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

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

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

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

Now, about Gadfly Lad...

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

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

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

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

THE NEW BLACK CONDOR!

Where I'm At

Well, it finally happened... weeks ago, actually, but I didn't have the time to blog about it before.

A few days after our big blow-out sales event on Rimbor, and after Plant Lad had gone on his merry way, the U.P. showed up with one of their tow-cruisers, zapped the H.M.S. Exquisite with a repo-beam and hauled our asses up, up, and away from the planet.

And we were right in the middle of breakfast! The jolt knocked everybody on their asses, and I wound up with strawberry-flavored protein powder all over my crotch. Storm Boy offered to "clean that up" for me. Having a good idea of his preferred method, I politely declined.

I'd prepped the crew for this event, and we'd already settled on our future plans... I think that helped everybody to keep from losing their shit too much. Well, Tusker kept a firm grip on his dental tools and kept clacking the pliers together (menacingly) whenever a U.P. goon passed too close by, and in any other situation I'd be pretty proud of him. (I've been talking to him about sublimating his fears and replacing them with something more productive, like violence... which may or may not have a positive effect on his love life, provided he ever gets one.) I just had to remind him that the "silent threat" stuff is inappropriate for dealing with the Law. Cootie, bless 'er, managed to stay a couple of steps ahead of all the U.P. officers the entire time, or else they would have impounded her as an unknown species under the Please Don't Eat Our Native Fauna And/Or Flora Act of 2871.

So anyway, once the U.P. had combed the entire vessel and found no evidence of stolen merchandise, they set about frisking me for metal parts. Of course, they didn't find any, which meant the end of my Space Pirate Captain career. (And good riddance.) They weren't about to buy a story about my getting a new, identical body, especially when the videotape makes it look like a cheap magic trick involving a robot and a smoke bomb.

"Blockade Boy," harrumphed the U.P. captain, "You're under arrest for acquiring a Space Piracy license under false pretenses! We have a nice cozy cell for you on Takron-Galtos!"

I cleared my throat, and on cue, Storm Boy produced a holo cartridge (from the Luck Lords know where) with our pre-arranged alibi on it. It was a message from the renowned detective, Eyeful Ethel!

Naturally, the U.P. captain was so thrilled he demanded to view it on the spot. He was seriously excited, people. He even did this thing where he held his hands out and fluttered his fingers and squealed "OOOH-ooh! Gimme!" He snapped the cartridge into a portable player from his belt and an image of the gorgeous Ethel flickered into the center of the room. She was attired in the sweet new ensemble Storm Boy and I had designed for her. Which means it's time for... Legion of Substitute Costumes!

Ethel's gimmick? A ring of eyeballs all around her head, like a cross between a goddamn hippie and a Tim Burton character. Ethel honestly had no business trying out for the Legion, since she couldn't really do anything. Like a lot of kids, she just did it just for fun. So, she wasn't too broken up when she didn't make it. She did have an interest in law enforcement, however, so she worked her way up to the rank of "captain" in the U.P. Security Agency before striking out on her own as a private investigator. It was rough going for a while. By universe-wide lottery she was matched with Storm Boy as his designated "fag hag" and they spent many tear-stained, wine-soaked nights commiserating with each other. At her suggestion, he designed an admittedly cool set of goggles for her to wear: each lens allows her to see into a different spectrum, like x-rays, infrared and the like. Thus attired, she cracked a headline-making case by capturing serial peeper Radiation Roy. She brokered her new fame into expanding her detective agency, and she's now a brand name in the security biz! Aside from the goggles, though, she still dressed kind of frumpy -- too many baggy pants and overcoats. As advance payment for getting me out of my mess with the U.P., Storm Boy and I designed these new duds for her!

The whole thing is inspired by her sweet goggles, with iridescent colors and a modest amount of straps. There's also some interlaced detail on the bodice. The haircut is edgy-cool, and it's way more practical than the long, tangled mess she used to sport. Now she's ready for the cover of Heavy Metal!

Aaaaannnyway, in her recorded message, Ethel said:

To Whom It May Concern:
These four fine individuals work for me. Also, there's probably a sixteen-legged cat-like thing somewhere, but it's just four cats in a pantomime cat suit so don't worry about it. Er, anyway, the man you think is Phyl Staad, the notorious pirate, is really his long-lost twin brother, PHYNN Staad, who looks just like him and even uses the same code name but has different finger prints and all his original genitalia, as I'm sure you can authenticate. Attached to this message is all the necessary paperwork confirming his identity. I'd like to commend my operatives -- Storm Boy, Rainbow Girl and Tusker -- for infiltrating Phyl Staad's piracy operation by pretending to be his loyal crew, when the whole time they were transmitting vital information to my headquarters.

(At this, Tusker blurted "Wait, I don't remember any of--!" but Rainbow Girl elbowed him in the gut and he dutifully shut his dumb pie-hole.)

And finally, I'd like to give a special thanks to my newest operative, the other Blockade Boy. Yes, let's all give a round of applause to Phynn Staad, who is so loyal to the United Planets that he would turn on his nefarious twin, going so far as to impersonate him, sort-of, after the latter's mysterious disappearance, in order to keep the dread pirate's spacecraft from falling into the wrong hands before the U.P. could take charge of it.

(The beauty part is, the U.P. goons really did applaud me, some of them stomping their feet and saying things like "Here, here!" and "YEAH, boy-ee!" and I'm pretty sure the U.P. captain cried a little bit.)

I will be happy to transmit all the information I've gathered on Phyl Staad to the U.P. so they may continue the investigation. But for now, I need to recall all of my operatives and those four cats, the ones in the big, unremovable cat-suit, to my agency, because I have other jobs for them. Thank you, and keep up the good work!

And as you may have guessed, our scam was a total success!

So, to the relief and sheer delight of everybody involved, my former crew and I are working as Special Agents (or some shit) for Eyeful Ethel at her headquarters on Lallor! We've all managed to remain really good friends, although our closeness seems to have driven a wedge between ourselves and Ethel's four other employees. I mean, they're friendly enough, but I don't really feel like I know them, y'know? Here they are, and I'll tell you what I know about them so far, going from left to right:

• Gadfly Lad: from Imsk; can shrink to a dainty size; gets around with an old flying harness Storm Boy had designed; has a detailed, well-researched opinion on everything, apparently; is in denial about the fact he can't grow a decent mustache (or sideburns!) to save his life
• Dentata Damsel: from Bismoll; can eat anything, and does, constantly; won't stop smiling; never blinks; constantly cheerful for no good goddamn reason; can reduce Tusker to jelly with the mere wiggle of her hips
• Nightmare Boy: from Naltor; alleged clairvoyant; Ethel's receptionist; can barely be bothered to work the whole "Goth" angle and is in fact a "smoove playa" and "ladies' man" (a role model for Tusker, maybe?); his hair always looks absolutely perfect, even when he's just gotten up; sports skull-and-crossbones birthmark situated just above his crotchal region; I'm not sure why but I kind of want to slap him
• Frigid Queen: from Tharr, ice powers, rocks a tall faux-fur hat, hard worker, way too chatty about her apparently effed-up relationship with Phantom Lad (think "Sid and Nancy" with super-powers)

The awful part is I'm not really that interested in knowing them any better, but I know that's a shitty attitude, and for all I know they're actually fantastic individuals. But I doubt it. Ah, well. Maybe I can talk Ethel into sponsoring some kind of employee bonding activity, like a fantasy moopsball league, or a pub crawl. We'll see.

On the Town

My closeout sale was a huge success! We managed to sell everything except for the boat-sized Orandoan jockstrap, which was studded with dazzle gems, ornamented by some gorgeous spectrium filigree and, for some reason, powered by hydrogen. So it probably was intended for a "niche market." I sure as hell wasn't going to haul the bastard back to my pirate ship, and I didn't want to just turn it over to the U.P. I was stuck... until I remembered that we were on Rimbor, the shadiest planet in the galaxy. So we put a little sign on it that said "Do Not Steal". The last I saw it, a dozen young Rimborian gang members were hauling it off, their vertebrae noisily collapsing as they went.

I raked in a ton of space-cheddah with this sale, that's for damn sure. So -- with my typical generosity -- I treated everybody to a night on the town. Just left to our own devices, Rainbow Girl and I would have just gone our separate ways for some jolly, pirate-style, property-destroying, ass-kicking debauchery. Sadly, we had a recovering alcoholic (Storm Boy) and a naive simpleton (Tusker) in tow... so that slowed us down somewhat. We started out with a big dinner. I had ten of the thickest, juiciest kanga-bronc steaks I've ever tasted at a famous Rimborian joint, "Extinction" E Sau's Eatery. At E Sau's, every animal on the menu is personally hunted down and mercilessly slaughtered for you by E Sau himself, while-u-wait, for guaranteed freshness! Afterwards, we strolled through Rimbor's historical Moonshiner's District, taking in the sights.

At one point, a beautiful girl waved at Tusker and gestured for him to come talk to her. This made Tusker dejected for some reason, and he quickly put his head down and tried to ignore her. We all cajoled him to go over there and flirt. He said, "Nothin' good ever happens to me whenever somebody says 'come over here.' Usually they're tryin' to sell me somethin' or they wanna pick a fight with me, or maybe they just kick me in the 'nads and take my wallet."

"You dumb jerk," I said, warmly. "You've got to wake up to the fact that you're an interesting, well-dressed guy who the ladies (and a lot of men) are going to be attracted to! Stop hating on yourself, you idiot! Go over there and chat her up!" So Tusker went to talk with her. I spotted a tavern where, years ago, I beat the crap out of and then made love to an entire hover-bike gang and while I was telling the story to Rainbow Girl and Storm Boy I glanced back over at Tusker and saw him laid out on the sidewalk, howling with pain and grasping his privates, while the beautiful girl made off with his wallet.

Rainbow Girl and Storm Boy helped Tusker up while I nabbed the thief. I confiscated the wallet and carted her back over to Tusker.

"Told you," pouted Tusker.

I asked the beautiful girl if she only asked Tusker to talk to her so she could rob him. As I could have predicted, she answered, "Well, actually I thought he looked kind of sexy and dangerous and cool and I was thinking maybe we might go somewhere and make out. But when he started talking to me, he came off like this self-pitying whiner, y'know, just a total jerk-off, so I figured I'd just kick him in the 'nads and take his wallet."

I thumped Tusker in the nose with his wallet. "See, you dope? Self-fulfilling prophecy." I think I saw a glint of recognition in his big sad eyes. Maybe my words are finally starting to sink in.

Rainbow Girl really wanted to do some bar-hopping. Since Storm Boy was looking a little shaken in the midst of so much cheap booze, we decided to split up. Rainbow Girl took Tusker with her while I squired Storm Boy. To distract Storm Boy from the temptations of Demon Rum, I took him to a show. There were a lot of good plays and pageants to choose from! We finally wound up seeing the all-android revival of Leroy Anderson's "Goldilocks."

It was a heckuva spectacle, made all-the-more thrilling by the fact that they used two android replicas of Elaine Stritch -- one as the sexy, sassy young ingenue, which is the role Stritch originated, and an older version for the part of the duplicitous landlady. I'd hoped the show would cheer Storm Boy up a little. And for the most part I think it did, but I noticed him silently crying during the poignant ballad "I Never Know When to Say When." Also, he glanced longingly over at me for much of the song "Who's Been Sitting in My Chair?" -- especially the part where Android Stritch sings "I'd like a two-fisted biped for my budoir." Still, we left the show laughing and singing little bits of the songs and just having a grand old time, and I deposited him back at the ship in good spirits. And then I hit Rimbor's famed Man-Whore District like a tsunami and pretty much leveled the place. I woke up the next morning, all sore and groggy, to hear Storm Boy singing "The Pussyfoot" from "Goldilocks":

Tiger cats
Tip their hats
Flip their whiskers and purr,
Pekingese
Tell their fleas
Fellas, fellas, it's her!
It don't behoove a lady to lie.
There is no other pussy like I...

And then I clamped my pillow over my ears and went back to sleep.

Extreme Blockadeover: Nicolas M.

The H.M.S. Exquisite has a new, turbo-charged, eight-gazillion-cylinder nuclear engine and I've set course for Rimbor and the galaxy's largest open-air black market! Once we arrive we'll try to sell everything we can before the U.P. can show up and take my pirate's license away.

I wish there was somebody on my crew who was missing enough body parts to qualify as a replacement but no. They're all just strutting around, showboating their non-amputated arms and legs, like they're trying to piss me off on purpose, goddammit. I'd volunteer for an operation myself if I wasn't planning on quitting the space pirate game anyway. I just wish I could keep some of the great stuff I've stolen -- like this great Imskian hairbrush set that I use for grooming my eyebrows. I'm morally opposed to guys "shaping" their eyebrows through hair removal but I do like to make sure they're nice and combed. Sometimes I "set" them with a little gel.

Which brings me in a roundabout way to the latest entry in my costume design contest! It's from Nicolas "Nico" M., who was faced with major interruptions -- like power blackouts and emergency phonecalls -- every time he attempted to delineate my chest hair! It's eerie. Clearly, some diabolical force was trying to prevent him from entering my contest. Weight Wizard's ghost, perhaps?

First, Nico sent me a "joke" entry, but it's so brilliant that I'm going to share it with you all anyway.

Gah! Scary! Nico explains:

Considering that I faced power outages and other distractions the first few times I tried to work on a costume, maybe it’s not odd that I finally ended up with an outfit not for you, but rather for your evil earth-3 (or whatever their calling it these days) counterpart Barricade Boy, the hairless wonder.

He originally used his power to turn into a moderately sized chain link fence to commit petty crimes, but these days he calls himself a hairstylist. Meaning that he mugs people and threatens to zap them with his depilatory laser unless they hand over their wallet.


Sorry, a real entry should be forthcoming.

I should hope so. Hell, you should hope so, because your nightmarish imagery caused one of my billions of beard hairs to turn white, and I'm a little pissed off at you right now. *yanks out white hair and grunts, manfully*

Now, this is more like it. And don't worry, I'm picturing it with a copious pelt in all the exposed areas, not just the calves.

OK, here’s a real costume. I suspect that it may be a bit too simple for your taste, but I wanted something that didn’t distract too much from your body. With luck, the cut of the arms and chest serve to emphasize your size. The flash of skin at your legs is there mainly cause I’m a bit of a leg man.

Aw, so close! I like the combination of the close-cropped hair and beard. The neckline is perfect. And I think the gradated colors are absolutely terrific. It's striking but it's not garish, because the colors are still predominantly solid. The boots are perfect, being a solid, darker color that doesn't compete with the rest of the outfit. However, I don't care for the high-water tights. Exposed calves are cool, but I think raising the hem to just over the knee would have worked a lot better. The way it is, it almost looks like regular pants that shrunk a little. Also, with the simple silhouette of the garment, it needs a logo somewhere to focus they eye. It doesn't have to be big. It could just be on my left man-breast, like a badge, or maybe on the waist, like a buckle (you know how I like to design those belt-less buckles.) As it stands, I'm going to have to pass on it.

From your LiveJournal I get the impression you don't have a lot of time to spare for something like this, so I really appreciate that you sent me these. If you want to revamp the last one a little, that'd be awesome... but I totally understand if you're too busy.

Thanks, pal!

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 Many Loves of Jim Shooter

(My "Rescue Me" for the Blue Streak is humming along, albeit slowly, and it's all drawn up and I think my take on him is NEW and SHOCKING and UNLIKE ANYTHING THAT'S EVER BEEN DONE BEFORE... with Blue Streak anyhow, but I won't be able to get around to the watercolor-and-ink stage until tonight. Dagnabbit. No, wait, this latest outrage really requires my cyber-throat to be in pirate mode. *click* ACCURSED BE THE LIFE O' A SPACE PIRATE CAPTAIN!!! BY THE GASEOUS SEAS OF NEPTUNE ITSELF DO I MAKE THIS VOW... ONE DARK DAY THE MOTLEY ROGUES WHO PLAGUE THIS DEMON SHIP'LL DRIVE OL' BRIGADIER BLOCKADE TO THE DEPTHS O' MADNESS, AND THERE'LL COME SUCH A ROUND O' FIRINGS AND LAYOFFS THE H.M.S. EXQUISITE WILL MAKE THE MARIE CELESTE LOOK LIKE A BLOODY CARNIVAL CRUISE VACATION!!! *click* Well, I'd better hurry this along, huh? I've got another human resources meeting in five minutes.)

In this panel from the all-Jim Shooter romance comic, "Downsize My Heart," the gruff yet noble Jim (he's a modern-day Jane Austin hero!) consoles his sensitive X-Men editor, Louise Jones. Oh, why did she have to marry the flashy Walt Simonson instead? Why?! Is it Jim's shiny, immobile motorcycle helmet of hair? Probably.

Now let's see an excerpt from another story in which Jim speaks with his sultry assistant about setting up a lunch meeting with all-star Brit penciler, Alan Davis...

Not unluckily, she thinks Jim wants her to arrange a three-way.

In the background, Al Milgrom seethes with jealousy.

Avast, I've Run Aground!

Happy Memorial Day! This is the day we Amadusians honor those brave soldiers who fought and died for our freedom against the Tyrants of Masculon, over five hundred Earth-years ago. Just imagine... two hoards of brawny, hairy, bearded, half-naked and well-oiled men grappling with each other in a surging, seething mass!

...

...

...

...

...

...Sorry, my mind kind of wandered there for a sex.. er, I mean, "sec." Aannnyway, the men of Amadus managed to kill every macho male of Masculon, profoundly changing their planet's culture for all time! The world is known nowadays as "Femnaz."

Sadly, as Rainbow Girl steered my ship, the HMS Exquisite, to the cemetery satellite of Shanghalla, we ran afoul o' a solar squall the likes o' which I never seen in all me days a-sailin' the cosmic seas! Th' demon gust pitched ol' Brigadier Blockade an' his noble vessel ass o'er tea kettle ag'in the rocky shoals o' an asteroid belt! All o' me drawin' supplies were-- BLAZES! *click* GODDAMN this pirate voicebox module! A Titanian biker karate-chopped my windpipe in a tavern brawl (it's like he knew all my moves before I could even make them!) and ever since, the darn thing's been acting all haywire. As I was trying to say before... in the crash, my art supplies went "overboard" through a damaged airlock and are even now floating somewhere in the inky void. Also, com systems are malfunctioning, so posting (and commenting to your comments, MaGnUs) this week might be a little spotty. I'll do what I can.

Fun fact: Yesterday (in your time period) my old roommate/only source of financial aid, Jeremy Rizza, finally moved into his new townhome! Amusingly, the first-time homeowner wouldn't have his internet hooked up until the following Thursday! Isn't that a scream?

And now, the historic Amadus/Masculon battle, as pre-enacted by Archie Andrews and Jughead Jones.

(Handsome Archie is playing Amadus, of course.)

Nineteen Years Later...

Ahoy from the year 2987! This be yer ol' brother-in-bloggin', Blockade Boy... or as I'm called now, Brigadier Blockade, the most fashionable space pirate in all the Seven Galaxies! But perhaps ye know me by one o' me other aliases, such as Blockade Brigand, Purplebeard, the Closet Raider, or Three-Legged Phyl. YAARRRGH!

Ah, but me starsalt-crusted ears can hear ye askin', "By Satan's compass, boyo, how did ye come to such a pass?" Then gather 'round, lads and lassies, for I've a tale to chill the very marrow in yer bones! But first, allow me to adjust the dial on me accursed cybernetic throat from "Pirate" to "Drinking Buddy." *click* Yeah, that's better.

Sorry about all that yo-ho-ho crap, but it's all part of the job. Hoo-boy! I've got a lot to explain, don't I? For starters, I'd like to point out that even though it's been nineteen years since my last post, I'm still in my early twenties. My secret? No, it's not a miracle anti-aging cream. It's this era's kooky sliding timeline! Remember how dorky all the Legionnaire's costumes looked, way back in 2068? Lightning lad with the big orange diapers and Colossal Boy's "Some People Call Me a Space Cowboy" get-up? That now occurred in 2084. Thanks to all my time travel and dimension-hopping, I'm the only one here who notices that the years keep hurtling forward at an alarming rate while everybody and everything stays pretty much the same. Oh! Also? I spied on some other Legion-era timelines and it looks like my dimension dodged a real bullet! I guess back in 1986 the whole multiverse was threatened with destruction and in one of those timelines it actually got all blowed up, leaving just one version of Earth! Not in my dimension, though. For instance, Superboy's still around! And Supergirl! We can't seem to get rid of them, actually! They're like the sexless squares you invite to a party just to be nice and then it's 4 AM and they're the last two guests at your pad and even though you're busy cleaning up they're just sitting on their asses talking about some boring nerd shit and then they wanna play Spaceopoly for Chrissakes and you really have no choice but to hoist them up by their scrawny nerd necks and boot their asses out the door.

Oh, and just the other day the Legion teamed up with both Earth-2 and Earth-S versions of themselves against Earth-3's Crime Legion. Fun fact: my Earth-S counterpart is a two-fisted crime buster who can turn into a moderately-sized ambulatory steel wall! And for some reason he just won't stop smiling which is a little creepy. He's still damn good lookin', though. Anyhow, to bottom-line it, a whole ton of depressing nonsense won't happen in my dimension! And thank God! 'Cause really, I'd rather not have to see:

• Mordru take over the universe
• Earth's moon get blown to bits
• the Earth itself get blown to bits (Jesus! Enough already!)
• Timber Wolf's nose vanish without a trace
• Dawnstar's gorgeous wings get amputated
• Shrinking Violet -- well, actually, I never gave a flying fuck about Shrinking Violet
• the typical Legion mission consisting mainly of wearing puffy jackets and standing around in a pile of rubble, looking depressed

The only downside? I'm a space pirate.

Woo! Check me out! I ain't wearin' no pants, y'all! But shhh! That'll be just between us. For modesty's sake, I've covered my robo-dingus with a magnetic codpiece. I mean, I'm not a pervert.

It wasn't my first choice, I'll tell you that. But my clothing line went belly-up. (Apparently most men don't want shirts with cut-outs for their nipples.) I was looking at bankruptcy! Then I heard about this United Planets program that was giving out grants to aspiring space pirates, and the only requirement was to be missing a certain percentage of body parts. And everything below my waistline is cybernetic, so I was a shoo-in. What's that--? You look shocked and appalled. Feh! Whatever. Get used to it. And I wish I had some kind of heroic, self-sacrificing tale about how it happened but to be perfectly honest I caught a techno-organic virus from a toilet seat at a rest stop. The pernicious germ latched onto my robo-dingus and really went to town! The cybernetic voicebox implant was a mandatory surgery I had for the job. And here I am, sailing the solar winds in my ship, the H.M.S. Exquisite. I raid fabric warehouses and shoe stores, and I track down unfashionable people and forcibly make them over. It's kind of like that show "What Not to Wear", only with more gunfire. And if I happen to destroy the occasional Khundian trading vessel, well, the U.P. gives me a bonus check!

I've got a terrific crew! Weight Wizard is my cabin boy, of course, and might I add that it's nice having him trapped on a spaceship where I can keep my eyes on him. Rainbow Girl is my gun-toting sexpot second-in-command. Tusker is the big stupid muscle who doesn't talk -- mainly because I told him "shut up" so many times he's afraid to even open his mouth -- for anything... for reals, he takes all his meals intravenously. And of course, my dear friend Storm Boy is here. Ol' Stormy's been kind of a downward spiral since his nervous breakdown back in '85... or was it '77? Or '71? Damn sliding timeline! But my point is, he's in an even worse financial state than I am. And it doesn't help that he's been hitting the space-wine pretty hard lately. That's why I mainly keep him down in the ship's cargo hold, guarding all the crates of buttons, notions and assorted frippery. Still, a job's a job, right?

And for those of you who are just completely losing your shit at these developments, might I respectfully suggest you calm the fuck down. This too shall pass. Trust me. Since the last time we talked, I've been turned into a Balinese shadow puppet, the abominable snowman, a voodoo doll, a merman (fish part on top), a living butter sculpture, a locomotive, and a caterpillar with my head on it. Oh, and once I was split into two different beings, Blockade Boy Orange and Blockade Boy Purple. And if you'll recall, even before I returned to the 30th Century I was turned into a packet of artificially flavored drink mix, a baboon and a wolfman. It never lasts. So cool it. Now if you'll excuse me... *click*

Batten yer hatches, me hearties, for I've a timber-shiverin' tale to tell ye! 'Tis all about me sartorial victory o'er the pernicious Starfinger!

(He be not near that size, by the by.) *clears robotic throat, which produces the sound of static* Me intrepid band infiltrated Starfinger's lair under cover of a cosmic storm and surprised the tacky mongrel whilst he was takin' a bubble bath. Afore he could call upon his she-devils, Starlight and Starbright, we yanked the rings from his soapy fingers and shanghaied his arse back to our ship. Into the irons he went! "Do with me what ye will," he spat. "I'll never cede ye control o' me empire o' crime!"

Me recently glossed lips parted in a smile. "'Tis not yer empire I'm lookin' to control, young feller me lad. 'Tis yer wardrobe!" I whistled, and Tusker's mighty form appeared in the doorway, brandishing a measuring tape. I placed me manicured hands 'pon Starfinger's throat. For the first time in me imposing presence, Starfinger's imperious face registered true fear. "Tusker!" I growled. "Start with his inseam."

I'll spare ye the grisly details of what occurred in the brig that grim night. I'd sooner talk o' why ol' Brigadier Blockade and his stylish band chose Starfinger for a makeover. 'Tis but a simple matter! His powers and the basic idea o' his costume intrigue me fevered brain with their potential. But to this weary seadog, in execution Starfinger is a "hot mess" (as we space pirates say). The pointy cape, the pointy loincloth, the yellow-and-red star theme that uncannily mimics the flag o' the People's Republic o' Mexico (er, has that happened yet, back in yer backwards era? No, ye say? Er, oops.) -- the whole lot o' it we pitched off the starboard bow. A new costume was in the cards for Starfinger!

Seein' as how Starfinger is a crimelord and all, I decided to attire him along the lines o' an ancient Oriental Earth Potentate. This called fer voluminous trousers, pointed slippers, and a heavy robe -- open at the front, as that's me signature style! But 'twas to be no turban, mind ye. That would've made the whole thing "camp." And this spacefarin', purple-bearded, half-mechanical pirate fashion designer will darn socks in hell afore he goes camp! A turban--! Bah! The very idea of it--! Starfinger's energy bubble helmet dealie be his turban, do ye not see, ye blasted idjit?! To give Starfinger's head a more interestin' silhouette, I forced 'im to grow out his hair and beard, and to gel it up into pointed, star-like shapes. Fer jewelry, I gave 'im a king-sized waterfall necklace just drippin' with bling, and a forehead piercin' with a mammoth star. After untold months (durin' which the crew o' the Exquisite and meself had countless adventures and isolated incidents o' daring-do) the project was at last complete! I led Starfinger in front o' me finest full-length mirror, slapped 'im on the back, and said, "Now then, boyo, ain't that better than the way ye used to look?"

Still confounded by the fact I'd not killed 'im yet, Starfinger shrugged and replied, "'Tis okay, one supposes."

"Alrighty then!" I cried. And while I roared with a pirate's savage laughter, Tusker and Weight Wizard whisked Starfinger away, into an escape pod programmed to rocket him right back to where we'd found 'im.

Ah, 'tis a fine thing to be a pirate! YAARRRGH!