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.

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.)

Less than Zero

That's how I felt when I read all those hateful comments about myself and my awesome new threads.

Uh, Storm Boy here. Although I guess I should have started with that. See what you're doing to me? I'm a wreck! And it's all your fault! First off? YES I'm a little heavier than the other guys on the H.M.S. Exquisite. But for starters? I'm way thinner than I used to be. I'm on this amazing new liquid diet where the pounds just disappear (along with many of my memories of ever having them)! So I'm not hunkalicious as of yet. SO WHAT. And for one thing? I bet a lot of you dudes don't look so hot yourself.

...You do look so hot yourself?

Crap.

Okay. To begin with? That drawing Blockade Boy did of me? Was totally unfair. And not accurate at all. He exaggerates! And he's like, my best pal in the entire universe but the poor dope fancies himself a "social realist" like Goya when in reality he's more like Don Martin from "Mad Magazine." I mean, SERIOUSLY. Look at this guy!

I've never seen this person before in my life. I mean, that sweaty-looking space-carney up there? With the bags under his eyes and the flabby arms and the icky smirk on his face? The one who looks like Johnny Knoxville plus a hundred pounds and minus all his muscle tone? That's not who I see when I look in a mirror. No sir.

This is who I see when I look in a mirror!

CHECK IT, YO! YEAH, BOY! COME GET SOME!

The above is a sample of my own artwork, a-thank-you very much. Yeah, I like to do self-portraits sometimes.

No kidding, I see this guy in reflective surfaces a lot and I sure as shit hope it's me, because he's wearing my clothes! God damn but I look fine. Dig the hot pink power sword! Okay, so I don't actually own one of those. But I always wanted one. (Only without the ginormous human ear on the hilt. I'm not sure what that's all about.)

I anxiously await your various apologies.

Legion of Substitute Costumes: Storm Boy (by special guest columnist Storm Boy)

BLOCKADE BOY IS A BEAUTIFUL PERSON. Fact. I'm sorry if you don't "get" that. That's your problem. Myself? I didn't really "get" Blockade Boy either. At first. He's... how can I describe him? He's beautiful, but like a beautiful monster, a beautiful gargantuan gilded goblin gargoyle golem that could kill you with a flick of its tail. You know? And you shouldn't look at him. Not directly. Weight Wizard looked. And look what happened to him. He's like a puppy, that guy. Which? Was cute when he was seventeen but now that he's twenty-two? Is beginning to look a lot like madness. And who could blame him? No, seriously. Shut up. Yeah. You heard me. SHUT UP.

You just don't know him like I know him. At first I was unconsciously uncomprehending, muddling middling maddening uncertain of what I saw. I hated Blockade Boy. What was revolutionary in him, I found revolting. But. There's -- oh, how do I make you understand? -- I'm sure there's a food you like now that maybe you didn't like once upon a time. Maybe you even hated it like I hated Blockade Boy. Stomach-turning. Churning. Sphincter burning. And now? You can't get enough of it. And it's good for you! Like Blockade Boy!

Blockade Boy's eyes? See the world as it should be, which is beautiful. And his missionary position is to make it that way. Beautiful. I just didn't get it before. But now I do. But now enough. About Blockade Boy. And more. About. Me.

My first fatal post-natal memory is seeing my face in a mirror. I was already wearing glasses. And I was one. Month? Year? Decade? No one knows. All I know? Is a round face deformed undefined nose bulb rubberband mouth floppy ears GLASSES. And I saw it was bad. And the others, the children, the teachers, the parents, they saw it was bad also. And they left the clouded stormy boy alone. And the boy in his terrible tumult tore the spectacles from his face and he broke them. The fear came then. The boy had to fix the glasses, the glaring glazing lazing lens. Before it was too. Later, the boy quivered cowering glowering under the steely stare of the Parental Unit but! Nothing happened. Nobody noticed. It was all right with the world at large. The boy plucked the glasses from his knob-nose, carefully this time, and inspected them. They looked good as new. Better even. And a swell of Feeling bubbled in his gut. It was LOVE.

The stormy boy was handy with his hands, he could make anything he might make, even new eyes and glasses goodbyes. But? That would be treason. He didn't not make glasses, no. He made more glasses, alas. Yes. He got good. He made more. Not just glasses. Machines. Dreams. He imagined God, ordering storms, swirling whirling winds with his finger and so he knew how to do it too. He shrunk God, severed his hands, and trapped him in a box. He knocked on the rocket, yellow, distended, upended, from there to join. Or purloin. No boxes! they cried, for we are one-hundred-percent genetically gallant with talent and you? So proud? Are not allowed. Ejected, rejected, dejected and the hate came again and he drank and he ate and his fate was fat. And he met? A threat. A fabulous wide-awake all-night-long nightmare knight in purple and orange. (BLOCKADE BOY.) How he hated the purple and the orange!

Blockade Boy's tongue was sharper than a serpent's ruthless tooth but in truth beneath the teeth there was LOVE. The stormy boy didn't couldn't wouldn't see the love. He could only see a strange hairy horrible thing he could hate more than he hated himself. Blockade Boy was mysterious (lascivious) mercurial inimical (but not meaning it) and so he vanished. Feeling an emerging urge the stormy boy followed after. Months (Years? Decades?) slipped through the stormy boy's fitful fat fingers and fickle celebrity cuddled and caressed him. For the genetically blessed changed their minds and? They deigned to wear his designs. He was high on the hog, heroic, heady with hedonism and unheeding of the headaches ahead. Dame fashion, bored, flippantly flipped him the bird, slid the lever, clever, and the floor slid open and the stormy boy slipped down as it all slipped away. Job/Home. Money/Honey. The stormy boy's boy stormed out. Honey loved money, none other. Nope. No hope. Everything was broken and the stormy boy couldn't fix it.

Time to go. Too slow, the stormy boy jimmied open the jettison tube at the space-port and squeezed inside. One last ride. Straight up up up into space, no mask on his face, no suit, no use, just skin on cold black nothing at all, chilling zero filling spilling into his lungs scraping digging hollowing him out and there would be. No. More. Me. But a hairy heroic hand yanked the stormy boy out at just the last moment. And the stormy boy dared to look at the burgeoning baroque behemoth beast-man, squinting, as at an eclipse. It was Blockade Boy. And the Feeling welled up again in his inner gizzard. LOVE.

[later] What the fuck?!! Goddamn. I must've been drunker than I thought last night. Maybe I should edit this thing? Naw. Screw it; you all get the gist of it, am I right? I was doing great, then my designs went out of style and I lost it all. Including my husband, Dynamo Kid. I guess a shared love of small, electricity-generating devices isn't the best thing to base a marriage on. And I apparently had signed a pre-nup (which I don't remember doing at all) because he got everything. The impecunious little turd. ...Are you reading this, Dynamo Kid? 'Cause I've got a revelation for you, Dynamo: if you've got such a hard-on for money, maybe you should have spent the last three years giving half-hearted handjobs to Gold Boy instead of to me. Also? Drop dead!

Fuck. My head is killing me. What the hell was I talking about? What? How shitty my life got? Oh. Yeah. It got bad, man. So bad I wound up in the really run-down part of Rimbor (i.e. the Western Hemisphere) begging at space-ports and holding a tattered cardboard sign that read "Will repair spectacles for Space Wine." (Mmm, Space Wine!) Finally I tried to kill myself but Blockade Boy was there to stop me. And he asked me to join his crew. It turned out he's actually a pretty decent guy once you get past the back hair and the temper tantrums. He's like one of my best buddies now!

What's left? The costume? Oh. Yeah. I think it's the best thing I've done. Way better than my early stuff. Hey, I'll be the first to admit that my "taste level" wasn't always where it shoulda been. But you know. A guy's aesthetic sense matures if he spends enough time around other artists. Eventually. So. Here goes.

Dig my fearsome fu-manchu! It's fierce! You can look but don't touch, ladies! (Gentlemen, the line forms on the right.) This is based on a concept sketch by me, and of course I designed all the weather-controlling gizmos. Then I handed the drawing to Blockade Boy, or he yanked it out of my hand, I forget which, and he put some finishing touches on it. As in, he filed down all the sharp edges. Also, he insisted on putting those stylized angular symbolic wing doodlybobbers on the helmet. I think he'd wanted to use something like them on another costume but his client wouldn't go for it. (No surprise there! Hee!) But what the hell. He's been a great pal to me; I have no problem with indulging the crazy fucker every now and then. I still miss all the pointiness, though. Yeah, so I like pointiness! So sue me! (Just kidding. Don't sue me. Please.) So I designed a super-pointy kick-ass costume for Timberwolf one time and he lacerated his face so badly during the fitting he had to be sent to a hospital satellite for major reconstructive surgery! SO WHAT.

Sorry. God, it's hot as a crotch in here. Does anybody else here think it's too hot? Guys? Rainbow Girl? ...They're ignoring me.

So anyway. I still have a yen for pretty-but-impractical costumes, kind of like that one guy from around your era. Erté. Sometimes I think I'd be better off designing for the space-burlesque, where all the hot guys just pose with their arms stretched straight out from their bodies and they don't have to fight each other. Unless you pay them extra, heh, heh. Anyway, enjoy! Or don't! No skin off my nose. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a little "hair of the dog." And I don't mean that godawful marching music my good pal Blockade Boy insists on blaring at full volume at six a.m. every Wednesday morning. *fumbles for flask* What? Oh, don't look at me like that. I can quit any time I want.

Rescue Me: Black Abbott

In the early 1960's, stylish women wore pillbox hats. In the early 1980's, pretentious supervillains were pills with boxes for hats. Case in point:

Ah, so that's where they got idea for the ending to "Se7en." Backstage at the CMA's, a dickhead in a box! I suppose the vet put that thing on him to keep him from licking himself. Y'know, I have this really strong urge to fill it with packing peanuts. ...What? You want me to get on with it? Alrighty then, you killjoys!

This idiot is "Black Abbott", one of many D-list supervillains who done got themselves kacked by the Scourge Organization. Yes, the Scourge Organization, dedicated to ridding the Marvel Universe of pretty much every supervillain who first appeared in either "Marvel Two-In-One" or "Marvel Team-Up." Which is actually kind of a shame, since a lot of these dumb shmoes actually had a lot of potential! Like Black Abbott, just for an instance.

Black Abbott had the kind of mental mojo one can acquire under the tutelage of bald, pseudo-Buddhist monks... sort of a pulp novel/David "Kung Fu" Carradine deal, drained of all genuine spirituality. And for some reason he dressed in a big, box-like hood, like a circus clown version of Anne Boleyn. Oh, and one time "psychic feedback" caused him to burn his own hand off. Er, oops.

That's right! Get pissed, you stupid bastard! Oh, he's positively livid! Look at 'im, clenching his teeny, impotent little fists! And who can blame him? He sucks! No wonder he got offed by Scourge! And off-panel at that! But here's the part that fired my imagination: Black Abbott's wonky, ill-defined ESP allows him to basically possess several people at once, and even speak through them. I'm sorry, that's just completely bad-ass. Ever see "Slither"? Then you know what I mean.

And y'know what? Black Abbott has used his "disciples" to impersonate him in the past, so he could still be around. Bring Black Abbott back, I say! But if I might make a few suggestions...

*he-hem*

He needs a new costume, of course. That's a given, and I'll get to it in just a moment. But more importantly, he needs a bit of a tune-up in the villainy department. I was going to quibble about the extra "t" on the end of his name but it looks like that's an accepted British spelling, so what the hell. (Still, I'm guessing most American comic book readers -- and most Americans in general -- read the word "Abbott" and think of the skinnier, more taciturn half of a certain old-time comedy team instead of the head of a monastery.) But--! How's about we add a "The" to the front of his name? That way he's the Black Abbott which sounds way more mysterious and hard-core. Not to mention it carries more historical weight. It sounds like a character from a Gothic novel, or at least a Sherlock Holmes story. And yes, readers, it's kind of like the early Batman villain, the Mad Monk. Nerds. Aannyway, I think "the" Black Abbott would have imparted more menace if he'd ditched the goofball duds and just dressed more like a monk. Specifically, a Satanic monk. Behold!

Now we're thinkin' outside the box hat! My early sketches had "the" Black Abbott all dolled up in everything from just a basic monk's robe to a gaudy Satanic ceremonial affair (with goat-head themed mask and shoulderpads, and even one of those Hellraiser skirts like Pinhead likes to wear). This, I think, is the happy medium. We have the monk theme with the hood, and the stylized cape evokes a monk's robe while still allowing him to run and fight hand-to-hand. Meanwhile, the body suit with the inverted cross gives him some standard supervillain flavor so he doesn't look too out of place while he's getting his ass handed to him by Power Man and Iron Fist. The gloves are fingerless, the better for him to gesture evilly, and to coordinate with the gloves I gave him my patented calf spats. And yes, I drew him with two hands. Why not? It could be prosthetic. Or hell, he's got magic mental powers, maybe he regrew the damn thing. I know, I know... it's obvious wish fulfillment on my part. *gazes sadly down at robotic dingus*

Note: stylistically, I wanted to try drawing in the style of Korean artist Min-Woo Hyung, as seen in his manwha series, "Priest."

Next Monday: a post nineteen years in the making!

Previous "Rescue Me" challenges:

• Turner D. Century
• Shellshock
• Mirage
• The Vamp
• The Basilisk
• Megatak
• Hellrazor
• The Melter
• Cyclone
• The Hijacker
• The Fly
• The Cheetah
• Lionfang
• The Miracle Man
• Bird-Man 2
• Steeplejack 2
• Commander Kraken
• Titania
• Bonus: Annihilator and Son
• Red Skull 3

Moral Realignment Challnge: Starfire and Psimon

In the Moral Realignment Challenge, I imagine how a bad guy would look as a good guy, and vice-versa. Currently I'm working my way through the Fearsome Five and the Teen Titans! Hey, Starfire and Psimon! You're up to bat!

From "Quiz the Question Guy (All-Psimon Edition)" in "Direct Currents" on the back pages of "Brainiac Bunch" #218 (February 1982) on Earth-AAA:

Q: Where did Psimon get his powers? A: Orphan Simon Jones was granted his magic mental abilities by the old wizard Trigon the Terrific!

Q: Why does Psimon wear that dome on his head and what is it made of (the dome, not his head)? A: Now that he's a grown man, only Psimon's special diamond quartz helmet can keep his awesome powers in check when he's outside of his containment capsule.

Q: What happened to the Psimon back-up in CLAIRVOYANT COMICS? A: Psimon is busy adventuring with his pals in THE NEW FEARLESS FIVE. But don't be surprised if he guest-stars later this year in CLAIRVOYANT fighting alongside his former mentor, Doctor Psychic!

Q: Why does Starfire have it in for Psimon? A: In DC SUPERSTARS IN SPACE #6 he prevented her from destroying her home planet of Tamaran.

Q: Is Psimon related to Validus from the LEGION OF THE SUPER-VALIANT comic? They both have mental powers, Psimon wears purple and has a see-through helmet and Validus is purple-skinned and has a see-through head! A: Wow! Interesting theory, but nope! Validus is not Psimon's descendant. Besides, can you imagine your child coming out looking like your favorite outfit? That would just be silly!

Evil Psimon is a creepy monster so I made Good Psimon a handsome hunk. He has that Mister Freeze thing goin' on with the helmet so the fact he's a dreamboat just makes it all the more tragic he can't kiss anybody. (And conceptually, Good Psimon owes a lot to Cyclops, Rogue, Jack of Hearts, and just for the heck of it, Captain Marvel... er, the Fawcett/DC one.) I based Good Psimon's costume on the Evil Psimon's original duds... y'know, the hot pink choir robe with the lace collar? That's where the cape came from. So the terrarium helmet wouldn't get lonesome, I added see-through-plastic-over-white gloves and kneepads. The rest of the costume is done up in shades of purple to coordinate with the cape. Finally, his hair is white, because it goes with the whole colorless/see-through head theme. Besides, I just can't resist a good-lookin' guy with prematurely white hair!

Good Starfire's costume is a flimsy purple number with freakin' daisies or some shit on it, so I made Evil Starfire's costume the opposite of that in several ways:

1. It covers everything except her face and hands.
2. The color is hot instead of cool.
   
3. The shapes are geometric instead of organic. Specifically, that goofball flower thing has been replaced by hexagons.
   

Also, her positively gargantuan Tamarafro of sproingy, curly hair -- or rather, the energy that surrounds it and creates the illusion of a trail as she passes by, is confined to a crest of flames atop the helmet. Voila! Curvy cosmic badass!

Next week: I'm not done with Starfire yet! It's Gender Reassignment Challenge time!

Previous Moral Realignment Challenges:

• Elongated Man and Doctor Light
• Jubilee and Apocalypse
• Iron Man and M.O.D.O.K.
• The Flash and Murmur
• Green Arrow and Clock King
• Nightwing and Gizmo
• Wonder Girl and Mammoth

Gender Reassignment Challenge: Enchantress to Enchanter, Part Three

Remember when I said that the Enchantress' Suicide Squad costume was a tough one to translate into a male version? I found her Shadowpact costume even tougher. That's because it's another bustier/tiara combo. (Criminy, people! Enough already! How 'bout a nice tailored pant suit and a Pucci scarf?) To top it off, the costume also has capri pants, slippers, and fingerless opera gloves! To top that off? It's really, really boring. Say what you will about the giant witch hat, at least it had some personality and it was actually symbolic of the Enchantress' powers. The sorry ensemble she sports in the "Shadowpact" era is a warmed-over regurgitation of Storm, the Scarlet Witch, Marvel's Enchantress, and the White Queen, with a little "Shelly Winters in 'Lolita'" for spice. It's "I Dream of Jeanie" meets the Pussycat Dolls. Blech. Hey, let's get our heroine's reaction to the first time she saw her new get-up in a full-length mirror.

You can't run from ugly, Enchantress. But enough about her! What about me? (Which is something I ask people, including random bystanders, at least ten times a day.) To put it mildly, I had quite the chore on my hands.

Here's what I finally came up with:

The last time I had to rework a tiara for a male character, I turned it into hair. This time, it's a tattoo. Or facepaint, if you're squeemish. I made it red, like the gem, instead of gold. Because it looks tougher that way! I think it lends a nice shamanistic feel to the character. I also added a smaller portion of tattoo/paint to the chin, to balance out the design. I changed the oval jewel to a rectangular one and moved it up to the neck. And I connected the cape to a tall, close-fitting collar. The lace-up bustier was turned into a Ren Faire/Barney Rubble lace-up vest. The fingerless opera gloves are now very long wrist bands (they go from the wrist to the elbow). The sash is a lot wider now -- kind of a swashbuckling, Arabian Nights type of thing. I kept the silhouette of the capri pants/slippers, but the negative space that used to be exposed skin is now the very stylized portion of the boots.

Whew! I think it holds together okay. That said, I really prefer the previous two costumes. They're a lot more fun!