It's All Fun and Games Until Gadfly Lad's Arms Get Chopped Off

Well, thank the Luck Lords that's over! The Blockade Boy Revenge Squad is suitably smashed, and I've acquired like, two hundred new boyfriends who don't mind it when I tell them how to dress. Oh, and most of them are green, thanks to Green Boy, but I'm told that will wear off. Eventually.

Of course, there was the not-so-little matter of Gadfly Lad. I'll get to him in a bit. But first, some bullet points:

• Most of the Revenge Squad is now in jail, and rather quickly, too. It turns out Gadfly Lad had already transmitted the Squad's records to the U.P. before I got a chance to. So the Squad's headquarters were stormed by U.P. goons soldiers (and a fine, upstanding bunch they are, too!) about twenty minutes into the donnybrook.
• Intern Alchemy got one of the longer sentences, for counterfeiting space-cheddah. But from the look on his face when they loaded his battered, moist body into the hover-ambulance, I think he's going to like prison just fine.
• Polecat and Calamity King kept arguing over which one of them was the mastermind of the whole operation, so both their asses got handed life sentences.
• After a thorough review of his activities in the Squad, Green Boy was arrested for "aggravated loitering", given a lengthy scrubbing, and sent to a halfway house for depressed losers.
• Gossip Queen is in the prison hospital, getting his face reconstructed, to accommodate two regular robot eyes, instead of that souped-up model he used to spy on me. It's back to short-range psychic tracking for him! By the way, I've heard that he told the doctors that he wants to look like Coluan teen heartthrob, Dox Efron.

Now, about Gadfly Lad...

It turns out he's got a soft spot as well as a hard-on for Calorie Queen, because when I tossed him his old flying harness (hidden trickfully behind my cloak), he grabbed her arm, and hollered, "Come with me, if you want to live!" But just then, two of the less-savory members of the Blockade Mob sliced his arms clean-off, using laser axes. Gadfly Lad collapsed in an adorably tiny heap. Calorie Queen held up her own arm, with one of Gadfly Lad's severed arms still clinging to it, and then we both started screaming and punching the living daylights out of the Mob members. I took a moment to shoot Ox a look and to nod my head a certain way. Ox took my meaning, because he gathered up what was left of Gadfly Lad, and barreled his way through the riot, and outside, to safety.

At the hospital satellite, Gadfly Lad was given two options: they could either grow two new arms for him, which would take nine months and cost three whole wheels of space-cheddah, or, they could slap on some robot arms, which would take immediately and cost one-jillionth of the first option. Gadfly Lad asked if they could outfit the robot arms with lightning bolt powers. The doctors shrugged their shoulders and said, sure, why not?

The U.P. dropped all charges against me, but they insisted I complete my contract as a space-pirate. Since I don't have any artificial limbs (anymore), I'd have to be a first mate, or something even more degrading. And then -- bless his heart! -- Gadfly Lad raised a metal arm, and asked if somebody could replace me in my unfulfilled space-pirate duties! That's right: the scrappy li'l fella is gonna be a space-pirate captain! With his new robot arms, he's more than qualified! Gadfly Lad also wrangled a deal for Calorie Queen to serve as "first mate", on a work-release program. I couldn't help but notice the sparse black fuzz already sprouting on his cheeks. It seems my little man is getting older! Or maybe the frequent screwing with Calorie Queen has jump-started something. Either way, it's nice to see.

Gadfly Lad decided he doesn't want to be called that anymore, on account of it not befitting a space-pirate, and also that it would "cramp his romance" with the insect-phobic Calorie Queen. A dazzle-gem of an idea gleamed in my eyes. I told him that I had the perfect new identity for him. So, one new costume, some hair extensions, and a pair of spray-painted Nth-metal wings later, I give you...

THE NEW BLACK CONDOR!

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--

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!

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).

Since My Man and I Ain't Together

There's a cloud over my head right now.

Just a tiny one, mind you, but it follows me around wherever I go. Even indoors. And it just sits up there, about a foot over my head, raining on me. Every ten minutes or so, a petite lightning bolt shoots out of it, and singes my scalp.

Fucking Storm Boy.

Yesterday, I had to let Ox down gently, and explain to him that while I thought he was an amazing person (and bonerifically sexy), I didn't feel like I could commit myself to one guy right yet. He was devastated. (Naturally.) I patted him on the shoulder, chucked his chin, and quoted some lyrics from Pat Benatar's "Love is a Battlefield." This got us both hot again, and we made out for a while. During one of our rest periods, I brought up the subject of Storm Boy. I didn't say anything about Storm Boy using him as a sexual stand-in for myself. I only said that he was a friend of mine, and that he had "mentioned" Ox. But I could tell by the look on Ox's face that he had pieced together the rest of it. Ox said that Storm Boy had never said the first syllable to him about me. No surprise there. After making love to Ox several more times, in several different ways, I regretfully bid him au revoir. Soon afterwards, I got a visi-phone call from Storm Boy.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" were the first words out of his mouth. I let him bitch at me for a couple of minutes, out of politeness.

I then proceeded to tear him a new one. I pointed out that the whole mess could have been avoided if he'd just been honest with both Ox and me about what was going on, and why. "So you like to chase after some Bear," I told him. "That's all well and good, son. Only next time, step out of your comfort zone and aim yourself at one who doesn't look like me."

Storm Boy maintained that I "didn't want [him] to be happy" and that I would have put myself between him and Ox (an interesting visual) no matter what. And then the little ingrate demanded an apology! The best I could muster was, "I'm sorry the raw, brute power of my sexuality bends all male humanoids to my will." Storm Boy ended our conversation when he repeatedly smashed his visi-phone into his bedside table.

The tiny cloud showed up an hour later.

The Day the World Ended

In my defense, I was drunk off my ass.

And I hardly think the blame for this whole mess can be pinned just on me.

Criminy. I screwed up so bad, I can't even believe it. Holy balls.

But maybe I'd better explain, huh?

Let's go back to yesterday, when I was stuck in that damn hover-biker bar.

It was hard to see, and it smelled ripe. And so did I, I'm sure. Amadan sweat, at full strength, has defeated every antiperspirant ever devised. I could still feel that Drogann guy's ass vibrating on my crotch, like a phantom limb or something. And there was this guy, givin' me the come-hither signal from across the bar. I could tell he was a looker: big muscular dude, around my height. His ruggedly handsome features were complimented by a shaved pate and a massive, white-streaked beard. As I made my way over to him, I became intoxicated by his scent. Beyond the sweat, and the rich aroma of pipe tobacco, there was something else. It was tangy. Like the inside of a gym bag. But in a good way. Without even saying a word, we started kissing, and groping each other. I ran my hands over his smooth scalp, and tried to brush the dopey-looking "dark beast ear" headband off of it. That's when I realized he wasn't wearing a headband. What I had taken for "ears" were actually fat, fleshy protuberances. It only intrigued me more.

We found a secluded spot for making love. I could tell he was used to being in charge, but my vast knowledge of pressure points and wrestling holds soon settled that. The floorboards trembled. Because some ya-hoo had crashed a tunneling battle-tank (the kind with the big spinning drill on the front) right into the bar! Crazed Solstice rioters pushed their way through the hole, only to be met by angry, drunken hover-bikers. Back-to-back, my new lover and I battled our way through the mob and out into the streets.

Together, we braved untold hazards: collapsing buildings, rocket-car pile-ups, streets flooded with noxious chemicals, overflowing sewers. And we did it all while barreling through violent mobs and evading the searchlights of Lallor's draconian police forces. When we'd clobber a guy with a bottle of liquor in his hands, we'd nab it and drink it, ourselves. But the thrill of violence was far headier than any alcohol.

On the edges of the city, the dangers grew less frequent. We stopped to renew our passion on the floor of a (nearly) abandoned Infernal House of Pancakes, and then we climbed to the roof, to snuggle. Satellite debris was still streaking through Lallor's bruise-purple skies. The city's burning downtown district was spread out before us, like dazzle gems on the cloak of some barbarian emperor. We had been in the middle of it, and survived. I felt more alive than I had ever been. Triumphantly, I fired up my pipe, and saw that my lover was lighting a pipe of his own. A fellow pipe-smoker! Even better. I knew in my heart that this man wasn't going to be the "great love of my life," but we did seem to have forged a great bond, and I hoped to enjoy his company in the future. Frequently. We talked of many things, deep, philosophical, spiritual and profane. At last, my thoughts took on a gossamer quality, and floated right out of my head. Only a warm sense of belonging remained. The last thing I clearly remember is the pair of us strolling arm-in-arm into a tattoo parlor...

I awoke to find myself in a strange bed, in a very old house. The room was saturated with the peculiar odor, which had fascinated me in the hover-biker bar. Here, it was unleavened. It was a commanding smell. Overbearing. Merciless. But in a good way. I sniffed at the blankets. The scent had penetrated them. And not just the blankets. It had gotten into my beard, and my skin. I ran my tongue over my teeth. Within my mouth, the odor had transformed itself into a taste: something between vinegar and a burned steak. It was odd, but strangely pleasant.

I sat up and tried to figure out where I was. That's when I saw the tattoo that encircled my right bicep. It was a thick, purple line, in a crenelated pattern. I looked down, and saw a second tattoo over my left nipple. It was a large tower, silhouetted in purple, imitating the cut-out on my super-hero costume. I could hear the shower going in another part of the house. I slipped out of the bed, and pulled on my boxers. As quietly as I could, I padded about the room, investigating. Through the window I spied a neighborhood filled with tiny homes, all of them quite old, but in good shape. Next door, an elderly Bismollian cleared satellite debris from his lawn, by eating it. On a table, I found a small clay pot, bearing sigils that looked vaguely familiar. Likewise, the piles of blankets had patterns and colors that I'd seen before, someplace else, years earlier. I wandered into the hall. The running shower was behind a door at one end of it. Steam wafted through the keyhole, carrying with it a concentrated dose of my lover's aroma. At the hall's opposite end was a modest, tidy living room. Quaint wet-plate photographs dotted the walls of the hall, hanging from dainty ribbons. Each one featured humanoids from whose foreheads jutted knobby horns of varying lengths and girths. In some of the photographs, the horns were emitting pale wisps of smoke. And everyone in the photos had black hair, with a thick white streak running down the middle. Even the beards and mustaches had this solitary white streak. That's when it hit me: my soul mate was from the same world as Polecat! That's where I'd seen those design motifs before: in the ugly-ass clothes Polecat had sewn when we were in high school together!

It struck me as funny. I hated Polecat, mainly because he was a sniveling, acid-tongued little twink who stank like a cheese-fry fart. Not that I had even seen him since our school days. I remember he had vowed to take some kind of revenge on me. (Him and about a hundred other guys from that school. The Blockade Boy Revenge Squad! They even had their own page in the yearbook!) I wondered why Polecat smelled so differently from this mysterious man I had slept with. Maybe it was all the greasy foods he liked to eat, or, hell, just because he was a teenager and going through "that awkward age." And here I was, having just rolled out of bed with a guy from the same planet as a dude I utterly despised.

As I pondered this, I ambled back into the bedroom. My reverie was cut short when I stumbled over my own costume and crashed headlong onto the floor. A metallic squeal signaled the shower cutting off. My lover called to me from the bath, asking if I was awake. His voice was a gravelly baritone. Very butch, very hot.

I could hear the sink faucet run, briefly, along with the brusque scraping noises of a scalp razor. We had a good laugh over how he had mistaken me for a man of his own species. He asked me if his scent was going to be a problem, and I honestly told him that it wasn't. He said that the other guys he had dated couldn't wait to scour his aroma off of themselves, as soon as they were done in the sack. But that was all over, now. As far as he was concerned, I was The One. Supposedly, I had "ruined him for all other men." I didn't feel the same, but I hated to ruin the mood, so I fobbed him off by saying something sexy and vague. When he complimented me on my own manly aroma, I suggested that we spend a lot of time together, working out and playing one-on-one moops ball, so I could work up a good sweat for him. What the heck, right? I thought I could let him down gently once we were face-to-face.

The faucet squeaked off, and the door opened. He strolled out, rubbing his face with a towel. That's when I saw that he had the same tattoos as myself. He lowered the towel from his head, and smiled, playfully, at my dumbstruck countenance. "Hey, don't blame me!" he purred. "The matching tattoos were your idea."

I think I replied, "Yeah, that sounds like something I'd do." But I was having trouble focusing on the tattoos, because I could finally see that this guy looked a lot like me. Similar jawline, similar eyes (although his were a soft gray, while mine are green). And come to think of it, his voice was awfully similar to my own.

With an aw-shucks nod of his head, he proffered a furry hand to me, and said, "Gosh, I don't think we ever even told each other our names! I'm Rale Toran. Well, when I'm out super-heroing, my codename is 'Musk Ox.' But you can just call me..."

"...Ox," I answered for him, as my guts threatened to heave up a river of alcohol. I held out my own hand, which was suddenly quite clammy, and very, very cold. "It's nice to finally make your acquaintance."

Storm Boy was right.

I really do "ruin everything."

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*

I'm Telling You Why

I woke up Friday morning -- alone, consarn it! -- to find a white patch in my beard, just on the upper part of my chin. I wasn't all that surprised. It happens to a lot of Amadan men, when they hit their mid-twenties. No big deal.

I didn't think it went that well with the "Boy" part of my codename, though. I decided to call in sick, and see if I could "fix" it. Normally, I'd get a professional, to-the-DNA-strand dye-job from Color Kid. However. His services cost a fortune, nowadays. He's hit the big time! As for me, I have only the smallest crumble of space-cheddah to my name. So I had to spring for a box of "Just For Male Humanoids" facial hair dye, down at Lallorgreens. Guess what? It didn't work. On the contrary, upon contact with my beard, the dye itself blanched a pure white. In fact -- if the Lallorgreens clerk who keeps angrily visi-phoning me is to be believed -- the boxes of dye on either side of the one I purchased were remotely affected, somehow, and rendered every hair on their purchasers' bodies permanently, indelibly, snowy-white! My manliness, it is metaphysical!

I realized that until I afford to see Color Kid, I'd just have to tough it out. Begrudgingly, I phoned the detective agency, and reported a miraculous recovery. On the way to work, I picked up two entire racks of barbecued kanga-bronc ribs for lunch. Seeing my beard, the dude at the drive-up window offered me the "senior discount". Bastard. Not that I was too proud to accept it, mind you. The restaurant even gave me a complimentary wheelbarrow, filled with sauce, to carry the ribs in.

When I got to the office, Nightmare Boy blinked wonderingly at me. He took a break from reapplying his mascara, to make a wiping motion in front of his chin. With a smirk, he informed me that I had "a little something, right there."

I flicked a dollop of barbecue sauce into his perfect hair. "So do you," I replied.

The only other person I saw in the office right then was Gadfly Lad, who noted that I looked "twenty-two years and eight months older." I sat down at my desk, fired up my computer, and started in on my ribs. A minute later, Gadfly Lad peered over my shoulder (as is his wont -- he has a thing about not talking to people face-to-face) and pestered me with questions about the white patch. "Did you have a scary dream?" he asked. "Did somebody throw bleach on you? Is it a virus? Will I catch it? Have you tried Just For Humanoid Males dye yet? Because I read some studies that say it may be toxic..." Etc, etc.

I raised a sauce-covered paw and growled, "So help me, I will stick this hand where the dainty little sun of Imsk don't shine if you don't get out of my face." He retreated.

The door to Eyeful Ethel's office slid open. The Boss Lady Herself peered out into the "bullpen." "Blockade Boy!" she cried. "There you are! Listen, I have a new assignment for--!" Her eyebrows shot up as she took stock of the white in my beard. Her lips parted in a huge smile. "Oh, that's perfect! Come in, come in...!" She gestured anxiously for me to join her.

Plopping down on her comfiest couch -- with my legs splayed wide apart, natch -- I wiped the sauce from my lips with the back of a hairy hand. "'Sup?" I queried.

"I just got a call from the owners of the planet's largest shopping complex, the Mall of Lallor. They have a huge shoplifting problem."

"Huh. No offense, Ethel, but it sounds like a pretty run-of-the-space-mill problem. Do they really need to call a detective agency of our magnitude for something so minor?"

"Give me a chance to explain, wiseapple. When I say 'shoplifting,' I mean that entire stores are disappearing, floors and windows and inertron siding and all. So far, they've managed to hush this up, by replacing the empty spaces with tents, and erecting "Under Construction" and "Pardon Our Mess while We Remodel to Bring You a More Exciting Shopping Experience" signs. Eventually, of course, folks are going to catch on."

I was suitably impressed -- actually, I was stunned, to be honest -- but I managed to restrain my reaction to a murmured "Ah!" and a curt nod.

"The owners suspect that the theft is an inside job," said Ethel. "That's why they want a detective working undercover there, as an employee. Since it's the Solstice Season, you could take a job as their mall Santa Claus, and nobody would suspect a thing! Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the concept of Santa Claus. It's an old Earth custom that the Lallorians have adopted."

"Sure!" I said. "I know all about Santa. In fact, I wore a Santa Claus-inspired costume for a while when I was stranded in the 21st century."

"Good. So you know that a mall Santa wears a red, fur-trimmed..."

"...Suit."

"Well, a cloak, anyway. With no shirt. So everybody can see your abs and your massive guns? Remember? And then there's the silver codpiece and the matching belt with the polar bear on it, and the bear-themed boots? With the spurs?"

"Er. Yeah. Of course. And a big, floppy hat with a pom-pom."

"No...! It's just a holly crown! And you'll make your entrance every morning in a chariot, pulled by dark beasts -- y'know, those huge, wingless, bat-like creatures -- while you brandish Santa's traditional weapon, the barbed candy hook."

"Holy cats! Won't that scare the kids?"

"What kids?"

"The ones who line up, to sit on my lap."

"Ew, no! Santa Claus is strictly Adults-Only! No children allowed! I mean, it wouldn't do to have children sitting on your lap and telling you all of their darkest, filthiest secrets, and then asking you to punish them accordingly! I mean, that'd just be grotesque."

"Yikes."

"Exactly. I mean, really, Blockade Boy, I thought you said you knew all about Santa Claus!"

"...I was just trying to impress you."

"Aw! That's cute. So, what do you think about the assignment?"

I pretended to mull it over. Finally, I said, "Well, I think I can throw myself on that grenade...!"

"Terrific. The role usually goes to an older man, with some white in his beard. I was afraid we'd have to resort to bleaching to get you to look right, but look at you! You're way ahead of me! It's just that Santa beards are usually longer and fuller than that. I know that Amadan beards grow pretty quickly. Do you think you can grow it out another decimeter or so by, say, next week?"

"I suppose," I said, coolly. "Or, I could do it right now! BEHOLD!" I tensed up my entire body, and closed my eyes in concentration. With a grunt, my beard flowed down to the middle of my chest. I opened my eyes and grinned up at Ethel, whose mouth was agape.

"How did--?!"

It's a trick most Amadan guys have to learn," I explained. "The older we get, the faster our beards grow. A few years ago, I could grow a nice, full beard in a few days. The hair on my upper lip grew even faster than that. Nowadays, the whole shebang grows out at four times that rate. An Amadan man's only options at this age are to stop shaving altogether and let it grow out to its terminal length -- which is usually past his feet -- or to master the ancient art of Suspended Follicular Animation. Some planets have holy men who can slow down their heart rates by an incredible amount. Amadans like myself can do the same thing with their beard growth. That way, I can wear my beard in all sorts of styles without having to constantly trim it back. I'd been holding this beard in for a couple of weeks."

"It's amazing!" Ethel gasped. "With the squinting and grunting and everything, it's like you pooped it out of your face!"

"Hey! You don't have to put it like that."

"Sorry. You're the only Amadan I know. I guess I should be more sensitive to your culture."

"It's okay. Just think for a second before you say something about my facial hair... er, boss."

"Certainly. Oh, and you'll need an 'elf' to keep the crowd in line. So you'll be working alongside Gadfly Lad."

"Who?! Wait a minute--!" But she was already shoving me out the door.

"Too late!" she laughed. "You already agreed. Get back to work, 'Santa', while I make the rest of the arrangements."

Back at my desk, I wound up brooding so intently on our conversation that I dribbled about a liter of barbecue sauce all over my huge beard. The white hairs had a Teflon-like quality that made the sauce bead up and roll right off of them, but the brown hairs were a sticky mess. I set about dabbing up the sauce with the puny, one-ply napkin the barbecue joint had provided me.

Storm Boy strolled in, late again, and glowing with what I took to be the satisfaction of another round of lovemaking with his never-seen, so-called "boyfriend", Ox. His entire body looked to be coated in shellac, he was so shiny. His teeth were not merely white; they appeared to have been lit from within. He was drenched in cologne -- the vapors made the air around him shimmer, like a mirage. He made a beeline for my desk. I presume he wanted to brag. He stopped short when he saw me with my sauce-covered beard. His smile vanished.

"I hope you gave 'Ox' my regards," I offered.

He stared at me in mute disgust. Then, with a bitter edge in his sing-song voice, he said, "I swear, Blockade Boy, sometimes you can be perfectly appalling." He spun around on the heels of his shiny new boots.

As he walked away, I called after him, "Don't pretend you don't want some of this!" He stumbled, as though he'd been hit with a phaser rifle. Then he shook his head, and continued on his way.

Gosh, I hope he realizes I was referring to the barbecue sauce.

And here I am, now:

"KNEEL DOWN BEFORE SANTA, MORTAL FOOLS!"

(And don't worry, I'll get around to showing you Gadfly Lad's get-up sometime this week.)

Happy Thanksgiving, or Whatever

As previously stated, we don't have a Thanksgiving holiday here in the glorious 30th century, but I figured I might as well "give thanks" for some things... y'know, as a gesture of solidarity with (some of) my 21st century pals.

Let's see...

• I'm thankful to all of my readers, with a special shout-out for everybody who took the time out of their lives to work up costume designs for yours truly. You didn't have to do that, and I really appreciate that you did.
• I'm extremely thankful to my identical ancestor, Stockade Boy, for giving me his body. Especially the dingus part. No more robo-dingus! From now on, the only oil for my pecker goes on it, not in it!
• I'm thankful that Eyeful Ethel helped me evade a draconian United Planets law about space piracy by creating a new civilian identity for me. Even if it's pretty much turned me into "Mike Murdock" and none of the hipster doofuses out there (i.e. Phantom Lad) respect me. Eh, screw 'em.
• I'm thankful to have a regular job. Again, that's thanks to Eyeful Ethel. Sadly, my grief over Weight Wizard's demise has manifested itself as a rampaging sex spree... which, in turn, has maxed out my credit cards with charges to all the best man-whore brothels on Lallor. But that's hardly Eyeful Ethel's fault.
• I'm thankful that Storm Boy has cleaned himself up, dropped a ton of weight, and has gone from being an irritating rival to a merely exasperating pal. And I'll be thankful if this "Ox" guy he's allegedly dating turns out to be a real person and not a blow-up droid, or -- the Luck Lords have mercy! -- an actual ox. I asked Eyeful Ethel if she knew anything about "Ox". She told me that although Storm Boy is quite explicit about their sexual encounters, she can never glean any information from his babblings in regards to Ox's real name, occupation, home address, or physical appearance. The suspense is killing me! The Blockade Boy, he is frustrated! Grrrrr...!

That's not a bad list. I mean, I'm still hurtin' for cash, but other than that, I'm in terrific shape. Especially physically! *peels off top of costume and strikes several weight lifter poses for your edification and enjoyment*

Happy Thanksgiving! Or whatever!

Big Men Aren't Usually Fast

"Men that big aren't usually fast--"!

That's what Storm Boy is counting on! (I once told Storm Boy about a gas station/convenience store I saw back in the 21st century, called -- I shit you not -- "Kum & Go." His reply: "Sounds like every date I've ever had! Nobody wants to cuddle anymore!")

I mean, I presume this "Ox" character he claims to be dating is a "big man." Unless he's some spindly, pot-bellied Ivy League intellectual whose full name is "Oxnard M. Nancypants (Jr.)" and he spends every evening just doing Storm Boy's hair, instead of, y'know, doing Storm Boy. Huh. But I digress.

It was just last week when this all (allegedly) started.

I was at the detective agency, comparing tentacle-print records, and Tusker was regaling Dentata Damsel with that story about the time he crashed his hoverboard into a pair of mating camelephants and was trapped underneath them for two days while they finished their business. Dentata Damsel was smiling vacantly at him and nodding, while nibbling delicately on a piece of rebar she'd found somewhere. Then she giggled and put her hand on his, and said something to him in that whispery, mumbling voice I've grown to despise. The next thing I know, Tusker has plopped his chunky ass on my desk.

Tusker: It's going really well!

Me (annoyed): What is, buddy?

Tusker: You know. Me and Dentata Damsel. I think it's time to make my move!

Me: You're kidding, right?

Tusker: What? She really likes me! I make her laugh, I'm always fetching stuff for her when she's too tired to leave her desk, she tells me all her personal problems, and I rack my brain coming up with solutions for them...! Just now, she said to me, "Tusker, sweetheart, could you grab me a box of staples?" She called me "sweetheart"! The next step is, we go out! Um... isn't it?

Me (smoothing out the plasto-film sheet Tusker creased by sitting on it): Nope.

Tusker: WHY NOT?!

Me (hoisting my enormous metal tankard of space-java): Because, genius -- setting aside the fact that an office romance is a horrible idea -- all that shit you just described isn't sexy at all, and it sure as hell hasn't made you into a potential lover in her eyes. It's made you into a pal. (takes a swig of the powerful coffee-like subtance -- which is black, natch)

Tusker (hopefully): Like a... "fuck buddy"?

Me (spits out space-java): Bwah! Sorry. Tusker, amigo... if Dentata Damsel is like most people, she wants her boyfriend to be somebody who makes her forget about her problems, not somebody who solves them, and who suprises her with things she never realized she wanted, not someone who retrieves crap for her like a dog.

Tusker: Dang it. I'm an idiot.

Me: Rookie mistake. Don't worry about it. There's plenty more ladies out there.

Dentata Damsel (breathily shouting): I'm still waiting on those staples, Tusker!

And just as Tusker trudged away from my desk, Storm Boy breezed into the office. Gadfly Lad looked up from his desk, glanced at the clock, and hollered to him that he was "14 minutes and 3.297 seconds late." By way of a reply, Storm Boy thwacked Gadfly Lad's forehead with his thumb and index finger as he passed by. The feather-light l'il Imskian toppled backwards, chair and all. Storm Boy was positively glowing. No kidding, he looked like he'd been polished. Everything was shiny. And he reeked of cologne. It was stifling. Making a note of Tusker, who by then had emerged from the supply pod with tears streaming into his mustache, Storm Boy bustled over to my desk.

Storm Boy: Mornin', Blockade Boy! So, what's the matter with our own private Henrik Egerman this time?

Me: I had to shoot down his hopes and dreams again. For his own good, of course.

Storm Boy (with a hint of mockery that makes me want to punch him): Oh, of course!

Me: You stink, by the way. What, are you moonlighting as a perfume spritzer?

Storm Boy: No! This is just how my new boyfriend likes for me to smell!

Me: Feh. You're drunk again, aren't you?

Storm Boy: I am not--!

Me: Yup. You're off the wagon. Let me check your breath.

With only nominal protesting on Storm Boy's part, I grabbed his head, pried open his mouth, and took a good long whiff.

Me: Jeebus! What've you been eating? Garbage? You might want to look into some mouthwash before your next big date there, killer.

Storm Boy (flushed): Oh! But I thought--! Balls.

Me: So, who's the lucky guy? Assuming you aren't just making this all up.

Storm Boy: His name is "Ox" and he's everything I've always dreamed of in a man.

Me: Like?

Storm Boy (grinning): Hmm... no. I don't think so.

Me: What? I'd like to meet the guy! I can't have you wasting your life with somebody who's unsuitable, y'know.

Storm Boy: That's the problem. No, Blockade Boy, I'd like to keep Ox to myself for just a little while.

Me: I don't understand...

Storm Boy: Oh, how can I put this...? Blockade Boy, you're great. Honestly. You're the absolute best. You're like a big brother to me, or like a really overbearing uncle, or maybe just a psychotic gorilla that kidnaps you and won't let you leave its cave, but...

Me (impatient): But what?

Storm Boy (squeezes my shoulder, warmly): ... and I mean this in the nicest possible manner, but... you ruin everything.

And with that, he flounced into Eyeful Ethel's office. There was a lot of high-pitched squealing and giggling for about twenty minutes, while I stewed at my desk.

So, even though my life is already complicated enough, I've decided I'm going to find out what I can about this "Ox" guy.

For Storm Boy's own good, of course.

"He's Creaming Me -- and I Don't Even Know His Name!"

Yes, every Gothamite is either at the beach, or closeted. With fans. Specifically, delicate little Japanese fans, which they flutter, coquettishly.

Heh. I was going to type, "Sound familiar, Storm Boy?" but I just remembered, he's the one with the (alleged) fancy new boyfriend ("Ox"), and I'm the one who's nearly bankrupted himself with an addiction to man-whores. Hmm. Maybe this "Ox" guy is a man-whore. He's got the name for it, and -- aw, hell! What if I've slept with Ox? That puts me just one slab o' beefcake away from sleeping with Storm Boy!

...I don't feel so good.