We'll Always Have Sturgis

So, are there any websites out there with slashfic about characters from the 1971 Gold Key series, "Mod Wheels"?

Because there totally should be. (Haw, haw!)

Night of the Quaffing Dead

"He'll be sorrowful looking enough in a moment -- after he realizes he's drinking a 'Natural Ice!'"

Confession time: I kind of covet those boots. The rest of the get-up? Not so much. And that facial hair is way too tentative and delicate for my tastes -- like he could sneeze and it would gently explode and then drift away on an air current. Like a dandelion! (See also: that blond douche from "The Hills.")

(This is from "Shadow Play" #1, from the reliably boring Whitman Comics in 1982. No month given, probably because it was destined to plague the gift shops of various Stuckey's and Nickerson Farms, accreting root beer spatter and chocolate thumb-prints until it became a sticky boulder that was used by a robber to bludgeon the night manager.)

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.

The Incredible Journal

*dashes into bedroom, giggling excitedly; then hops on fur-strewn granite slab (my bed) and lolls about with a big grin; then plucks from the floor a massive tome, bound in leather and edged in razor wire; flops on belly with legs kicking lazily; begins scribbling in blank pages of the book*

Dear Space-Diary,

You'll never believe this, but I've found a NEW (imaginary) boyfriend! Tee-hee! Deep booming laugh! His name is "Mihura" and he's from SPAIN. Look how sexy he is!

See? Ours is a true love that will last until the universe collapses in on itself, only he doesn't know I'm alive, but there's a PROBLEM, space-diary! Mihura lives in another dimension and ALSO a thousand years ago, which BITES. Pout! Brood! Oh, if ONLY I could steal borrow another time-bubble, like I did that ONE time, but my dumb JOB doesn't give me any time to get away! It's so STUPID! Maybe I can do it when I get my two weeks paid vacation this summer, but that's FOREVER from now! I want Mihura and his sexy sexy body RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND!

Mihura is JUST SO COOL! For ONE thing, he works at the CIRCUS! As a "strongman"! They call him "El Hombre Mas Fuerte Del Mundo", which means "the hardest man in the world"! Or so I'm told! I didn't think anybody could beat ME out for that title, but if Mihura did, I want a piece of THAT action! Giggle! Raspy chortle! I love Mihura's hair! Even the dumb Liefeld-esque braids! Maybe because the rest of his hair is so long, they don't stand out as much! I dunno! But mostly I love his beautiful beautiful bearded face and his big muscle-y body! He needs to stop waxing it, but I could take care of THAT. Mihura LOVES to drink V-8 vegetable juice from industrial-sized drums, and he even invented a special can-opener that he wears on his arm for just such occasions! He's like Sugyn minus the gut! (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Also, Mihura farts the souls of the damned, which is like the ULTIMATE in bad-assery.

SOMEDAY, space-diary, Mihura and I will bask in the light of a beautiful sun. Preferably a red one, since that highlights my complexion to best effect. MARK MY WORDS. The only obstacle I can see are THESE losers he hangs out with:

Especially the nun. At that Amadan monastery my folks sent me to that one summer ("Our Brother of the Immaculately-Trimmed Mustache") the monks would thump you on the head with their canes if they caught you jerking off in the mens' room to Omnicom porn. But they sure as hell didn't wield FLAMING SWORDS. What the HELL? Also, what happened to her EYEBALLS? She's CREEPY.

I want Mihura HERE in my BED RIGHT NOW. I WANT HIM! And he's so far away! It makes me want to cry punch something!

That's all for NOW, space-diary! I'm going to Tusker's now to play video games. He has Ocarina Hero 2, which sounds KICK-ASS! THEN we'll eat some cheesecake and do each other's hair!

BLOCKADE BOY OUT!

Nipples, Italian Style

Well, of course, he'd dress like that. He's a hypnotist. (I remember when a traffic court ordered me to see an anger-management therapist. The doctor was dressed only in combat boots and a jockstrap... by the time I'd gotten done with him, anyway.)

From the extensive files of the International Hero website comes "Argoman"! This strapping (if disappointingly hairless) specimen of manhood is the star of an Italian film from the 1960's. But hey! Check out them nipples! Rrrowr! I'm guessing the actual costume worn by the actor was some sort of spandex deal, so you couldn't really see his nipples. A guy can dream, though. Can't he?

Alias "Sir Reginald Hoover", Argoman has super-strength, super-hearing, telekinetic powers, and a "These are not the cannoli you're looking for" type of hypnotic suggestion, which is to say it only works on really stupid people. Bonus: he loses all his powers for about six hours after having sex. Sound familiar, guys? Not to me, of course. I'm so dad-blamed virile, I wear dudes out in their efforts to satiate me. I often find myself in a "Prince of Space" scenario, where my weary partners will try to tire me out with some newfangled sex toy (or three), and I'll bellow, "Your weapons are useless against me!" Then I'll let fly with a deep, thundering chortle which terrifies/thrills them.

"So, other than the nipples -- and might I add, 'enough already!' -- how did you like the costume, Mister Blockade Boy?" Thank you for asking. And don't sass me! Once I tore my eyes off his nipples -- which took a while -- I saw that it was a pretty lame costume. Sort of a mash-up among the Black Condor, Hourman, and Cyclops. I hate it when capes are attached to the wrists. The belt is the most interesting thing about him. And it sucks. So no, I don't like the costume. But since it's Italian, I'm sure the tailoring is impeccable.

Extreme Blockadeover: MaGnUs, Part Four

The H.M.S. Exquisite has docked at an out-of-the-way planetoid for repairs. Since the Exquisite is a pirate spaceship I had to take the old girl to a skeezy chop-shop establishment. They're replacing the melted nuclear engine with one they "reclaimed" from a fancy U.P. battle cruiser. Already I can hear the mechanics whispering shit like "That's the famous Brigadier Blockade? I thought he was a cyborg!" and "He's got all his body parts! What's up with that? You can't be a pirate if you still got all your arms and legs!" and "The U.P.'s gonna take back his pirate's license for sure!" and (of course) "Now that's what I call a man! Do you think he'd roger me in the grease pit if I asked real nice?" (I get that last one all the time.) But yeah, word that I'm no longer officially qualified to be a pirate is going to spread pretty fast now. And I'd threaten these guys to keep 'em quiet but it sounds like they're into that. Which is fine, I don't even want to be a pirate anymore (so there!) but if the U.P. catches up to me before I've had a chance to unload my booty (so to speak) they're going to confiscate it all! So I've got to get the Exquisite up and running and off to someplace I can make a helluva deal for all my legally-stolen merchandise.

In the meantime, I've got some more mail! From MaGnUs! And he says...

So, here goes my last batch

Sure it is, buddy. Sure it is...! *thunderous-yet-congenial laughter*

This is the x-costume again, with less skin showing, and less of a gimpy feel to it. I dropped the cowl, but left the goggles, and kept the huge-ass X on the chest, as well as the textured gloves. Black bodysuit, and a belt only as a fashion accesory (like Rogue used to wear); with multi-buckled boots to match. I don't expect you to put this one on the maybe pile, but I just wanted to show you the redesign.

Well, tough shit because I am putting it on the "maybe" pile.

Just for shit and giggles: Detective Blockade goes to Reboot Era and has mutiple pouches to hold all the bullets he needs to kill people who call themselves stuff like "Apparition", "Live Wire" or "Inferno".

Heh. Cute. It's a non-starter for me, of course, because of the gray temples (which don't exactly go with "Boy") and the generic costume. Also, I kind of miss the cigar. Even though I'm more of a pipe man myself. Oh well.

Professor Blockade: Mad scientist get up, again, just for fun. Absent-minded mad scientist.

I know, but I decided to post this anyway. Because I really like the goggles, the bald head, and (especially) the walrus mustache. Koo-koo-katchoo, motherfuckers! The bow tie is a nice touch as well. Y'know, it's a shame this is mostly street clothes, or else I'd consider it for the "maybe" pile.

Kung-Fu Blockade: Just a regular kung-fu fighter outfit, with the sunglasses to give it a modern touch, and of course, a black belt.

Wow! No, thank you. Although I like the idea of showing my big, ape-like feet to all the world. On the few occasions I've walked around barefoot in public, I'd see strangers glance down at my feet and get these ridiculous scrunched-up "disgusted" faces, so then of course I had to pin them up against a wall -- with one of my feet -- and say "You know what your problem is? You just can handle how fabulous my feet are!" (Yes, I sometimes paraphrase dialog from the Whitney Houston version of "Cinderella.") And then I pimp-slap them a couple of times. With my feet.

There, won't torture you again with my designs

Oh! Well, I'm glad we've come to some sort of an understanding...

unless I get new ideas...

D'oh!

The Blockade Boy Committee on Unheroic Activities

Now that Young Gerry Conway has been sworn in, the interrogation -- er, I mean, "inquiry" can begin!

Why did Tony and Marianne (or "Marrianne") never get "that chance for reconcilliation?" They had just arrived at an airport, and by plane, for Pete's sake! You don't land at an airport and then just merrily be on your way. It takes forever to get out of one of those hellholes. Wouldn't Tony and Marianne have run into each other at the luggage carousel? Or the parking garage? Or the little place that sells nachos?

Who is this Senator My Seventh Grade Haircut guy and what is the deal with his orange word balloons? Is it supposed to be a clue? Is he the Vision's flabbier, phlegmier brother? When he talks does it sound kinda tropicale (French!) like you can hear steel drums in the background? Is he morbidly afraid of contracting scurvy, and he's ingested so much vitamin C that it's coloring everything that emerges from his body? (When he sweats -- which is often -- he resembles a low-impact Gatorade commercial. And when he poops it looks like a Play-Doh Fun Factory!)

When is Tony going to realize that brooding about brooding is Spider-Man's bag, as the aging, Social Security-draining hippies like to say, and not Iron Man's? Tony's so far out of character at this point he might as well shave off the mustache, quit his high-paying job, move into a crappy little apartment and just sit there, not banging devastatingly beautiful honeys for the rest of his life. And finally, what does his hand smell like? (I'm guessin' it's a combination of "English Leather", Wild Turkey, and that white-panted guy.)

Well? Explain yourself, Young Gerry Conway!

...

Oh, you've written yourself into a silent panel, eh? Tusker, hustle this crumb-bum outta here! What's that? Oh, I'm letting you walk alright, Conway... on the plank! *deep, throaty laughter that devolves into a coughing fit*

Goodbye, Mister Teeny Eyeballs

Remember that alternate-universe Legion I glimpsed on my way back from the 21st Century? The one where everybody had taut, vaguely-English faces with tiny noses and tiny mouths and tiny eyeballs? Where everyone's hair was feathered (or else looked like Toni Tennille's) and nearly every female wore a belly shirt? Yeah, that one. It was horrific.

Well, a friend of mine from the Time Institute space-mailed me a snapshot of that Legion, and I have to say those poor shmoes seem to be pulling themselves together! For example, that Legion finally has an Invisible Kid whom I don't instinctively want to punch in the mouth (the better to wipe off that stoner smirk, y'see). My friend's letter quoted that Legion's new costume designer, one Mister Francis Manapul, as saying "I'm trying to simply rather than modernize. I think simplicity carries over and creates a timeless look." Amen, brother! Finally, that Legion has somebody working for them who shares my aesthetic. Not that it's a complete success, but still, it's a step in the right direction. Let's review...

• I'm pleased as punch my "off-the-shoulder" look for men is catching on, as Timberwolf is wearing... oh. Those are just orange patches on his shoulders which are blending with a crappy spray-on tan. My bad. It's still a pretty sweet costume. Love the bare toes! (Although I thought they'd be hairier.)
• No more belly shirt for Light Lass! It looks like a proper costume now! Huzzah! See what a difference it makes when you don't go for a trend... that expired eight years ago? Also, I love the longer hair on her. Very fetching.
• Alternate-universe versions of Triplicate Girl continue to be prudish frumps with Moe Howard haircuts, I see. And this one's cape still has that ridiculous cowl-neck... presumably so she can duck her head down into it like a turtle whenever the paparazzi show up. Ugh. Why is mine the only universe where Luornu is allowed to be sexy?
• Not sure why Shrinking Violet (or Atom Girl or whatever the frig they call her over there) needs hotpants. Whatever.
• Their version of Element Lad still looks like a complete tool.
• Is it just me, or does Colossal Boy (or Micro Lad or whatever) looks way better, proportionally, if you mentally erase the random-looking brown quilting on his arms, neck, and head? Also, who designed that thing? The Constrictor? He looks like he's part-armadillo now.
• Chameleon (Boy?) is dressed for Ye Olde Renaissance Faire and I have no idea why. It's not an unattractive costume; it's merely generic and blandly colored.
• Sun Boy's still in his "pants on fire" costume which does absolutely nothing for me. For someone with an allegedly "dynamic" personality he sure looks insipid and tacky.
• Brainy's tunic rawks. I heartily approve! Let's hope he doesn't still have those dumb Bedazzled cheeks anymore.
• Shadow Lass's costume? Still slutty. I don't care if you put a grandly proportioned cape on her. I've seen hookers with floor-length mink coats; it didn't stop them from looking like hookers.
• Star Boy and Karate Kid? Been there, done that. Big yawn.
• Ultra Boy's costume is an old reliable, but at least it's not boring. Not sure about the cut-outs on his forearms. Maybe his forearms need the freedom to expand in battle, like they get really huge, like Popeye's. Also, I'm sure he'll pass that kidney stone eventually.
• Interesting variant on the classic Lightning Lad costume. Simple, but it works. And I applaud the absence of white on this version. It's actually kind of refreshing. Assuming that's not a printing error. For example, the lightning crackling from his hand has been rendered totally invisible, and it's making Saturn Girl's thighs look all wrinkly. And with this much yellow, I wonder if the navy blue should have been replaced with black. Or maybe a deep red! That'd be cool.
• Saturn Girl's costume got a deep, gravelly, rollicking laugh out of me because although I like it, I couldn't help thinking that in a Grant Morrison/Frank Quitely universe all the white bits would be exposed skin.
• Princess Projectra is still in her Count Jugula get-up with the stupid collar on it. Feh.
• Phantom Girl... yikes. I'm sorry, but the sheer number and placement of those cut-outs are just sad (and desperate). Whenever a group of people is ignoring her -- which is often -- she whips out the scissors and cuts another chunk out of her leotard. She's fast approaching the point of "no return," where she'll just be walking around buck-naked clutching a few scraps of fabric to her bosom and ladycrotch.

Rescue Me Bonus: the Annihilator

Here's a costume redesign that doesn't fit into one of my regular categories: 1960's Superman villain, the Annihilator. One of my many cultured and tasteful commenters* suggested I tackle this joker's apparel, mainly because his nose pokes through his mask! I'd forgotten all about him until last week. That's when a laser-guided demolition crew disintegrated a museum to make way for a new Bismoll MacMattercuddy's family restaurant (try the copper-plated breakfast burrito!) and discovered an ancient comic book shoppe underneath! It turns out the whole thing had been engulfed in lava while the inhabitants were in the middle of a HeroClix tourney. Thank goodness mylar and cardboard proved to be the perfect protection against surging, molten death. Size XXXL Vampirella t-shirts? Not so much. All that was left of the humans in that crowded death-box was some Pompei-style rock statues studded with candybar wrappers and the occasional ingrown beard hair. Long story short, the development company claimed the store's merchandise through some arcane landlocked salvage law and auctioned the whole deal off, cheap! I snagged a ton of them, including a copy of Action Comics #356 (November 1967). It was perfectly legible once I chisled the rock off of it.

*I'm embarrassed and chagrined to admit that I can't remember who precisely. I even spent a couple of hours last night poring over my older costume redesign posts looking for the exact comment. I couldn't locate it, but I got many a hearty, booming, basso profundo chuckle from reading my own writing. Good heavens, but I'm clever! Er, anyway... maybe the person I'm thinking of sent me an e-mail instead. I dunno.

The Annihilator's power is cool enough. He's like an evil Human Bomb, powered by chemicals somehow left on the Earth by the Kryptonians (the Kree of the DC Universe... just dropping their untold scads of power-inducing crap all over planet Earth, like it's their own personal landfill). But that costume--! The main part of it is ugly, but in a completely boring way -- just like most characters that show up in your typical Superman story. But then... there's the mask. It does indeed have his nose sticking through it, all naked and nude and uncovered, with a frankly insoucient attitude reminiscent of Berlin in the 1920's. But wait! That's not the best part! The real beauty of the mask is that it covers up his upper lip... because the Annihilator's civilian identity, "Nobel Prize-winning biochemist" Karl Keller, has a handlebar mustache!

See? And he's not even drawn by Herb Trimpe! Honestly, I think the Annihilator could have had a much more illustrious career if only he'd dressed better! So here's what I'd do:

See, Annihilator? That's how you can enjoy both a supervillainous secret identity and a handlebar mustache while not getting laughed at! Well, at least they won't laugh at you in your villain costume, anyhow. I make no guarantees for how you dress in the privacy of your own lab. Because his powers are Kryptonian-based, I made his costume a riff on Superman's. That's why it's primarily red-and-blue, only darker, natch, 'cause he's a baddie. Instead of a cape, the red is supplied by the accessories, like the nifty shoulderpads. The Anime-style hair has one extra-long lock as a tribute to Superman's famous (and equally ridiculous) "spit curl." Except it's sticking straight up in the air and it's all spiky, to impart menace. No, for reals. Plus, he can just slick it back down while he's out of costume. The Annihilator's logo is an inverted Superman shield (evil!) with the alchemical symbol for the planet Pluto inside it, symbolizing upheaval and violent change. And sure, it looks like the intergalactic sign for a well-hung gentleman who's doing the splits, but so what? I checked out 21st Century industrial explosion symbols online but it turns out they're not designed very well at all. I could have done better, but none of you vacuous cavemen bothered to ask me while I was living in your idiotic time period. Feh. Your loss!

Tomorrow (you heard me): the Son of the Annihilator! Plus, Weight Wizard news.

Next week: Moral Reversal Challenge: Starfire and Psimon!

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