so we could all enjoy seeing my brutally handsome countenance forever immortalized as a giant... um... art... thing.

Eyeful Ethel's rocket-limo pulled up in front of the bank, just as Gadfly Lad and I were nearing it on our humble feet. Tusker, Rainbow Girl, Dentata Damsel, and Frigid Queen quickly piled out. They were followed by Nightmare Boy -- who was wearing his mobile visi-phone headset, which resembles a motorcycle helmet. He didn't say much the entire time, aside from the occasional, drowsy-sounding "Eyeful Ethel's Detective Agency, please hold" and some muffled snoring. Finally, Ethel herself stepped out of the conveyance, onto a red carpet she keeps for such occasions! And sure enough, the moment she emerged from the rocket-limo, a jetpack-wearing paparazzo zoomed by, and snapped a photo of her. She tilted her head coquettishly, and smiled for him.

I thought it was awfully nice of Ethel to take the time to join us, considering how busy she is with her public speaking engagements, and her book club, and her signature line of gourmet tabasco sauces.

I wondered where Storm Boy was, but I decided to keep that to myself. Too many people already have the misguided opinion that I'm seething with jealousy over his entirely hypothetical romance with this "Ox" character. But no, I just regret making him mad at me. Even though I can't figure out how I even did it in the first place! Heck, just two nights ago I showed up at his apartment, about 1:30 AM, unannounced and heavily fortified with space-wine... to make amends! And if I just happened to catch a glimpse of Ox, well, that would have been a convenient coincidence. But Storm Boy refused to even let me inside! (Blockade block!) I started in on the little speech I'd prepared, but Storm Boy interrupted me, and said, "I'm sorry, Blockade Boy, but I can't even look at you when you're... like this." And of course, he was making this sour, wincing face, and only looking at me from the corners of his eyes, with his head all twisted sideways, the whole time I was there. Just like I used to do with him! WHAT THE HELL?! I tried again to talk, but he just said, "Goodbye, Blockade Boy," and (gently) shut the door in my face.

On the slow-moving X-ray treadmill that takes you into the lobby of the bank itself, the eight of us chatted excitedly about what sort of medium would be portraying my magnificent visage. I envisioned a mega-sized, working diorama of my skull, made out of swords, and axes, and other cool weapons. Spiky maces for my eyeballs, perhaps. Ethel surmised it could be a dynamic holo projector. Tusker imagined -- or maybe he was just hungry for -- a butter sculpture. Dentata Damsel wondered if it might be inflatable, like those bouncy fortresses they have at kids' birthday parties, and the art patrons could enter it through the back of my head, and exit through my mouth (sliding down my beard). As with most of her ideas, her complete lack of vocal modulation made it impossible for me to tell if she was serious. After what felt like days, the treadmill jerked to a halt, and deposited us into the bank's spectacular lobby.

And then I saw it.

A mobile.

It was a fucking mobile! With a big red clown nose! Gah!

I'm pretty sure Gadfly Lad, Ethel, Tusker, and Rainbow Girl all managed to hold their tongues. Frigid Queen had her hand over her mouth, but audibly tittered, plus she was shaking all over, like Michael J. Fox on crack. Dentata Damsel's blandly agreeable mug barely moved, while it emitted a percussive, congested snorting. And Nightmare Boy laughed so hard, he hyperventilated and briefly passed out. I can't be one-hundred percent sure of any of this, however, because I was too busy screaming "MOTHERFUCKER!" over and over.

I'm afraid I made a real scene. I must have ranted about that goofy mobile for a good twelve minutes, at least! I think everybody else was mainly amused by me at first, and then they got kinda terrified, and towards the end, boredom set in. When I'd finally run out of invectives -- and steam -- I was left just standing there, all red-faced and panting, fixing the mobile with a goggle-eyed stare. Behind me, I could hear my coworkers muttering in exasperation.

"Up on the housetop, bitch, bitch, bitch, 'Santa,'" sighed Tusker. (Like he should talk--!)

"Drama queen...!" mumbled Nightmare Boy.

"The mobile, as an art form, has enjoyed increasing prominence on Lallor ever since the Atomic Wars," droned Gadfly Lad to nobody in particular. "Why, in the Modern Museum of Lallor alone, there are..."

It was Rainbow Girl who clasped my shoulder and said, gently, "You know Klup meant well, right?"

With no little amount of resignation, I conceded that point.

Rainbow Girl pointed out that it was a rare thing to be the inspiration of such a prominent piece of art, and she added that nobody had ever made any artwork because of her. The others chimed in to say pretty much the same thing -- except for Eyeful Ethel. She just grinned at me and said, "Remind me to show you the holo-painting I posed for. That no-talent doofus made my hair look like Spider Girl's."

Heh. It's strange: I put up with Weight Wizard's constant murder attempts for umpteen years (exactly how many years I can never be sure, thanks to this dimension's damn sliding timeline) but I was more upset by Klup's artistic hackery. As one of Amadus' greatest anonymous poets once said, "I have a heart of steel, but an aesthetic sense as tender as the hairs of a child's biker 'stache." Hmm. I'm going to have to ponder that one for a while. Seeing as how I'm so deep and wise and shit.

*philosophically puffs on pipe*

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!

Jilt-A-Whirl

Sorry the post is late, everybody. I'm on surveillance! But shh! Don't tell. Also, I had an uncomfortable run-in with Phantom Lad earlier today. I'll post about it tomorrow morning. Frigid Queen is in the alley right across from mine, so I have to wait until she turns her head before I can work on my drawing of her boyfriend. So it's taking a real long time. (Jon, you'll get that new picture of you tonight.)

Y'know what? It kind of sucks working for somebody else after being my own boss! But at least I'm not cooling my hairy heels in the space-pokey -- a.k.a. Takron-Galtos, not the other Space-Pokey, which is a bar in West Lallorwood.

Balls. Where was I? Oh yeah! "Amazing Spider-Man" #207. After ditching Deborah Whitman outside a run-down theater -- and thus cheating her out of the "dinner" part of "dinner and a show" -- Peter Parker maximizes his Jilting Potential by not even showing up for their second date!

Before Giuliani cleaned up NYC, there were Limburger vendors on every street corner! Or perhaps this is a young Thomas Kinkade.

In any case, jerkwad-on-the-go Peter missed a real opportunity that night. Because a chastened Deborah has dared to "tramp it up" and expose her calves! Granted, they're sticking out of a voluminous maternity raincoat, but they're still mighty tempting. Well, maybe that extra from a maritime tavern fight scene in a "Power Man and Iron Fist" comic in the first panel will give her a ride home. With a brief detour for... intrigue! (That'd be my first step in a company-wide crossover designed to promote a new comic called "Power Man and Iron Fist and Deborah Whitman.")

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.