Conversations With Dud People, Part One

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

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

Blockade Boy: Aw, hell.

*activates visi-phone function on interbloggamunicator*

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

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

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

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

Blockade Boy: ...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Blockade Boy: If you say so.

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

Blockade Boy: I WAS--?!

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

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

Storm Boy: Heh. Yeah, exactly.

Blockade Boy: So...?

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

Blockade Boy: What about Phantom Lad?

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

Blockade Boy: Are you remembering to feed Cootie?

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

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

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

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

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

Blockade Boy: "Well" what, smart guy?

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

Blockade Boy: Yeah, sure. Astound me.

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

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

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

Blockade Boy: Of course.

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

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

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

Blockade Boy: ...

Storm Boy: Blockade Boy...?

Blockade Boy: Um. Wow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thrill Ride

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing Left To Do But Parade

Personally? I hold Phantom Lad responsible for this mess.

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

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

Okay.

So what happened was this:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I looked back.

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

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

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

Simultaneously, all four of our Omnicoms buzzed.

It was Eyeful Ethel.

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

Get Away With It (Part One)

The 2008 Prism Comics reading guide has a two-page article by none other than the Unbeatable Blockade Boy! ...And yes, I've started not only adding the "Unbeatable" when I say my own name -- which is a lot -- but also requiring others to add it, as well. So of course, Storm Boy now wants to be called "the Unstoppable Storm Boy." Yeah, I'm not doing that. Although, I may have to start slapping him on the back of the head more often.

*takes hearty sip of space java*

AAANNNYYway, it turns out that the Unbeatable One's awesomeness was just too massive (and vein-y and throbbing) to fit into a mere two pages. So they had to leave out some of the illustrations I'd provided for them. It makes me wanna holler!

*unleashes mournful bellow, like a wounded earthquake beast)

...Okay, I feel better now. So as I was saying -- hang on, excuse me. WHAT. WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?! ...NO, YOU GET BACK TO WORK!

*glares at Bad Apple Boy until he wets himself and rushes out of the office, all red-faced and crying*

Criminy. How is a guy supposed to get his blog posting done when all of his coworkers are bugging him? It's ridiculous!

OKAY.

So the deal is, my article was supposed to have an illustrated sidebar with four fashion "don'ts" that only the Super-Hero Set can ever get away with. But in the finished product, the sidebar was turned into a box, and there were no pictures at all. So this week, I'm going to post the pictures, in glorious Blockade Color! (Everyone, don your special glasses now.) Here's the first one!

Only in the world of super-heroes, can you...

1. Leave your house dressed only in lingerie, without being mistaken for a hussy.

I'm Evidently a Dreamboat

Say, who's this handsome devil?

Why, it's none other than me, as envisioned by fellow blogger (and arch-villain) Captain Koma, over in the Heroes United forums! It's stunning, no? I'm not currently in the market for a new costume, Captain, but if I ever turn to the dark side -- and contract conjuctivitis -- I'll definitely consider this look! Hot damn but I'd look fetching! Observe, if you will, the lush red beard, the dashing eye-patch, the marvelously masculine segmented shoulder-pads! I'm a hunk! I mean, I'd jump this guy's bones in a nano-second! And he's me! ...Okay, so that image is a trifle too "out there" even for yours truly.

My apologies.

Well, this is as good a time as any to give you all a little flavor of my life as it stands right now. My massive, rampant, uncut celebrity is starting to sag a little. I no longer get mobbed by hoards of nearly-naked hover-bikers. Dang it. Still, I have enough clout that I worked out a deal with my good friend Eyeful Ethel: to help restore confidence in her stockholders, her company is now officially called "The Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency, Featuring Blockade Boy." I don't think she resents it too much.

Ethel tried to lure Dentata Damsel away from that voiceover gig she'd taken with Paramount-Universo. It turned out that the folks at Paramount-Universo had never even heard of Dentata Damsel. We later discovered, she'd been living with Tusker in some twisted "Beauty and the Beast" (TV show) scenario, and, in her words, "platonically banging" him. They're both in counseling right now.

Still no sign of Nightmare Boy.

Ethel hired two new detectives: Compass Kid and Bad Apple Boy. The first is a mildly-powered Braalian with an uncanny sense of direction; the second is a Rimborean poseur with souped-up Chlorophyl Kid powers. (You'd be surprised how many toddlers have fallen into vats of mutagenic hydroponic solutions. It's a national tragedy!) I'll write some more about these two next week.

Storm Boy has regained some of the weight he'd lost, but it actually looks good on him. I guess it's because he's still working out. So he's kind of "husky" now. The important thing is, his upper arms are finally thicker than his forearms. Which is great, because the whole "Popeye" thing had been freaking me out.

Oh, and I still have enough name recognition (and raw, blistering sexiness) that I've been invited to enter a holo-vid reality show contest! It's sort of a biathlon, where the contestants have to master both complicated sexual positions and complicated ballroom routines. The show is called "Schtupp It Up and Dance." (And for me, the first part should be a breeze.)

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.

Scratching the Underbelly (by Blockade Boy's Pal, Gadfly Lad)

Hey, people! It's me! Gadfly "Eli 'Tater' Bugzz" Lad.

I just thought I'd better let you know: blogging will be spotty and brief for the next two weeks, exactly. What does that mean for you, the blog consumer? It means that my blog posts will happen at odd hours, and that they'll skip days, and that they won't say all that much. Sorry. It's the life of an undercover agent, don't you know.

Those guys who wanted me for "the operation"? Yeah. It turns out they just wanted to sell me a discount shin-lengthening surgery... which would have been performed in the back of a space-van. I told them "HELLS NAW!" and then I gave 'em both a shock to the shammies! 'Cause that's how Tater rolls.

Oh! One other interesting thing. You know how I'm working a trivia game hustle? The first five games I tried, I got disqualified for not answering the questions in the allotted time. I mean, I would be talking, but I couldn't get to the core of the answer before they'd sound the buzzer. So, I had to learn to cut out all the fascinating details that I normally enjoy lavishing on people. Which sucked, because I love prefaces, corollaries, footnotes and addenda, just as much as any right-thinking individual. Well, last night, I was talking up a bar maid, and I found myself editing what I said, just like I had been doing with the trivia answers. And the bar maid didn't do that thing that girls usually do with me, where their eyes lose focus and they get all fidgety and they start humming a song and rocking back and forth and then they say some real bad swear word and then they get up and walk away without even saying "goodbye", the crazy weirdos. Nope! Her eyes were all sparkly and she wouldn't stop smiling and I wondered if maybe it was a trick, since an undercover detective always has to be on the look-out for femme-space-fatales. But when I made my move, she just put her hand on mine and said, "I'm sorry; I don't date short guys." Dang it. Still, it was an interesting development.

Let's have a cover from Storm Boy's comic book collection!

Wow, that guy can fit an entire old-timey Omnicom (from the 2980's) in his mouth! (Just like Storm Boy!)

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?

Gadfly Lad... BABE STALKER! (by especially-heterosexual guest-columnist, Gadfly Lad)

Hey, Bill S.! Yeah, you, you comedian! I'm STRAIGHT! Got it?!(!!!!)

I was the third-maddest I've ever been when I read that comment you made in yesterday's post (and after Storm Boy explained to me what it meant). I'm a LADIES' MAN, 110%!

...No, that's impossible.

100%, then.

I just haven't had a metric-ton of luck with them. That's all. And the last thing I need is for some primitive Earth-jerk killing my game. Someday... someday I'll go all the way with a hot sexy woman. You'll see. Well, not literally. Unless you're into that. (I'm sophisticated! Just don't touch me.) Are we cool? GREAT.

I suppose you all are wondering what's going on with Blockade Boy. Yeah, us too. He's been spotted around the city, beating up Science Police cops and U.P. military officers, and then forcibly re-tailoring their costumes. Mostly, he just turns their jackets into vests, confiscates their shirts, and lowers the waistlines on their trousers. It turns out, some of 'em like it.

Here at the office, business is dead. Storm Boy has us cold-calling people, to see if they need any crimes solved. You can imagine how well that's working. Storm Boy gave us this big, emotional speech about how he was going to quadruple our business. So I said, "And four times zero equals...?" That got a pretty good laugh out of everybody. Everybody except Storm Boy.

Alright, people. It's time for another comic cover review by Gadfly Lad, the spectacular character find of 3008! ...Wait, what? Wasn't it 2988, just last week? If I didn't know better, I'd swear I existed on some kind of sliding time continuum.

Oh! Oh! I know who this guy is! For once!

I should warn you, my knowledge of 2oth-century popular culture is operating at only 21.077% of capacity but I do watch the heavily-degraded holo-transfers of ancient Earth I.Q. tests on Lallor's "Gameshow Station." The old commercials are the best part!

*ahem*

As should be obvious from the logo on his chest, this bow-legged buccaneer is "Targitt", the official corporate mascot for the Targitt chain of discount superstores. He's a wholly-fictional character, who exists only to sell merchandise -- just like his contemporaries, Cap'n Crunch, Spuds MacKenzie, and Queen Latifah.

I'm not sure whom the old guy with the death-cloud spewing from his hair is supposed to represent. (Is it the fearsome Discount Warlord, Sam Walton?) And man, if that's "the dry look", I'll just stick with my pomade, a-thank-you very much.

What I don't understand is, Targitt's talking about "mopping up" and yet, that's clearly not a mop in his hands. A mop traditionally consists of a staff, which is composed of [EDITED FOR SPACE] but then we started finding blood in his stools. Well, enough of this for now. I'll see you fools tomorrow, assuming the space-bank doesn't foreclose on our office. ("Padlocked doors?" Naive throwbacks--! Here on Lallor, they just haul the entire building away!) Stay cool, people!

The Middlemath (by special guest-columnist, Gadfly Lad)

I DO NOT WET THE BED. All that much.

Stupid Tusker. I just don't understand why I even told him that. Or when! Hmm. Unless... yeah. It must have been the night of that karaoke party he had over at his pod. He didn't spend a lot of time singing. Or even working the karaoke machine! He made me do that! He said I probably knew everything there is to know about them! And I do. The original karaoke machines were manufactured in [EDITED FOR SPACE] and then yank it out at the very last possible second. But I digress.

What Tusker did do at that party was to serve up alcohol, and puh-lenty of it! Not that I ever saw him do any drinking himself. No, ma'am! He just got us all to blabbing about ourselves, while he listened. I don't know what he would have done if Storm Boy the Rootin' Tootin' Teetotler had shown up. Maybe give him about twenty bunt cakes and see what happens.

And then, Tusker the World's Stupidest Evil Genius lost his "slam book." And then somebody else immediately found it and posted it on the Intergalactic Intraweb, and then everybody everywhere knew everything about everybody in the office.

The upshot? My girlfriend broke up with me, and now I'll probably never have sex, and all the guys from my tabletop gaming club are calling me "Waterbug" and "Supersoaker" and "Urinalysissy" and... OH. You mean, how's everybody else doing?

I'll make this brief. You know how [EDITED FOR SPACE] seats six people, quite comfortably! Sorry; I seem to have gone off on another tangent. So, to sum up: Eyeful Ethel, Rainbow Girl, and Nightmare Boy are all in jail. Phantom Lad refused to press charges against Frigid Queen, so she's okay. Blockade Boy and his cat are on the lam, although I understand their exploits have popped up on the Heroes United forums, while he judges costume designs if you can believe it. And nobody has laid eyes on Tusker since last week. That means that the Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency now consists of Dentata Damsel, Frigid Queen, and I, with Storm Boy somehow in charge! (I didn't vote for him. Heck, I demand a recount!) Oh, and Phantom Lad is answering the phones. During the few moments he can spare between hour-long personal calls.

Storm Boy keeps talking about wanting to keep up Blockade Boy's "legacy" like he's already dead or something, so he's making me post in this dumb blog about comic book covers. From his own collection, and not Blockade Boy's. (The Science Police hoisted away the entire building Blockade Boy's bachelor pod is in, "for evidence.") Here's the first cover Storm Boy showed me:

It took me a good 28.24 seconds to pry this thing out of Storm Boy's hands! He kept mooning over the big hairy dude on the cover. He just would not shut up about the guy's whiskers! *snort* I bet you, I could grow a beard like that. If you gave me 17 years, seven months, and three days (approximately). The arm hair? Yeah, that'll probably never happen.

Huh. So... what can I say about this cover? Hmm.

First of all, I think he should ask that lady back there what the deal is with the voodoo drums. She looks like she just came from outside; maybe she'll know. Also, I'm pretty sure that's a surfboard leaning up against the wall, so maybe he should just hit the beach and "hang some waves" or however it is the saying goes. Or, heck... he should just up and move away from there. Post his resume on SpaceMonster or some other website, and find himself a good job in a big city. Then, maybe he...! Hold on, please. I just got handed another comic.

Oh.

I guess he did!

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)

Oh, As IF (an editorial by guest columnist, Storm Boy)

Okay.

So?

Blockade Boy and Tusker and I took our lunch breaks over at the Time Institute the other day. We have a friend who works there, and he sneaks us into the restricted areas, so we can spy on folks in alternate timelines. It's such a hoot, you guys. This one time? We saw a timeline where Princess Projectra was a giant snake? Which makes total sense if you think about it. Oh, and in this one, the Legion clubhouse was actually a guy? Only I had a hard time believing that one, because the building he turned into was only about the size of a potting shed. What. EVER! But seriously? You should check out the Time Institute if you ever get the chance.

Oh. That's right. You totally won't! Tough luck, bitches!

Anyway.

Our friend whispered to us that a new timeline had popped up, one where people who were just jerks or losers in our timeline were straight-up psychotic, and also, like, every third person in existence had been horribly maimed. Blockade Boy was all, "We gotta check this shit out," and before you could say "doodly-doodly-doop", we were kicking it in one of the Institute's private screening rooms! Our friend started the popcorn machine, while we got our minds blown.

In that timeline, Tusker was a big, gray monster with unbreakable bones and a cool haircut, although even that version still had a broken tusk, which? Made us all laugh our asses off! Even Tusker! Blockade Boy punched him in the arm and called him a "dumb jerk", only in a brotherly way? And Tusker shot back, "Bring it, Grape Ape! I'll smash you with my unbreakable bones!" and it was just so great, you guys, especially thinking about what a self-conscious loser he used to be. (He's still kinda dumb, though. I'm not being a bitchy queen here; it's just an honest observation.)

Alternate Rainbow Girl was just as pushy and annoying as ever, but her powers didn't work the same at all. They were tied into something our friend called "the Skittles Force" version of the Green Lantern Corps. Whatever that means. He seemed awfully contemptuous of the whole idea, though. I guess it's an "insider" thing.

Alternate Eyeful Ethel? Was a schoolmarmish weirdo with her hair in a bun and these cartoonishly-oversized glasses like Jackie O. by way of Charles Nelson Reilly.

Alternate Blockade Boy? We never saw him. And our Blockade Boy got worked up into a real hissy-snit over it. Our friend pointed out that this jacked-up alternate timeline didn't seem to have an Alternate Gadfly Lad, Alternate Dentata Damsel, or an Alternate Nightmare Boy. But Blockade Boy just stomped out of there, nominally to go smoke his pipe, but? Everybody knew he just wanted to stew in his own stinky juices.

Which leaves us with Alternate Universe Me.

Hmmm.... what can I say about Alternate Universe Me?

For starters? Kinda handsome. If you're into guys with skinny forearms. The blue contact lenses? Interesting choice. And the scars are surprisingly rugged. But the hair? Has got to go. For you 21st century dudes? I'd call it "very Kenny G." Or maybe "very 'the lead singer from Quiet Riot.'" But either way? It's not good.

But here's what really chaps my ass (and not in a good way) about Alternate Universe Me:

He's a melodramatic crybaby douche-nozzle.

I mean, listen to that drivel. He had a whole shitload of anesthetic-free radical surgeries because why? He didn't pass his Legion try-out? That's it?

Lend me an ear, Alternate Universe Me. That is, if you haven't already paid some quack sawbones to lop the damn thing off. Just listen, and listen good.

MAN THE FUCK UP.

Grow some balls! Or, failing that? Borrow some other dude's. (They'll let you hold 'em, if you ask real nice.) I've been where you are. Feeling inadequate, and all that nonsense. I actually tried to kill myself one time! And I became an alcoholic! The difference is, I actually had some decent fucking motivation. I was bankrupt and homeless, and my marriage had imploded.

What you're dealing with? Ain't shit.

If I were you -- and thank the Luck Lords I'm not -- I'd cancel my next surgery, I'd pay for a more flattering outfit and a decent haircut, and then I'd get my bony ass to the nearest time bubble and fade the fuck out of your screwy dimension.

That place ain't healthy.

Flub Connection (by special guest-columnist, Storm Boy)

I love the "golden age" of Bismollywood.

And I love bears!

So? When Blockade Boy told me he could set me up with an ursine acquaintance of his -- a former child actor in Bismollywood holo-films -- I "didn't think twice", as they say on Colu. I mean, we should have been a perfect match! Right?

The man's name is "Darzil Hek", and to be perfectly honest? I'd never heard of him before. But! He's been in a ton of classic holo-films! So I figured the gossip would be choice. Heh-heh. Shows what I knew!

Blockade Boy fancies himself my "dating adviser", since he has intimate knowledge of the space-bear mindset, and also he's a complete control freak. He said I should meet my dates at a "neutral location" and to never go home with them until I knew them better. Yeah, okay. I can "do it" in the trunk of a rocket-car, if need be. And I have. But? When I asked him if he knew any of Darzil Hek's favorite sexual positions, I was taken aback to hear him tell me, "Aw, HELLS, NAW. No sex for you, pally! Not on the first date!" (Madness! Am I right, people?) And then Blockade Boy told me that my problem is that I'm too fucking-eager, and that I need to "build a relationship" (or some crap) with my dates before I give myself over to them physically. He stressed the fact that if I had sex with Darzil right away, it would destroy our chances for romance. At least, I think he said that. I kind-of had stopped listening at that point. Besides, he's the biggest man-whore I know! Own it, ya phony holyman!

Oh, and Blockade Boy also made me promise to text him on my Omnicom at several pre-arranged times during the date itself. Yeah, that was never going to happen.

So anyway? I met Darzil Hek at this Bismollian restaurant -- not one of those cheesey chains, like "Bismol MacMattercuddy's", but an honest-to-the-Luck-Lords family-run rustic pub. And? Darzil was hot: a tall and brawny fifty-something guy with a big silver beard and a pelt to match -- not to mention a firm, beach-ball-sized gut (bonus!) that made me salivate, and also produce some other secretions. Oh, I just wanted to fondle him for days! We spent about fifteen minutes just complimenting each other, and saying different things that we wanted to do to each other, and sure, all the other patrons in that tiny lobby were giving us the stink-eye, and clamping their hands over their kids' ears, but so what. I'd found myself a "love connection"!

Well, let me tell you: Darzil Hek can really put away the inedible food. He must have downed at least four boron fajitas and maybe twice as many pleather-and-aluminum roulades. As for myself, well, I'm from Earth, so the only thing on the menu I could digest? Was the filet-o-cardboard. (In a charming irony, the take-out boxes are also made of cardboard.) No problem. I was getting a kick just out of watching Darzil eat!

Darzil explained that he met Blockade Boy through Dylbyrt Staad, Blockade Boy's uncle. He said that Blockade Boy was a "sweet kid" and "very accommodating." (Heh-heh.) Around 9 PM, I got a text from Blockade Boy, demanding to know why I wasn't texting him. I texted him back to cram it. Darzil offered to show me his home-theater set-up, back at his swingin' bachelor pod. Naturally, I agreed!

Darzil had a whole bunch of old holo-films in his library. And he had appeared in every one of them! He let me pick a couple for us to watch, so I went with two of my favorites: "Meet Me In Smallville" (starring the incomparable Judzil Gar and adorable little Margzil O'Brizil) and "Leave Her to Shanghalla" (starring the frostily-beautiful Genezil Tern and the boringly bland Cornzil Wyl). I was psyched. Darzil promised to give me a live "commentary track"!

And? That's how things went all screwy. (And not in a good way.) See, it turns out that Darzil is deeply bitter about his time in Bismollywood! Maybe it's because he was more of a journeyman character actor than an actual star? Or maybe he's just a resentful jerk-off? The universe may never know. But anyway, we were sitting on that big comfy love-seat of his, watching "Meet Me in Smallville", and we were kind-of snuggling, but Darzil kept fidgeting and working himself into a bitter froth as he told his "insider stories"... all of which had to do with some petty injustice he'd endured at the hands of a director or a makeup artist... or a caterer! Oh, Luck Lordy, the freaking caterers! Every time Margzil O'Brizil would flounce into a scene, Darzil would go off on a tear about what she got to eat, compared to what he was given to eat. Like, one day Margzil was given an entire hover-bike engine for lunch, while Darzil (like all the other supporting actors) only got a bowl of assorted lock-washers. Oh, he was railing at the heavens over that one. Have I mentioned that this happened over forty years ago? And he's still rabidly angry about it? I was like, "Bitch, you better step that shit back a couple of light-years!" (Only I didn't say it out loud.)

But it was Darzil's commentary on "Leave Her to Shanghalla" where he really "went squirrelly", as they say on H'lven.

The nanosecond Genezil Tern showed her face, Darzil just laid into her. He jabbed a furry digit at the flickering image of Genezil, and he said, "See? See what she's doing there? That's called indicating."

I asked him if that was a good thing, because what the hell did I know? I mean, when it comes to the world of actors, "I know just enough to be dangerous", as they say on Rimbor.

And Darzil said that "indicating" was not good; it's when an actor does like a pantomime facial thing of showing what their character feels, instead of really "feeling it" and somehow radiating it outward from their very souls, like the "process" school of acting teaches.

Well, I couldn't hold my tongue anymore (and not in a good way), because I finally started talking back to him. I pointed out that the "process" school of acting wasn't conceived until maybe ten years after the holo-filming of "Leave Her to Shanghalla." Which meant? Darzil was excoriating that poor woman for not adopting an acting style that hadn't been invented yet.

From there, it just got worse. Darzil ripped Genezil Tern a new one, left, right, and sideways. It was so annoying, you guys! Such negativity! And me, I'm all about the positive energy. Am I right guys? ...Guys? Aw, suck one.

Anyway -- to be honest -- I'd always thought Genezil Tern was the epitome of Old Bismollywood glamour, so I felt kind-of obligated to defend her. Finally? I asked Darzil, point-blank, just why he had a problem with her. You know what his reason was? She wasn't friendly to him. That was it. He said she was "very cold" to him. And I said, "Well, she wasn't a very happy person, if I remember right. I mean, she was institutionalized around that time, plus? She had that miscarriage. She had a pretty rough life, is all. I mean, I'm sorry the two of you weren't 'best pals' or what-the-hell-ever, but shouldn't you be over this by now? For realsies! It's fucking lame."

Well, Darzil got all sulky, like the overgrown kid he is, and he reeled off some spiel about how many wheels of space-cheddah he'd paid out to Titanian psycho-mechanics, to help him get over his Post-Traumatic Child Actor Disorder. Oh, and also about how I was a "jerk" and how he never wanted to see me again, like ever.

And we both slumped back in the love-seat, and watched the holo-film, without saying anything. On the holo-platform, dramatic music swelled from hidden speakers, and Genezil Tern's character threw herself down an escalator.

And I looked over at Darzil's ruddy, handsome face, with those hurt-filled eyes of his. And I tenderly took his hand, and I said, warmly, "So, do you wanna screw, or what?"

As Darzil manhandled me onto my stomach and yanked my trousers off, I texted Blockade Boy one last time:

wtf darzil big whiny baby going 2 pull trigger on this 1 stfu

Marked Man-Candy: A Memoir (by special guest-columnist, Storm Boy)

It started with the "tattoos."

So. It's New Year's, just a few days after I designed Blockade Boy's new gauntlets, and then? I look at that bulky ol' suit I'd been schlepping around? And I get to thinking about how all the weather-controlling mechanisms in the lining weigh, like, a metric ton? And I decide, SCREW THAT NOISE. Because hey! They're doing wonders with miniaturized circuits these days! So why shouldn't I get in on the action?

And then I have one of my clinically-diagnosed "brainstorms".

So? I redesign all the machinery in a lightweight transdermal form that I can graft directly to my nerves. And the fierce part? Is they look like tattoos. Big, green lightning-bolt tattoos. They run from my fingernails all the way up to my shoulders! Plus? There's a way-cool lightning-bolt tattoo on my forehead!

From there? It kind of "snowballs", as they say on Tharr. I look at myself in the mirror... naked, which I haven't done in maybe five years? And I say to myself, "That's a lot of look."

So I take off my glasses.

Which? Is a big step for me, since I'd given them a totemic status in my own personal mythology. And I can see right away (if I squint) that I look way better without them. I mean, forehead tattoo? Plus glasses? Equals "trying too hard." I know, I know: unlike slathering both your arms in tattoos, heh-heh. Oh, cram it. But yes, if you must know? I go right out that very night and get my eyeballs fixed. I even have them dyed gold because why the hell not. And to those of you who are still freaking out over this news? Get over it. "Signature looks" have an expiration date, don't you know, and then? They turn you into a walking caricature of yourself. Like Charro, or Elvis, or Ghandi.

So anyway? I show up at work the next day, wearing a big hoodie with nothing underneath, and walking all slouched over, and my head all bent down, and the second I step through the door? I clear my throat, all dramatic-like? And I rear my head up proudly and I rip the hoodie off, and I say, "Behold, BITCHES!"

And then I see the only other person in the room is Blockade Boy.

(I felt so gross, you guys.)

But? I decide to "soldier on", as they say on the Khund homeworld. And with only a teensy crack in my voice, I say, "Guess what I did!"

And without missing a beat, he says, "You got your arms pickled."

And I say, "Suck one, Stanley's Monster," and then? I conjure up a dainty cloud and shoot a lightning bolt out of it, right at his big, clumsy feet! That shuts him up. But then he stalks over to me, and I can't read his expression, and he starts giving me the once-over. He even does that Vincent D'Onofrio thing, where he bends at the waist and looks at me all sideways, and I'm kind of freaking out, to be perfectly honest about it.

He straightens up and smiles at me, and with a basso profundo note of respect in his voice, he growls, "Weather-controlling tats. Nice."

And I gulp, and I smile a little, and then he puts his hands on my shoulders. And he says, "You know what you need, don't you?"

And I tell him, "Yeah, but I thought we'd both agreed it was best if we saw other people."

He punches me in the arm (which hurt like a bastard) and laughs that "deep booming laugh" that I grew tired of, like, five years ago. And he says, "Good one, pal! Naw, what you really need is a new costume! Somethin' with shorter sleeves. Show off those new tats!" And then his eyes go all crazy like they do sometimes? And his gaze goes wandering off into the stratosphere, like he's a Brobdingnagian Norville Barnes, and then he grabs me, and he shouts, "YOU HAVE TO LET ME DESIGN A NEW COSTUME FOR YOU! ALSO, YOU'LL HAVE TO SHAVE YOUR MUSTACHE AND DYE YOUR HAIR!"

I start to say, "But I don't want to shave my mustache," but he actually shakes me a little bit, and he yells, "DO IT!"

And then? He apologizes. Like he always does after one of his outbursts? But he walks me out of the office to the gourmet space-java place down the street. And we have a really nice talk where he lays out a makeover plan that he claims is guaranteed to net me some mad dingus. And you know what? I believe him!

So I dye my hair a honey-blond, to coordinate with my beautiful golden eyeballs, and also? I grow out the top and the sides a little. Finally, I adorn my glorious visage with some pointy (of course) muttonchops. And? I'll be darned if Blockade Boy's costume doesn't make me look like a whole wheel of space-cheddah. (Er, that's a good thing, by the way.)

Check me out, bitches!

I was worried that shaving off my glorious 'stache would ruin my space-bear cred, but Blockade Boy assured me that I never had that to begin with. So no harm done, I guess. This look really does suit me better, I have to admit. And my huskiness and my "tats" and my furry 'chops somehow combine with the twinktastic preppie finery of the costume to create some sort of aesthetic love-bait for space-bears. I'm not kidding! I can't pass a construction site anymore without getting cat-calls from all the burly, bearded laborers. (This is no idle boast. In fact, just to make sure they're actually referring to me, I make certain to walk past those places several times a day.) And space-ports? Forget about it!

As for that "blind date" Blockade Boy set me up on... er, yeah. It didn't work out exactly like I'd hoped. But more on that? Tomorrow.

Featuring Angelina Jolie as the Abomination

Oh, and the other guy is the Chilean super-hero, "Capitan Jupiter." But who cares? I just can't stop looking at that monster's mouth! For some reason.

Capitan Jupiter is actually some dude named "Rex Vane." Which doesn't sound terribly Chilean to me. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've dated a Rex Vane. If it's the guy I'm thinking of, he told me he was a fashion model, but it turned out he was really an exotic dancer. I had to have a long talk with him, which ended with me asking him to move in with me. The whole thing ended in tragedy (after, like, four days) and I still can't look at a pair of leather chaps without getting all teary-eyed. Not that I've ever actually cried. I haven't! SHUT UP! *pounds on table for emphasis* But if "Rex Vane" doesn't sound like the name of a Chilean native, that's okay; he actually lives on Easter Island! ...Well, that's where his "secret headquarters" is located, anyhow.

Capitan Jupiter's origin is along the same lines as Green Lantern and Insect Queen, where space aliens dish out a powerful device to some dumb shmoe. In el Capitan's case, he was abducted by natives of Jupiter. After a thorough probing (I assume), they gave him a super-power belt, with six buttons on it:

1. Invisibility
2. Super-hearing
3. Professional-strength force-field. Saunter through a nuclear reactor with no noticeable side-effects!
4. Laser-beam eyeballs
5. Flight, up to light-speed, and he doesn't even get crushed down into a singularity or whatever the hell normally happens to something going that fast. Cool, huh?
6. Invulnerability to hostile environments, like outer space, the bottom of the sea, or a used-car lot

Okay, I'm going to be brutally frank, here: I REALLY WANT A BELT LIKE THAT. Storm Boy! Make me a belt like that! I need it by -- oh, let's say "Friday."

...Balls. He's not even looking up from his desk! Maybe he didn't hear me. HEY! STORM BOY! I said, make me -- aw, hells naw.

The husky li'l queen just flipped me the double space-bird! I'm going to have to cut this post short, now, to allow myself more time to slap the snot out of him.

See y'all tomorrow! *balls up fists and stomps away*

Wheatcake Headache

Hurts like a punch in the nads, don't it? Next time, go easy on the syrup.

I'm thinking of a number... one box-office hit that got ripped off by some jerkwad in the Phillipines, in 2004. And that rip-off was called "Gagamboy", which translates into "Spider-Boy." You connect the dots. According to my sources, Gagamboy "can exude an orange goo which he can transform into any form he chooses." Just like a spider can! If I were him, I'd mainly create Cheetos. But not circus peanuts. Because that would be evil.

He's kind of a dink, isn't he? Still, I have to admit that the costume doesn't look half-bad! In fact, I like Gagamboy's cowl a lot better than Spider-Man's. It has a nice Flash Gordon/Prince of Space feel to it. And the overall color scheme is nice. Check out that detail on the spandex! I wonder if they screen-printed it, like with the Spider-Man movie costume? Hmm. Let's get a better look at it!

BWAH! Fishnet? What's his mission? Going undercover on the set of the Duran Duran "Wild Boys" video? Feh. I take it all back. Screw you, "Gagamboy"! You're dead to me now.

Y'know, I think Storm Boy had a shirt like that. I say "had" because I made him throw it out.

...Okay, so I was the one who threw it out. And I would have gotten away with it, too, if he hadn't returned home earlier than I'd expected. I don't know what he was so angry about. After all, his new outfit* is quite the hit at the office and at a certain gay moopsball league he joined, and now he's getting dates out the ass! Er, so to speak. And that outfit was all me, baby! I even changed up his hairstyle! Why can't he see that it's just best if I design all his clothes for him...? If I design everybody's clothes for everybody? WHY IS THAT SO HARD FOR PEOPLE TO UNDERSTAND? *rubs beard in consternation*

*Which I swear you'll get to see very soon. Also, his date with Darzil Hek is this next weekend. So let's all wish him luck! I'm also working on a costume redesign for Zagor, and I promise to show you that "Tom of Finland"-type picture of me(only it'll be "safe for work") that Gustavo suggested, sometime this month.

NOT Nightwing. For Realsies. (UPDATED 2:06 PM, CST)

From the "International Hero" website and the paella-scented beaches of Spain comes "Gavilan", whose name means "sparrowhawk", and who looks nothing at all like Nightwing.

See, Gavilan's costume is red. Yeah. And his cape is longer and more festively-pointed. And, and, there's those little bird claw/animal tusk/crescent roll thingies on his wrists. So that's different. Plus! He carries around that big bo staff or stripper pole or what-have-you. Nightwing doesn't do that. Not all the time, anyway. Not to mention, he has that ponytail. Nightwing doesn't have one of those... er, anymore. And Gavilan's mask is birdlike in a completely different way from Nightwing's.

So I think you can see how Gavilan's costume is not at all a rip-off of Nightwing's. AND I'LL FIGHT ANYBODY WHO SAYS IT IS! *glances around menacingly, while stuffing invoice for designing Gavilan's costume into back pocket* (Shut up. I wasn't feeling well that day.)

UPDATE: So, I'm guessing you were having trouble swallowing the notion that Gavilan's hideous togs were designed by me. Yeah, I can relate. I didn't even remember doing it! All I had to go by was the fact that Gavilan contracted my services, some time back, and, of course, this invoice. I was baffled! Still, I have my pride. I wasn't about to admit a mistake.

And then, Storm Boy showed up on my doorstep.

I asked him what the occasion was for his visit. And he smirked at me, and said, "The occasion is, I'm here to get paid, BEYOTCH!" And so I punched him in the face.

"Sorry," I demured. "Reflex."

Choking back tears (and blood), Storm Boy whined, "What the hell?"

"No," I retorted, "That's what I should be asking you. I'm glad you've got your confidence back to the point where you can josh around with me, but I draw the line at 'beyotch.' Reel it back in a couple of meters; you're getting annoying."

He grinned, impishly. "Oh, fiddle-faddle! If the crowning of Christian Siriano last night (your readers' time) as 'Project Runway Fan Favorite' has taught me anything, it's that everybody loves a finger-snapping, trash-talking, in-your-face bitchy queen. I've got 'attitude' now! Deal with it."

Naturally, I punched him in the face again. "Oops. Looks like my fist has an 'in-your-face' attitude!"

"God! Uncle already, you freaked-out maniac! Just give me my cut from the 'Gavilan' costume design so I can get the hell out of here." He wiped the blood from his nose with his palm, and then he held out the crimson-stained paw, in expectation of payment.

"So that explains it," I said, with a massive sigh of relief. "I didn't think that looked like my work."

"That's because I did the whole thing," Storm Boy sniffled. "You were all feverish and shit from that depilatory the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad had slipped you, so I worked on it while you tried to shout directions at me from your sickbed. We had kind of a Mozart/Salieri thing goin' on. If Salieri had completely ignored Mozart's idiotic ravings, that is."

"Wait, so you want to be Salieri...?"

"I want to get paid," he shrugged. "Fork over the space-cheddah, shaggy man."

And so I did... gladly. I just didn't want to be held responsible for that costume!

Some Live Like Tantalus

Hey there, pals! And also, GAH!!! (The Blockade Boy, he is frustrated!) My pelt is growing in quite nicely, but a new problem has developed: Tusker showed up with a heaping helping of space-roc broth, which was a nice-enough gesture, until he spilled it into my high-tech Comic Book Scanning Apparatamatron, ruining it forever. Luckily, I still had some old panels from a dopey Superboy-as-Tarzan story, lying around.

Still, it seems like everything's up in the air. Storm Boy's blind date with my Bear buddy, Darzil Hek, has been on hiatus while the grizzled actor shoots a reality show. It's called "Celebrity Wraith-Mate", and the isolated contestants have to complete "kooky" chores while being sabotaged by an unidentified cast member who is really possessed by an alien phantom. Also, I've designed a killer Twink-a-rific costume for Storm Boy, which makes him look lightyears younger, plus it really shows off his new tats. (You heard me.) Meanwhile, Tusker has only just now had his big night clubbing with his new mentor and self-styled "ladies' man", Nightmare Boy. Aw, man... that's a whole big story, kind of.

When Tusker showed up at my door with the broth, I asked him how it went, learning to be a "playa." He spread his arms out wide, and with a big, goofy grin on his big, goofy mug, he said (in an off-key sing-song tone) "Guess who got MARRIED...!" I groaned, probably like you all are doing now. I told him I was severely disappointed, and yet hardly surprised. I may have used the phrase "dumb sap." And then he got mad at me, because he had been actually joking. So then, I had to sit him down and explain to him that joking about your own shortcomings is totally not cool, because folks are likely to take you seriously, and especially because it betrays a lack of self-confidence. Running yourself down in a comedic manner is still running yourself down, people. Besides, that's what your friends are for. Still, our Tusker did, apparently, manage to "get it on" with some mutant gal. Her name is Cajun Kid, and from the holo-photo he showed me, she's quite the looker. Supposedly Tusker "felt a real connection" with her, and they've been boinking on a near-hourly basis seeing each other whenever they could spare the time. The only drawback that I can see, is that Cajun Kid's power is to slough off roiling clouds of her own highly-irritating (yet flavorful) skin cells, and -- you guessed it -- she can't control it. So now Tusker's skin is as red as a space beet, and his eyes and nose are watering all the time. Plus he sneezes a lot. Which may account for his spilling the space-roc broth into my scanner.

The dumb sap.

Out You Pixies Go!

Okay! So it turns out the whole "you've always smelled peculiar" thing was just an office joke, engineered by Storm Boy. And I had unknowingly turned the tables on them by showing up with Ox's musk still in full effect. Haw! Storm Boy was gonna tell me right away, but I sort of didn't let him. (When I told him to shut his goddamn pie hole. Er, oops.) At any rate, things are cool between Storm Boy and me now. I've even arranged a date for him, with this Bismollian Bear I know. Former child actor, named Darzil Hek. Maybe you've heard of him! But probably not, because he never got any starring roles. Alright, enough of this jabber. Let's hop back into the story of "The Perfect Fighting Machine!"

FREEZCH! The sound effect that dares you to pronounce it!

But of course, this isn't a sound effect at all. It's a cleverly-hidden political statement.

A forgotten scandal of the 1970's involved the Carter Administration's secret arrest and imprisonment of 5th Dimensional imps. The feds worried that an America that was already suffering from "stagflation" might be further destabilized by wish-granting djinns, leprechauns, and fairy princesses. By the closing months of 1977, a steady stream of imps was flowing into the government's containment facility (Lamport Detention Center, called "the Lamp" by its prisoners). This spurred the formation of a resistance group: the Multi-dimensional Imp Liberation Force, or MILF for short. MILF's efforts started with a simple letter-writing campaign, but soon escalated to spectacular acts of tomfoolery, such as levitating the Pentagon, the replacement of several thousand gallons of "regular coffee" with Folger's Crystals, and the production of the movie version of "Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band." The FBI raided the imps' main hideout -- the Haunted Shack at Knott's Berry Farm -- and the ensuing showdown ended with the deaths of nearly all involved. Most of the imps were reasoned out of existence, using the controversial (yet amazing) Randi Method. The FBI agents were, nearly to a man, either tickled to death, or inflicted with critical pie-to-the-face injuries. At the end of the day, a lone lawman staggered out of that house of death, dragging with him a single imp. The prisoner's name was Zch.

In-depth coverage of the case by Rolling Stone and the Village Voice turned Zch's plight into a cause celebre. Vanessa Redgrave funded and narrated a documentary about him. Country Joe and the Fish announced plans to record an entire album dedicated to Zch, but music producers declined to work with them, on the grounds that they actually sound pretty crappy once the acid wears off. It's rumored that Jim Henson attempted to smuggle Zch out of his cell, by concealing the imp within his own beard. And, of course, Denny O'Neil mischievously wrote the message "Free Zch" into an issue of Detective Comics. (O'Neil hadn't counted on Don Newton's overwrought panel compositions requiring the "hidden" message to be broken back down into its component words.)

By 1979, however, the world had forgotten about Zch. Other than a few retro-vintage Gap t-shirts and a brief mention on VH1's "I Love the '70s", Zch has disappeared from the national zeitgeist. But Zch is still here. Not in our hearts, perhaps, but in a soundproofed cell somewhere in the Mojave desert.

I Glove You to Death

Storm Boy's cloud is finally gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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