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.

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!)

Bikini Area 51

I hope Chameleon Boy remembers to thank Shrinking Violet for letting him borrow her blouse and panties.

What in the Sam Hill is going on here, you might ask, if you were a comic-relief "old prospector" character from a Hollywood Western? It's pretty simple, really. Let me break it down for you:

1. Chameleon Boy is sweet on Jan. Sadly...
2. Chameleon Boy is too shy to "make the first move", so...
3. Chameleon Boy has resorted to a trick taught to him by Timber Wolf...
4. And has shown up in her room with no trousers on. Unfortunately...
5. Chameleon Boy forgot to shape-shift himself some genitalia.

But that's no big deal, Cham. You don't need your junk to "press the button", if you know what I mean.

...And Cinemax is Born!

In the days before "naughty web-cams", people had to work with whatever technology they had on hand.

(Even creepier: Cookie and his girlfriend appear to be ambulatory ventriloquists' dummies.)

J'onn J'onzz, Playa From Mars

The Martian Manhunter's "bachelor capsule" is in a geosynchronous orbit, and is equipped with all the latest alien-babe-snagging devices. There's the Living Loveseat, which contracts into a tulip shape when triggered by certain pheremones; the chlorine-fog machine (an aphrodisiac for many species; pure poison for others, so choose wisely); and, of course, the vibrating pillow with blinking hypno-light button.

The belly-baring gal hopes to get J'onn to play "policeman" with her, since she wants him to yell "Hands up!" and she's not wearing a bra. (Also note how the arrow on her belt buckle subtly points to the location of her unearthly genitalia.)

The Jugs of Navarone

Yeah, I'm pretty sure those two were already headed "behind the pillars," smart guy. (They've been reunited for like, three seconds, and he's nearly got that bra off of her...)

Also: "Only a loan"?

"Resistance fighters", my firm, hairy ass! NOBODY can resist Zorba!

Bendis-Speak Doctor Doom vs. Zagor!

In other words, Zagor, Doc Doom will be your Huckleberry.

Robe Playing

After weeks on the lam, it's nice to be back home in my swingin' bachelor pod. I just had to do a little cleaning. For example? I had to rip down all the police tape. Also, my closets had gotten all rummaged and shit, so I had to re-organize them, and make a list of everything the U.P. investigators had stolen taken into evidence. Finally, I had to move my stone slab of a bed off of the Science Police rookie it had tipped over on (about a week ago). And before you ask, he's fine. In fact, I'd say he's mighty fine. His body was brawny enough to avoid serious injury. Still, I'm not letting him leave until I doctor him back to health. I'm fattening him up with some of my special protein broths (fortified with omnibeast lard), and I've also forbidden him to shave, and I'm in the middle of designing some nice tattoos for him. Just because. (Shut up.)

But the best part of being home again is the freedom to pad about my pod in this super-cool kimono that Silvercat designed for me! Check out her drawing of me wearing it! Sweet!

Art Transplant

Guess who got his computer illustration program back up and running again?

(Hint: it's me!)

That means more slick-looking computer illustrations, and less -- if any -- watercolor-and-ink jobs. My first order of business was to draw myself, natch. I'm working on something for Dr. Tectonic, next, as well as that picture of Storm Boy in his twink-tastic new costume that I designed for him. My scanning software is still jacked-up for the time being: I can still crop to any shape I desire, but it will only let me scale to pre-set photo sizes. That's because it's a pared-down version of my original software, which is not available for the latest version of my computer's operating system ("Omnicom Vidi", as opposed to the older model, "Omnicom Expo"). WHAT'S THE POINT OF UPGRADING MY O.S. IF IT FORCES ME TO USE CRAPPIER SOFTWARE?! GAH!

*sexfully broods for about ten minutes, while occasionally emitting bestial grunts and growls*

...Where was I? Oh yeah. So my point is, I'm not sure how that's going to affect my coverage of that Batman vs. Tub story, but maybe I'll figure out something. Or not. To be honest, I was kind of getting sick of it. Maybe you guys were too. I dunno. I'll probably finish it later. But don't hold your breath. Fair enough? Sweet.

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.

Once More, With Follicles

Star Boy freaks out over Darkling's unbridled sexfulness: take two! By special kind-of-request by Bill S., I have a whole passel of alternate reaction shots, not by the timid and beardless mid-teens Star Boy, but by the confident and slobber-worthy bearded late-teens/early-twenties Star Boy! (I'm not sure how old he is in these. Damn sliding timeline!) Sadly, only the above picture features his mustache in handsome "handlebar mode."

Let the multi-stage spooge-fest commence!

Stage one: Sits violently upright, spilling absinthe.

Stage two: Imagines doing the horizontal Shurg with Darkling. And then with both Darkling and current girlfriend, Dream Girl.

Stage three: Realizes was talking aloud about stage two. Ignores catty comment from friend who doesn't even have his own penis. I mean, seriously. What the hell?! Cram it, space-eunuch!

Stage four: Logical portion of brain held down and mercilessly pummeled by own horniness.

Stage five: Gives up fighting, "enjoys the ride."

Stage six: Symbolic ejaculation.

Stage seven: Body spontaneously fractures in four-hundred places.

Stage eight: Lengthy recuperation. Tries to rub bits of shattered pelvis against cast.

The Ancient and Deadly Art of Shaking What Your Mama Gave You

In "The Mighty Crusaders" #10 (Archie Comics, December 1984), Darkling explains how it took years of practicing in a remote dojo before she could "work it" without inadvertently killing somebody. It's like kung fu!

Hey, Star Boy! You're into curvy dames. How do ya like them tomatoes?

Assume the Exposition

Oh, so General Angst wanted to be surprised.

And I love that Don Newton didn't shy away from drawing an arrow towards the best-known vulnerable* part of the male anatomy: the groinular region. It's just a shame Dr. Moon's elbow is in the way.

*And therefore exquisitely sensitive, as well. That's why I like to plaster the walls of this town with "travel posters" that feature slogans like, "Visit Blockade Boy's Breathtaking Groinular Area" and "Blockade Boy's Groinular Area: You Belong There."

The Day the World Ended

In my defense, I was drunk off my ass.

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

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

But maybe I'd better explain, huh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Storm Boy was right.

I really do "ruin everything."

Oh, There's No Place Like a Hover-Biker Bar for the Holidays

Yeah, I'm writing this post drunk. SO WHAT?

Sorry. I'm a little testy right now. Lemme explain.

I got my final paycheck from my Undercover Santa gig at the Mall of Lallor. That was fine. They even threw in a bonus for all the extra business I was able to drum up; it seems that I was their most unforgiving, brutal Santa Claus ever, and it brought in the Solstice fanatics by the rocket-load! And those nuts, they'll spend space-cheddah on Solstice merchandise with such abandon, you'd think Gold Boy himself was crapping his gilded turds directly into their purses. I interrogated respectfully asked one of my Santa job clients about this phenomenon. Apparently, they believe their odds of achieving (wholly imaginary) salvation increase with every new piece of tie-in junk they purchase.

However. I can't deposit (or, to be perfectly honest, cash) the damn paycheck because the freakin' banks are all shut down. So that's Sucky Thing Number One.

Sucky Thing Number Two is how Eyeful Ethel was going to throw her employees a lavish Solstice Eve party at work today, but had to cancel at the last minute due to civil unrest. It would have been a fun bash, too, I bet. Everybody was there, save for Gadfly Lad, of course, and Storm Boy, who had visi-phoned in sick with something unpronounceable and contagious. (I bet he's canoodling with that "Ox" guy right now. ...Huh. Apparently, I believe in "Ox" after all! It's a Solstice miracle!)

We had just finished decorating the office and were wondering why the caterers were late, when that blimp I saw last week drifted by our windows. Which was a bad sign, considering we're only on the third floor. We all rushed over to "ooh" and "ah" at it. (Okay, so maybe it was more "AAAAA!!!" than "ah" but still.) The last "N" in its lighted slogan flickered out with a burst of sparks, changing its dire prophecy to "THE END IS EAR." Abruptly, the blimp banked upward and soared into a radioactive cloud. Mere moments later, it emerged, heading in the opposite direction and sinking rapidly. Several sky mutants clung to it. Its tail burst into flame. It planted itself nose-down into the public square a few blocks from us, and exploded. It was a sight to behold -- the conflagration featured an impressive, multi-stage display, with fountains of sparks; whizzing, boomeranging debris that shot gaily into the sky; and a stunning Roman candle sort of sustained burst. It was way better than most fireworks shows I've attended -- and I've attended a lot! About halfway through the blimp's lengthy demise, the lights blinked out in the nearby buildings. As if by some secret signal, hoards of rioters flooded into the streets, and started beating the shit out of one another. Then our own building went dark.

Ethel swore, loudly. Then she sighed, "Sorry, folks. Solstice is canceled. I'd advise you to all get home as soon as possible. You know, before things get out of hand."

I tried to visi-phone Klup, but I couldn't get a signal. Nobody could. The reason for this became apparent once the blazing communications satellites came pouring out of the heavens. One smacked squarely into Nightmare Boy's gloss-black Lallorghini XE rocket-car. "Oh, come on--!" he moaned.

"Didn't see that one coming, did you?" I quipped. He laughed, albeit ruefully.

As we hustled our asses out of there, I gallantly offered to walk somebody home. The only taker was Nightmare Boy.

I only had to clobber a handful of rioters at first (while Nightmare Boy cowered behind overturned baby carriages and other bits of detritus) but after six blocks or so, the crowds started getting thicker and meaner. Nightmare Boy's eyes looked positively wild, as he nervously checked street signs and his wristwatch. At one point, we had to retreat into an alley.

"Where are we?" demanded Nightmare Boy.

"Around Tcheru and 59th," I replied. "And don't take that tone with me."

He glanced at his watch again. "Duck."

"What?"

"Down on the ground! NOW!" As I blinked at him, utterly confused at this change in his demeanor, Nightmare Boy tackled me. I was about to smack him in his beautiful face when the engine block from an exploding zoom-lorry sailed overhead, right where my head had been.

Nightmare Boy rolled himself off of me, and smiled. "I saw that one coming! Oh, and you're welcome." He burst into the universe's suavest-sounding giggle fit. (It was very George Takei-like.) He hopped to his feet and extended his hand to me.

Flushed with embarrassment, I allowed him to help me up. "Thanks, dude," I said. "And I'm sorry I've doubted you. I guess you're not a big phony after all!"

"Not all the time, anyway," he grinned.

I scouted the other end of the alley. The chaos was less-pronounced on the adjoining street. I motioned for Nightmare Boy to join me. I explained to him that the crowds were getting too thick and too violent for us to safely make it all the way to his home, and that we were better off finding some place where we could hole up until the next morning.

I noticed that a hover-biker bar across the street still had its lights on, and suggested it to Nightmare Boy as a suitable spot. Two muscle-bound patrons tumbled out the establishment's front door, trading punches. Then they started to make out.

Nightmare Boy's pallid complexion blanched to lily-whiteness. "I think I see a dance club a few blocks down," he gulped. "That would be good, too."

I squinted, trying to make out anything beyond the veil of smoke he was pointing at. "What, behind that overturned acid tanker and the Burning Effigy Parade? Good luck with that."

In front of the hover-biker bar, the two men had interrupted their make-out session to resume belaboring each other about the head and groin.

"I'll take my chances," replied Nightmare Boy. Convulsively, he darted out of the alley, and disappeared into the haze.

So here I am, by myself on Solstice Eve, in a hover-biker bar. I'd be tempted to brave the riots again, except the owner has had to activate the inertron shutters. No one enters; no one leaves! The Solstice carol videos belched out by the holo-box are bracingly gory affairs, but around their twelfth repetition they've lost their luster. The floors have filmed over with a combination of dirt, melted radioactive snow, and various bodily fluids. There's nothing to eat except soylent snacks. The heater is stuck on "blast furnace" level, which means I'm currently swimming in my own perspiration. I've been in three fist-fights already. None of them have ended in a make-out session, goddamn it. My vision is blurry. (Whether it's from the alcohol, the chokingly thick clouds of cigar smoke, or the pool cue chalk that nailed me in the eye when I first entered, I'm not sure.) An hour ago, somebody vomited into the complimentary bowl of rum punch. And to top it all off, the owner just came around with a box of those tacky dark beast ears (on headbands) for everybody to wear. I put some on. Because I don't care, anymore. "The end is ear," indeed.

...Hold the visi-phone! There's a hot, beefy dude "making eyes" at me, and he's got the brawniest arms and the lushest salt-and-pepper beard I've ever laid eyes on! I'm gonna walk over there and see if he wants to "wrestle." It looks like this day won't be a total loss, after all!

Happy Solstice, everybody!

Love in the Time of Ball Cancer

So it turns out, "Glub's" name is really "Klup." Also, I now suspect Flev may be suffering from severe nasal congestion. (Think about it.)

I had just enough time after my shift to change clothes, splash on some Hi-Tri-Jitsu cologne, and dash to the theater so I could meet Klup. He was a vision in this figure-hugging spandex number that hinted at every single piercing below his neckline. Plus, there was a peek-a-boo cut-out at his waist to show off just a hint of pubes. I growled appreciatively, and proceeded to eye-rape the bejeezus out of him. It was a good start to the evening.

The management had installed metal detectors, due to the Solstice Season unrest. Klup and his bazillion piercings almost didn't make it inside the building. But a stern look from me (and an individually wrapped slice of space-cheddah) smoothed things over with the security guard. "Sweet Chariot" itself was very enjoyable -- one of the better productions I've seen of this show. I particularly applaud the casting of Android Gerard Butler as Judah Ben-Hur. What a looker! (Fear not, music fans; they'd implanted him with Android Thomas Hampson's baritone voice box.) Klup had never seen the show before, but I could tell he was utterly enchanted by the spectacular musical numbers, like "If My Slaves Could See Me Now" and "It's a Leprous Face."

The famous chariot race was just beginning (finally, a good reason for theater-in-the-round) when one of Lallor's famed Spontaneous Riots spilled into the theater, through the atomic blast exits. So basically, all hell broke loose and the show came to an immediate halt. It was chaos. Nearly everybody -- rioters, security guards, androids, and theater patrons -- broke into a Western-style donnybrook. The security guards didn't even use their phaser pistols! What the hell? Nope, they were just hitting and kicking folks like everybody else. I was holding my own in that brawl, but I quickly noticed that Klup was getting piled on. He wasn't even hitting anybody! He was just defending himself with his arms. And crying. So I had to wade in there and scoop his ass up. With Klup cradled in my arms like a freaking baby, I punched my way out of that scrap. Once I made it to the sidewalk, I sprinted several blocks, and got us just out of range of the shock wave from when the theater blew up.

Klup told me he was worried about making it home, what with all the Solstice crazies on the streets. So I did the gallant thing and accompanied him back to his studio. On the way, I entertained him with a recounting of the remainder of "Sweet Chariot". I even gave him my rendition of the hit song, "I Love To Cry At Crucifixions."

I gotta say, Klup lives in a pretty bad neighborhood, what with all the graffiti, and the burned-out husks of rocket-cars, and the gangs of feral toddlers, and the sky mutants abducting people up into their glowing clouds. No wonder he had six different force-fields on his door! "I know, I know," he said, as he disabled each one. "But the rent's a dream! And it's just so much more 'real', don't you agree?"

Klup showed me around his workshop, and I swear, I still couldn't make heads or tails of anything. All I could see were big, curving plates of metal stacked up everywhere; the odd spool of industrial-strength inertron cable; and some odd metal spheroids, bigger than my head (which is already kind of hefty). Everything was covered in soot. By way of accomodations, Klup had a compact refrigerator, a king-sized velour mattress (no bedframe), some throw pillows, and a ginormous armoire. Klup cracked open a bottle of space-wine, and we talked about the vagaries of Art. I wanted to bring up my life as a costume designer, but since my real identity is doubly-concealed right now, I had to play dumb. (Damn it.)

Then Klup asked me if I could do a favor for him. He was worried about getting testicular cancer after getting caught in a recent fallout storm without his lead codpiece, and he wanted me to check him for lumps. Then he emitted a startled little squeal, because he realized that one of my fur-bearing mitts had already slipped into his peek-a-boo cut-out and was groping his balls. "Way ahead of you, kid," I purred to him. Then I told him how he could do a favor for me.

The sex wasn't as professional or as thorough as I'm used to, and sure, the neighbor's pit-maw was howling at us the entire time (how it even got into Klup's apartment in the first place, I'll never know)... but it was genuine, and I hadn't felt anything as sweetly sincere as that since Weight Wizard passed away.

Afterwards, Klup seemed energized. He said that I "inspired" him, and that he wanted me to pose for a new installation he was working on for the First Planetary Bank of Lallor! The artwork is supposed to be in honor of some long-dead Lallorian hero -- so long-dead that nobody even knows what he looks like, anymore. So in this case, Klup wants to use my handsome face! Sweet! Klup had me wear a replica Sugyn helmet he'd picked up at a pod bay sale, and then he started sketching me. I struck a ton of sexful poses. I vaguely recall Klup telling me that I didn't have to bother because he was only drawing my head and that I sure as hell didn't have to be nude, but I was workin' that helmet (and everything else) so fiercely, I barely noticed he was even there.

Much too soon, I had to return to the mall for my next shift. With one last passionate kiss, I left sweet Klup for the harsh Lallorian streets.

Klup's a nice guy. I wouldn't mind seeing him again. If only he wasn't such a little pussy, though--! Ah, well. We're just having fun. It's not like I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him. And besides, he's going to put a huge image of my likeness in the lobby of a bank! That'll rock! ...Hang on. I'm getting a visi-phone call. From Klup!

...Klup says the new project is going really well, and he should have it completed sometime this week! He says he's "really captured my essence!" (Yes, repeatedly. Haw!) But seriously! This is awesome! I'll be sure to take a picture of it for you all. *happily whistles "Rich Man's Shurg" from "Sweet Chariot"*

Beloved Local Stripper-Gram Service Falls On Hard Times

Excerpted from the article in "Invisible, Inc.: The Business Journal of the Gotham Underworld", Vol. 29, Issue 7 (July 1978):

...sliced from the man's groin, and turned into a coin purse.

Marconi's remaining employees have fled for greener pastures. With the current vogue for sexy henchmen, many of them now work for high-profile entrepreneurs, including Oswald Cobblepot, Edward Nigma, and Selina Kyle. The rest have assumed new identities, in hopes of escaping the Caraldo Family's wrath. (See sidebar for an identity conversion chart -- including the names of their spouses, children, and pets -- and a complete list of their new addresses.) Marconi's Old-Fashioned Stripper-Grams is now a one-man operation.

"Time ta go ta woik," sighs Marconi. With trademark Marconi shamelessness, the 72-year-old yanks his polyester trousers and adult diaper off, right in front of me. He does this in a single movement. Despite his palsied hands and arthritic arms, the movement is flowing, explosive, with the grace of a toreador. He fetches a black-sequined ensemble (with matching diaper) from the wall. On a rack, next to his famous mink, is a rain slicker. He pulls the modest coat over his bent, spangled frame, camouflaging his showy ensemble. He ducks into his prop room, and emerges with a large, flat box, made of cardboard. He offers the box to me. With a wink, he asks, "Who ordered da pizza?"

...And Next, the Lady Natural Underarm Turn

When your panel layout requires more arrows than a mambo instruction chart, that's a good sign you should just erase the damn thing and start over.

...Admittedly, the way I've cropped this picture makes it resemble one of the instructional pamphlets* that I give to a date whenever he seems to have no clue as to how our foreplay should go. I prefer using the pamphlets, really; it saves me from having to strain my voice screaming commands at them. ("NOW RUN YOUR HAND OVER MY BEARD! SLOWER! SLOWER, GODDAMN YOU!!!") Mind you, a lot of my dates seem to enjoy getting screamed at, but one doesn't want to wake the neighbors.

*Popular titles in the series include "So You Want to Make Love to Blockade Boy", "Blockade Boy's Junk for Dummies", "Three Hours to a Happier Blockade Boy", "The Little Cub Who Could", and "How Did I Get Here, and What's Going On?"

D-List Monsters of Super-Hero Land: The Origami Monster, Part Four

Welcome back! So... Batman's and the Creeper's plan of surprising an uptight middle-aged bachelor in his own bedroom--? It doesn't work the way they'd hoped.

Rather than being "scared spitless", as the Creeper so cutely put it, Watley boots them out on their sorry asses. Still, that whole "I'll call the police" business had to be a bluff, given that Watley lives in Gotham, where the police own a massive spotlight with Batman's symbol on it. I suppose the Creeper is a "wanted man" (by a very narrow definition of the term), so they might hustle him out of there, but all Commissioner Gordon would do is hold Batman's cape for him while he rummages through Watley's underwear drawer.

...I'm trying to imagine what kind of "Creeper Symbol" the Gotham P.D. might develop if they ever wound up cooperating with the irritating little queen. Maybe a cannon that shoots red fur boas a hundred feet into the air?

What's wrong with this picture?

...And why does it piss me off so badly? Is it because it's a cheap, pointless gag that borders on complete incomprehensibility? Yeah, that's the ticket. Also, it's a "background joke", but Jim Aparo has drawn the panel from a perspective that points directly at it. Holy balls!

And if something as minor as that can send me into a frothing fury, you can just imagine how I feel about the Simon Pegg-alike in Garth Ennis' "The Boys." Or any gratuitous appearance in a super-hero story of the Three Stooges.

Anyway, Batman has an idea to draw the Origami Monster to them by creating "an irresistible target." Perhaps he could arrange for Bela Abzug to do nude jumping jacks on the roof of an abortion clinic, set to the greatest hits of Elton John. But no, the Creeper has figured out how he can implement the Batman's plan, whilst simultaneously torpedoing Vera Sweet's chances to advance her career!

Check it... Ryder's new show is directed by the Frankenstein monster! Good for you, dude! It's never too late to get your degree from the DeVry Institute!

"America: Get Your Freak On!" That's what it says on all your currency, right?

I'm sorry, but I have to draw the line somewhere. And it's at Vera Sweet's unending collection of "Dogpatch Chic" polka-dotted business wear. My eyes can't take it! Why, Vera? WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME?

"Minutes later", Ryder heads out into the streets, where Batman swings over his head and offers up a compliment -- before asking him "Don't you worry taking stands like that will endanger your secret identity?"

Yeah! Suck it, pre-Crisis Clark Kent! Of course, I'd like to think that a real hero would've noticed that the entire city of Gotham has floated up in the air and flipped upside down. (Seriously, what the hell is everybody walking on?!)

Batman has no time to figure out if he should be happy or mad about Ryder's dig at his barrel-chested alien buddy, because he has to go shanghai Watley -- in a disturbing panel, which shows him muffling the spindly demagogue with a blue-gloved hand, and telling him, "Easy, doctor! I just want to show you something! Hope you're not afraid of heights..." Sounds like Watley's going to join the Batplane Mile High Club. Whether he likes it or not. Still, I have a feeling he'll like it, if you know what I mean.

Their business concluded (entirely off-panel and within my own imagination), Batman deposits Watley on a roof, with a crisp new hundred-dollar bill between his butt cheeks. And then The Golly-Gosh Batman kicks some origami monster ass!

Batman calls that a kick? Feh. Cyd Charisse could've done the same thing, standing perfectly upright. Plus, she'd have executed some cool, sexy maneuver where she leaps up in the air and does the splits and then a scissor-lock thing on the origami monster's head, and sexfully crushes it to death. I dunno. Maybe Batman's saving that for his "finishing move."

Wait, so was there a squeaky-voiced, toddler-sized origami monster back then, too? Tracking down that kid in Watley's kindergarten class who ate paste, and giving him a wedgie? 'Cause that actually sounds quite adorable.

Y'know, if it wasn't for the placement of the bat-symbol, I'd think Batman had somehow absconded with Ma Hunkle's rack in this panel.

Conveniently for all involved, issues of religion, race, sexuality, or economics never even came into play with regards to Watley's motivations. To be honest, I'm not quite sure what to make of that. It was probably done to avoid offending people -- although, folks with extreme political/relgious views are pretty much incapable of not being offended. And while I think a lot of humanity's basic motivations can be boiled down to fear (or greed), the idea that Watley is merely a "scared little boy" seems rather condescending. The hidden message here is that all Watley needs is a little psychological therapy (and a good lay) and then he'll become a Democrat, like any sensible individual. And might I add, yikes. (I wasn't terribly fond of either of your major political parties when I was stranded in your era. Er, no offense. But don't worry; once Ralph Nader becomes President-For-Life, you'll all be much happier -- oh. Oops. I guess that counts as a "spoiler." Forget I said anything.)

Yes, if there's one thing Republicans and Democrats enjoy, it's burning paper!

So every time somebody watches "The O'Reilly Factor" a wino is murdered?

That sounds about right.

Tomorrow: Batman vs. the Perfect Killing Machine!

D-List Monsters of Super-Hero Land: The Mole, Part Three

At last, Maxwell House brings you a coffee so rich, so flavorful, that it's evolved into a sentient organism with the capacity for speech. Disclaimer: brace yourself for its shrill, screaming "WHYYYYYYYY?!!!" as you pee it back out. (It's a bit of a diva.)

So, who is this lovely woman, and why does the Mole have it in for her? Let's ask the Mole Man himself!

What th'--?! He's takin' a dump! Aw, HELL no. Damn it, Mole--! You can't just treat the sewer like your own personal... toilet... okay, I guess you can. But couldn't you rig up some kind of partition out of a cardboard box, or... hey! What about a nice Japanese screen? Certainly, somebody must have thrown an exquisitely-painted Japanese screen down there. Or maybe you could just cover yourself with a blanket.

Wait a minute...! Chemical plant in Gotham... grotesque villain... hackneyed writing...! I think I can see where this is headed. Although why Gene Colan decided to dedicate the foreground of that second panel to two rats about to "get it on" is still a mystery.

But yeah, the Mole started out as a guy who habitually tunneled into banks and out of jails, until he wound up in the wrong sewer pipe at the wrong time.

"Somehow" it changed him -- near-instantaneously, mind you -- into a monster that resembled the animal he was already nicknamed after. This is a convenience for the Mole's friends, who won't have to update their greeting card lists.

The Mole resolves to tunnel into Wayne Manor from below. But wait! That's where-- oh, I smell a wacky complication!

This is when Batman still had his headquarters under that skyscraper with the big tree inside, and hadn't moved all his tacky, Vegas-y crap back into the gaping hole beneath his mansion. But the Old School Batcave still had a smooth, level floor, and scads of pendant lights, and even some big, expensive looking (for 1981) computer equipment. And yet, the Mole seems terribly blasé about the whole thing. Y'see, he's been around. After a guy's tunneled into Hef's Grotto on Funnel Cake Night (don't ask) it takes more than a mysterious cavern to grab his attention.

That night, the Mole sneaks back in, and cuts the electricity.

Are you troubled by Restless Bosom Syndrome? Poor gal... her left breast is afraid of the dark, but she's the one who has to get out of bed and do something about it. Oh, and Sandra? Haley Mills called. She wants her hair back.

By the way, I sleep in a similar fashion (albeit on a huge slab of granite): nude, except for a lightning beast hide arranged over my lower body so that it almost completely conceals my junk, and moaning suggestively. I figure, if some loser (okay, Storm Boy) is peeping at me, I might as well give him a little thrill. Because I firmly believe that charity begins at my junk.

How does the Mole's scheme turn out? Not so great...

And then Batman floods the Batcave -- because he can do that, apparently -- and the Mole is literally flushed out of the story. Congratulations, Batman! You stopped the Mole after he only killed two people! That's actually a fantastic improvement over your dealings with the Joker! ...Except you never took the Mole into custody and you have no idea if he's still out there. Which doesn't stop you from kicking Sandra's ass out of your mansion. Huh. Never mind, then.

Still to come: a werewolf; a tree monster; a paper monster -- which, I'm sad to report, is not a processed version of the tree monster; and The Perfect Fighting Machine (in a pink muscle shirt, yet)!