The Hounds of Amadus (by Blockade Boy Revenge Squad Treasurer, Intern Alchemy)

Attend us, friends; we are undone!

Via as-yet-unknown means, the Hairy One himself has breached our defenses, and the Grand Ballroom has transmogrified into a realm of Chaos! It is only here, in our space-cheddah vault, that I am afforded security. I confess, readers, it is an imperfect sanctuary; Green Boy's haphazard sheetrocking work left appreciable gaps in the corners.

I am live-blogging this, in the hopes that my brethren in the Great and Secret Art of Alchemy will read it, and come to our aid! Alas, I fear this will not be the result, as we Alchemists are a solitary lot, more apt to fiddle with our beakers than to commune with the Material World. And yet, as a young princess abandons her rich clothes on her wedding night to show herself to her husband in her virginal and sumptuous nudity, so too must I abandon my scholarly robes and supplicate myself on the shimmering altar of the Intergalactic Intraweb.

'Twas no more than five minutes before the initiation of Calorie Queen's festivities, when a mighty knocking sounded upon the Inertron Portal that serves as our chief means of entrance. Polecat beheld the image on Security Monitor One, with a curious mixture of delight and apprehension. He motioned imperiously to Green Boy, and barked, "Let them in!"

At this, Calamity King grew petulant, and retorted, "I'm the leader, and I'll give the orders, here! ...Green Boy, let them in."

Our visitors proved to be a pair of men, both of great height and breadth, with trunk-like limbs. The one in the buckskin cloak and cowl held the second, who was bloodied, seemingly unconscious, and tightly bound with ropes. The former, none of us recognized. The latter was Blockade Boy.

Gossip Queen entered the room in a frantic, cane-tapping dash, exclaiming, "He's here! Blockade Boy is here! I can sense it!"

"Easy, fat-ass," hissed Calamity King. "He's trussed up."

"Screw U, CLOSET-CASE!!!!!!" sneered Gossip Queen.

In a deep, unmodulated whisper, the first man introduced himself as "Zagor", a "mountain man" from Earth, and a superior hunter and tracker.

He was armed with only a stone hammer and an antique projectile weapon, and yet, he had brought low our Nemesis. All of us gathered 'round, to gaze in wonderment at this prodigy. Calamity King smiled queerly. "Blockade Boy's blood," he murmured. "How delicious!" And with that, he swept his fingers along one of Blockade Boy's wounds, and licked them.

His expression altered to one of consternation. "The hell--?! Strawberry jam?!"

Two stout protuberances thrust upward from beneath "Blockade Boy's" wig, and belched an overpowering cloud of musk that enveloped the Squad. The admittedly-pleasant odor suffocated us, and caused our eyes to brim with tears. All of us, that is, except for Polecat, who just stood there, stewing with a quiet fury.

I glimpsed the following events through a veil of saltwater: "Blockade Boy's" ropes slipped away, and he hopped to his feet, triumphant. Likewise, he removed the wig (now askew) from his head, revealing a bald pate. "Za-Gor" plucked off his cowl (with attached hair!) with a flourish, as a sickeningly-familiar brown-and-white beard sprouted on his face. It was Blockade Boy.

"Good work, babe," he purred to his compatriot. He punctuated this sentiment with a genial slap to his confederate's ass. Then, he whistled, and his eight-legged super-cat, Cootie, emerged from a large pouch on his waist. Thus fortified, he addressed Polecat: "Jig's up, motherfucker. I know everything you've done, and once I present my proof to the U.P., they'll send all of your asses to Takron-Galtos, while they give me a full pardon. I mean, what's a little unintentional fraud and some aggravated makeovers, compared to illegal arms trading and attempted murder?"

Wordlessly, the false Blockade Boy removed a force-field gauntlet and handed it to the real one. As he slipped it onto his hand, Blockade Boy smirked, and said, "So do you want to come along peacefully, or do you want me to beat the holy bejeebus out of you, first? 'Cause I am spoiling for a fight."

My vision began to clear, and I pulled myself to my feet, as did the rest of the Squad. Calamity King spat, "I'm in charge, here! And I say we fight! There's seven of us, and only two of them, not counting that damn cat."

"Tater" began to interject, but he only had time to say "Ack'shully...!" before the Intertron Portal was forced open by a crazed mob!

They were a horrific sight: a hoard of strapping, hairy men, all of them dressed in amalgams of Blockade Boy's various costumes. This gaudy apparel mingled obscenely with hover-biker gear of shiny ebon leather. Most of the doppelgangers were smoking pipes. Among them, I spied several (former?) lawmen whom Blockade Boy had forcibly "made over", doubtless in more than appearance.

The interlopers numbered in the hundreds -- at least! -- and they surged forward, engulfing friend and foe alike in a raging, punching, kicking mass. In the confusion, I found one of the secret passages I'd installed in our Headquarters -- passages so secret, I alone know of their location. (I, and mayhap the insignificant buzzing insects I've so often heard there, of late.)

The passages now resound with the roar of battle, more fearful than the baying of the dragon Charcouroboros. From the general noise has emerged an ominous thumping, which grows e'er louder. Could it be... footsteps?

God, they are breaking through! They are breaking through! Smoke is pouring from the corners of the wall. Their tongues-- ahhh--

A Revenge Squad Exclusive Interview!

Howdy, y'all! It's your friendly webmaster, "Tater"! Y'all've got a hellacious treat in store tonight: an exclusive interview with the Revenge Squad's MVP: Gossip Queen! I spoke with the Maven of Muckraking earlier today, in our top-secret headquarters!

"Tater": I just don't know how the Squad would keep track of that dad-blasted varmint, Blockade Boy, if you weren't around. Bless your heart!

Gossip Queen: Bless YOUR heart, sweetie!!! Also, I just wanted 2 tell U, U did a BANG-UP JOB leading us in our daily Two Minutes Hate this morning!!!!

"Tater:": Aw, shucks.

Gossip Queen: Although... U probably DIDN'T have to keep shouting "FILTH! FILTH!" like that!!! U don't want people 2 think you're trying 2 hard!!!!!!!

"Tater": I'll take that under advisement... pardner!

Gossip Queen: Of course, it was your first time up at the hover-podium!!! We can let it slide!!!!

"Tater": That's right neighborly of ya! Now, in the git-to-know-ya post I did, you said you hated Blockade Boy because of "back hair." Would ya hanker to elaborate?

Gossip Queen: I'd be proud 2, "Tater"!!! Let me start out by saying that I am a smooth-bodied man myself, and I like 4 all the men I date 2 be smooth, also!!!!!

"Tater": Amen, brother. Ain't nary a thing wrong with a hairless torso!

Gossip Queen: And I had my pick of all the hunky guys in my high school, until Blockade Boy transferred in!!! Pretty much EVERY guy in my stable of available sex-stallions gravitated 2 that freaky ape-man!!!! And WORSE, all these beautifully smooth dudes let their GROSS body hair grow back!!!!! Some of them, the ones who'd had their hair SURGICALLY-REMOVED, wound up getting body hair TRANSPLANTS!!!!! Like, from six-armed BLITHS and other furry beasts!!!!!! It was a NIGHTMARE!!!!!!!! [breaks into sobbing fit]

"Tater": Thar, thar. How's about ya share yer special talent with our readers?

Gossip Queen: O--okay!!! You know, I can project not only my own memories from my cameramatic eyeball implant, but I can also track guys I've seen, after they leave their field of vision!!! Like Blockade Boy!!! Here's a good 1, from when the dumb bastard broke out of the Super-Stalag of Space! I was THERE, U know!!! Way in the back!!! Anyway, it turns out, Blockade Boy just tagged along with Matter-Eater Lad, and he spent the whole time BITCHING about how useless his super-power was!!!!! But at least he didn't have that stupid beard!!!!! The DOWN-SIDE is U could see MORE of his FACE!!!!!!

"Tater": Heh-heh. Sweet doodles, dude!

Gossip Queen: Thanks!!! I made them myself!!!!!

"Tater": That brings up a question I've had on my puzzler for nigh unto a week, now! How does your power work, anyhow? Is it like that telepathy business, like them Titanians can do? Or do ya got yerself some kinda cyber-whatsis hook-up to a spy satellite? Oh! And a follow-up question: what kinda range are we talkin' about? Could Blockade Boy ever escape yer all-seein' eyeball?

Gossip Queen: It's complicated!!! But I guess it's a psychic power that's augmented by my cybernetics!!! Once I've gotten within visual distance of a person, I can make a permanent psychic link with them!!! But it's not deep or anything!!! I can't read their minds!!!! It's more like playing "tat" or when you "bookmark" a site on the Intergalactic Intraweb!!! And then I can send out a portion of my astral body 2 wherever he goes!!!!! Even across the UNIVERSE, or OTHER DIMENSIONS!!!!! My astral body gives me a "video feed" that I can project just like any other memory!!!!!

"Tater": That's so cool! But what if somethin' were ta happen ta yer cybernetics? Er... just hyper-thetically, mind ya.

Gossip Queen: HUH?????? What do you MEAN????????????

"Tater": Well... Say the electronics got all jacked-up, say from gittin' hit by a spanner, or maybe some feller sprayed the lens with black spray paint. This is just scientific spec'yurlation, natch.

Gossip Queen: I never really THOUGHT about it B-4!!! If the implant got damaged, it could severely limit the transmission range!!! I might not be able to send my astral body as far!!!! Or if I could, I might not be able 2 receive the video feed!!!!! If all that happened was the lens getting covered up, I just wouldn't be able 2 project what I SAW!!!!! But I could still TELL everybody!!!!!

"Tater": So, what yer sayin' is, this hyper-thetical individual'd have to also gag yer mouth and tie ya up, or otherwise incapassy-tate ya, perhaps with a drugged bottle of space-wine.

Gossip Queen: I don't underst--

"Tater": Hyper-thetically.

Gossip Queen: Can we get back to talking about--

"Tater": Well, that's all the time we have fer today! Thank ya kindly, Gossip Queen! This interview has been enlightenin' as all git-out! ADIOS, AMIGOS!

Mwuh-Hah-Hah-Hah-Hah.

Welcome, comrades, to the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad's official home on the Intergalactic Intraweb! Our website is currently under construction, what with our being so busy plotting revenge and all, but we vow on our relatives' grave-pods that there are plenty of great features to come! These include a list of our "greatest hits" against that menacing man-beast, Blockade Boy; a fun preview of our future plans to torment him; and member profiles! Which might also interest those of you who are looking to hook up with one of us! Except for Squad members Calorie Queen and "Tater" Bugzz, since they're currently an item. But the rest of us are up for grabs!

(Just F.Y.I.)

Thanks for stopping by. Have a vengeful day!

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)

Home Planet Movies

My cousin, Phyllis, sent me a holo-vid of a big Staad "family reunion" they held back on my home planet of Amadus! Naturally, I couldn't attend. I mean, I'm currently evading a U.P. law by posing as my own (fictional) twin brother, and I didn't want to have to explain that to about two hundred grumpy, hairy people. There's also the little matter of my hating the entire lot of them. So that's problematic.

I don't want to bore you by showing you the entire vid. And besides, your pathetic 21st-century eyeballs (and brains) wouldn't be able to perceive the holo-dimensions, anyway. But still, I thought I'd post some 2-D screengrabs. It'll give you a nice glimpse of what my people are wearing nowadays (1,000 years from now, in another dimension) and consequently, both why I became a fashion designer and moved the hell away from there.

This is my favorite sequence on the holo-vid, by the way. Because there's violence!

Storm Boy! Play something appropriately jolly on your electric sousasaxotimpanibone, will you? How's 'bout the "Amok Time" theme from "Star Trek"? ...No, screw you! And why are you pointing at me with your pinky finger?! You've been doing that a lot, lately. ...OH, FOR--!

...He says "Pointing at people with your pinky finger is the new pointing at people with your index finger." GAH. I think I liked him better as a miserable wreck. Okay, so not really. But this "sassy queen" routine of his is working my last nerve.

Where were we? Aw, yeah! The holo-vid!

I wish I could tell you those were "party hats." But no. The Staads just really like their "bling." (Actually, I think somebody did order one party hat. From Orando. They used it as the refreshment tent.) From left-to-right, those are my cousins Byll, Gyll, and Wyll. Their branch of the family doesn't get outside much, which explains the pasty complexions. Byll has a home business, selling homemade "steampunk" riding mowers (they're about as big as one of your SUV's) on the intergalactic intraweb. Gyll is a professional ghost writer for insult comics. And Wyll lost his eyebrows in a smelting accident, so he's on disability. He draws them on with a magic marker nowadays.

At this point in the holo-vid, there's been a dispute over who was supposed to bring the Jell-o salad, and Gyll is hurling professional-strength barbs at...

...my Uncle Dylbyrt, formerly a stuntman for the Bismollywood film industry and currently a raging alcoholic. (On the edge of the frame, my Aunt "Big" Ethyl struggles through her space-Valium haze to perceive what all the kerfuffle is about.)

And then Gyll says something about Dylbyrt's back hair (as in, he doesn't have enough of it) and then it's on.

MAN, THIS WAS SWEET--! A good ten-dozen Staads wound up getting drawn into that scrap. It was so cool! For realsies... think of the coolest "bar fight" sequence from your favorite Western or Lifetime Original Movie, marinate it overnight in pure testosterone, and multiply it by a trillion. That's what it was like. By the end of the donnybrook, everybody's noses and limbs are busted, and they're all laid out on the ground in an orderly pile, like in that scene from "Gone with the Wind."

And then my weird, body-waxing cousin Olyvyr shows up (late again!) and starts dancing.

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...