And Now, a Heart-Warming Tableau

Alien Super-Villain One: Indeed! Our people shall rejoice when they behold-- wait. You're being sarcastic again, aren't you?

Alien Super-Villain Two: NO, Dad, I'm seriously pumped about spending "quality time" with you. This is way better than hangin' out at the Olympus Mons Galleria with my friends.

A S-V 1: Still thy tongue, stripling!

A S-V 2: Yeah? How's about you suck it, old man? 'Cause I could honestly give a shit about helping you kill this alien dough-ball here.

Shield: I'm not doughy! I'm barrel-chested.

A S-V 1: Have you no sense of history, boy? For millennia, have our proud ancestors imposed our singular will upon trembling galaxies, and...

A S-V 2: Screw that shit! What about my dreams?

A S-V 1: What "dreams" would those be? I don't see you working towards anything! Unless you're in training for the "Napping and Acting Sullen Olympics."

A S-V 2: They don't even hold that event anymore and you know it, Dad! By the Emerald Void of K'thglz, you're so fucking lame!

A S-V 1: HEY! YOU DON'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT! You know what? That's it. You're grounded. No hover-biking for seventeen solar-cycles.

A S-V 2: But--!

A S-V 1: Nope! This is final! And don't even think about whining to your mother about it. I'm not changing my mind.

A S-V 2: You--! I HATE YOU! I SO FUCKING HATE YOU RIGHT NOW!

Shield: Look, can I just go, or...

A S-V 1 and A S-V 2: Quiet, you!

And I Think We Can All Agree That He Had It Coming

Remember that night? The night Batman was killed? And everybody was laughing; and slapping one another on the back; and giving out free beer, even to the kids; and putting on impromptu accordion concerts; and making sloppy, care-free love right on the streets of Gotham, in amongst the looting; and also this one guy said that his friend said that his girlfriend's brother told him he had seen some fat stoner take a whiz right on the bat-signal and it electrocuted the bastard, and everybody went "HELL YEAH MOTHERFUCKER!" and started shooting their illegal machine guns into the air?

Remember that?

And okay, so the next day freakin' Hawkman moves in and turns the whole damn town into an alien gulag, but it was so worth it because Batman the Practical Joking, Solid Gold Table Having, Hamburger Devouring Son of a Bitch was DEAD.

Meanwhile, in an Alien Fertility Clinic...

Maybe Fly Man's "twigorgs" wouldn't be "perma-locked" if he'd only go a size up in his spandex trunks!

(Mind you, I'm gayer than a Hello Kitty ice cream cake, so I personally couldn't give a shit about motility...!)

Judge, Jewelry, and Executioner

Normally, I'd excoriate Judge Carter Blaire for being so snippy about his daughter's accessories. I mean, the Dazzler is a grown-ass woman; if she wants to tramp it up with glow-in-the-dark plastic crap, that's her prerogative!

But I was once sent into a sulky, weekend-long drinking spree over one of Storm Boy's belts, so I'm not about to throw stones.

Roll Call!

Welcome back, comrade!

It seems like you can't go anywhere nowadays without seeing Blockade Boy's face. Be it on a wanted poster, an unauthorized holovision documentary, a t-shirt at Hot Space Topic, or merely shaved into the haunches of a poodle, Blockade Boy's obnoxious, fur-bearing mug is impossible to avoid. And you're undoubtedly SICK TO DEATH OF HIM.

Relax. You're among friends, here. Because the good men (and woman) of the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad have been hating on Blockade Boy for years. Like you, we possess a heightened sense of aesthetics (and propriety) that opened the doors of our perceptions to the Grand Secret of the Universe: namely, that Blockade Boy is not "all that." Or, to be perfectly blunt about it, that he's a raging jerk-hole who somehow enjoys happiness and success that is far in excess of what he deserves. That's why the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad works -- tirelessly -- to balance the cosmic scales. From slipping Blockade Boy a depilatory to tying his sleeping ass to a missile and firing it across the sea, the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad is on your side, giving the Great Gay Ape what-for.

But who are these shadowy, heroic figures? Wonder no more! It's time for the Blockade Boy Revenge Squad Roll Call!



POLECAT: the Squad's founder, and a three-time former president. He currently serves the Squad as "creative consultant" plus he designed the uniforms!

Powers and abilities: can squeeze out a powerful musk from his horns! And he loves to dance.

Turn-ons: Khundish Leather deodorant (because it barely works at all), pudding-eating contests, buffalo plaids, cobbling. Turn-offs: nature hikes, jet exhaust, obstetrics. Hates Blockade Boy because: Blockade Boy created the cruel nickname that followed him through high school and college ("Polecrap"); Blockade Boy crushed him under his steel-wall form so many times that he's pretty sure it was on purpose; look at him, I mean, just look at his face, don't you just want to pop him one?



GREEN BOY: former Squad president (impeached), former Squad secretary (impeached), former Squad public relations officer (impeached). Nowadays he's mainly sent out for coffee and pizza and such. Green Boy is currently on a "spiritual quest" to discover a practical use for his power.

Powers and abilities: Green Boy can make anything green! For instance? His hair!

Turn-ons: staring into space, slouching, mumbling, bed rest. Turn-offs: making eye contact, complete sentences, hygiene. Hates Blockade Boy because: Blockade Boy spurned his advances. Also, Blockade Boy is so happy and successful that it plunged Green Boy into an existential crisis. Honestly, will goodness (by which we mean "blandly agreeable passivity") never prevail?



GOSSIP QUEEN: Squad secretary. Real name: Perez Dox. Other aliases: Camera Eye, Camera Kid, TMI Teen, Paparazzi Perez.

Powers and abilities: 12th-level bitchery, plus he had his eyeballs replaced by this super-cool device that lets him record anything he's seen, and then project it onto walls, with scribbles drawn all over it. With great concentration, he can also see the current whereabouts of anyone he's met in person... like Blockade Boy! How handy!

Turn-ons: pastels, pastilles, pistols. Also, anything deep-fried. Turn-offs: Princess Projectra (he is so over her), kangabronc-skin pants, back hair. Hates Blockade Boy because: back hair.



CALAMITY KING: Squad president. (His campaign slogan: "Bring Sexy Back.")

Powers and abilities: can alter probability to "jinx" people, and he can mostly control it these days, unless he's asleep.

Turn-ons: hats (the tinier the better), childbearing hips, surgical scars, stomach crunches. Turn-offs: women who "mouth off" or who are taller than 1.72 meters, culottes. Hates Blockade Boy because: Blockade Boy started a rumor in high school that Calamity King is gay, just because he kind of hates women, but he's NOT! He's totally not. Calamity King has slept with over seven hundred lovely ladies in a valiant effort to put an end to this misinformation, but he still can't stop thinking about Blockade Boy, and what he said. Damn him!



INTERN ALCHEMY: Squad treasurer. Former name: Rann Antar, but that's all forgotten now, since he initiated himself into the secret brotherhood of alchemists.

Powers and abilites: genius alchemist. Most of his experiments involve changing things into either feathers or lead. However, he has also hit upon a formula for transforming milk, bacterial cultures, and certain enzymes into space-cheddah, which is how the squad can pay for all of its wonderful projects (such as strapping Blockade Boy to a missile).

Turn-ons: musty old scrolls, musty old books, musty old DVD's. Turn-offs: sunlight, physical exercise, the laughter of small children. Hates Blockade Boy because: not quite certain, but it started after he tried to create a "signature fragrance" for Blockade Boy in the parfumerie in the back of his trailer pod, and it freaking exploded and caused all his pubes to fall out. He would like to someday transform Blockade Boy into lead. Or, perhaps, feathers.



CALORIE QUEEN: Squad public relations officer.

Powers and abilities: can eat anything (like Matter-Eater Lad) and it makes her super-strong (like Popeye!)

Turn-ons: quarries, piles of rubble, hover-car wrecking yards, face paint, natural blonds, short dudes, cowboys. Turn-offs: insects. Hates Blockade Boy because: when they were both life guards at the same pool that one summer, he just would not shut up about her thighs, and she developed an eating disorder. The sad part is, he thought he was being helpful.



"TATER" BUGZZ: Squad webmaster, who not only came up with the idea for this website, but devised some method by which it's on a secure network, and cannot be viewed by the wrong people. (There are "wrong people", you know.)

Powers and abilities: knack for trivia, plus a skilled brawler and he has these "shock gauntlets" which pack quite the whammy.

Turn-ons: demolition hover-car derbies, wrasslin', playin' sad songs on his fiddle down by the crick. Turn-offs: space-cops, Lallor's crippling dependence on foreign nuclear rods. Hates Blockade Boy because: Blockade Boy swindled him out of his family's farm in a poker game, and his ma died from the shame of it. He's gonna git Blockade Boy. He's gonna git 'im good.

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

I love the "golden age" of Bismollywood.

And I love bears!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lastikman's Checkered Past

According to the International Heroes website, one of the most popular heroes in the Phillipines is that stretchable sleuth, "Lastikman"! (Not to be confused with the Longatedman or Isterfantastik.) All kidding aside, I think he's kinda cool! Oh, not to worry, though. This isn't going to be one of those "mildly amusing" posts where I compliment something. Well, not just that, anyhow. Indulge me until about halfway through, when I get to the movie costumes! YEAHHH, BROTHER! *rubs hands together in anticipation*

Awright! This costume breaks several of my own rules for costume design, but it somehow still works. Normally, I'd hate that it...

1. Has "overpants", i.e. trunks worn over tights.
2. Exposes the hands.
3. Uses a strong color like red in seemingly just one location. (I can't find a color picture of the boots in the costume.)

What ties it all together, for me, is the black. There's just so danged much of it! Seriously. I'm all agog! But by using a strong neutral (like black or white) for the majority of your costume, you can get away with using primaries (unadulterated red, yellow, or blue) as your accent colors. Plus, the go-go chex of the top give this costume such a fun, Silver Age feel, I just can't stay mad at it! In fact, I wanna give Lastikman a big ol' bear hug! C'mere, you! ...Hang on. Whaddaya want, Gadfly Lad?

...Oh.

Gadfly Lad just informed me (with excruciating detail) that Lastikman's costume is "a part of him" and "he can't remove it." Which means there's zero chance of my ham-like hands snaking their way underneath it, to toy with his nipples. Hell, it means he has no nipples! ACK! Excuse me, I feel a tad queasy.

...That's better.

A bonus of the checkered pattern is that it looks great in black-and-white! Yes, even when escaping Playskool's My First Jail, Lastikman is the very picture of super-hero casual chic!

Recently, Lastikman appeared in a one-shot that gave him a fresh new look:

Holy cats! Did I design this? *racks brain, comes up with nothin'* Yeah, probably not. I LOVE THIS COSTUME. Kicky boots? Yup! Pants instead of tights? Damn skippy! Nifty belt? Hells yeah! Short-sleeved top with a strong geometric pattern! Sweet? Mussable, two-tone hair? Yes, please! A mask that-- okay, so I'm not really fond of the mask. I wanna put it in a terrarium and make it fight Kyle Rayner's mask. To the death. But I like the idea of it, and I get the sense that maybe it's mobile, and changes shape to match his expression. So I'll give it a pass.

Okay, enough fawning. Let's get to the part where I spray my contempt all over something.

Make way for... MOVIE COSTUMES! Oh, and I know this won't do a damn bit of good, but I'd like all the folks who are complaining about the "Watchmen" costumes to remember these crap-ass Lastikman outfits, so they can get a sense of GODDAMN PERSPECTIVE. I know, I know. Like I should give a shit about what other people think. And normally, that kind of purse-lipped fanboy aesthetic priggery makes me laugh, but the fact that folks are so up-in-arms over what seem to me like some very well-designed outfits... well, it just gets in my goat's craw. I have news for you, fanboys: no super-hero movie is ever going to meet your expectations. It's impossible. So don't watch them! Don't read articles about them. Don't write blog posts about them! Just accept that no studio or director is ever going to film your exact vision of what your favorite hero should be. Don't wallow in negative energy. Move on, get out of the house once in a while, and live! LIVE, DAMN YOU! I'm saying this to you because I care. You're like sons to me! *slaps your bottoms, playfully* Now get outta here, you lugs! Kidding. Come back! I have more things to say! I'll stop lecturing you. Honest. I feel better now. Just had to vent.

ONWARD!

Be honest. If you saw this picture with no context, you'd think it was from a menswear catalog. From 1964. Admit it. He looks like he's wearing a cardigan! And it was knitted by an aunt on his wife's side, and he actually hates the damn thing, but the wife is making him wear it because they're visiting the aunt today, in another town, and it's a five-hour drive, and it's like 72 degrees outside, and he's burning up, and the wool itches like crazy, but the wife insists he wear the sweater for the duration of the car ride, just in case one of her friends sees them, and he can't turn the a.c. on, because she's wearing shorts, and he tries to remember a time when she wasn't a controlling harpy, but he can't, and he starts to wonder if he was just so goddamn horny during their brief courtship that he didn't even notice, and suddenly he's seized by an impulse to drive the car off the side of a cliff.

...I've been told I may have "intimacy issues." BALDERDASH! *flop-sweats*

Saved by the Bell: the Filipino Years!

See what I mean about movie costumes? And this top doesn't even have as much patterning as the original! On a teeny comic panel, you can get away with go-go chex a-plenty, but on an actual human being, it makes the eyeballs burn. But my main problem is with his haircut. It's really pretty amazing, as it's both unflattering and makes him look like a douche. The Schrute-tastic styling of the bangs giganto-sizes his smooth forehead and says, "Let's hop in my Trans-Am!" while the mini-mullet in the back says, "Only we can't actually go anywhere 'cause it's up on blocks. In my front yard."

And finally, we have the best of a tragically bad lot:

Well, he's in better shape than the other two guys. I'll give him that.

I don't care that they made the checks blue, to tone down the contrast. There's still too damn many of 'em! But mainly, I hate the mask. It's too big! And the way it's designed, it makes his face look like it's all squished down on his head. *takes a good, long look at it* Oh, wait. His face is all squished down on his head! My bad. But still, that's why he should have gone with a smaller mask.

Golly, but that costume looks familiar.

Huh.

Since My Man and I Ain't Together

There's a cloud over my head right now.

Just a tiny one, mind you, but it follows me around wherever I go. Even indoors. And it just sits up there, about a foot over my head, raining on me. Every ten minutes or so, a petite lightning bolt shoots out of it, and singes my scalp.

Fucking Storm Boy.

Yesterday, I had to let Ox down gently, and explain to him that while I thought he was an amazing person (and bonerifically sexy), I didn't feel like I could commit myself to one guy right yet. He was devastated. (Naturally.) I patted him on the shoulder, chucked his chin, and quoted some lyrics from Pat Benatar's "Love is a Battlefield." This got us both hot again, and we made out for a while. During one of our rest periods, I brought up the subject of Storm Boy. I didn't say anything about Storm Boy using him as a sexual stand-in for myself. I only said that he was a friend of mine, and that he had "mentioned" Ox. But I could tell by the look on Ox's face that he had pieced together the rest of it. Ox said that Storm Boy had never said the first syllable to him about me. No surprise there. After making love to Ox several more times, in several different ways, I regretfully bid him au revoir. Soon afterwards, I got a visi-phone call from Storm Boy.

"WHAT DID YOU DO?" were the first words out of his mouth. I let him bitch at me for a couple of minutes, out of politeness.

I then proceeded to tear him a new one. I pointed out that the whole mess could have been avoided if he'd just been honest with both Ox and me about what was going on, and why. "So you like to chase after some Bear," I told him. "That's all well and good, son. Only next time, step out of your comfort zone and aim yourself at one who doesn't look like me."

Storm Boy maintained that I "didn't want [him] to be happy" and that I would have put myself between him and Ox (an interesting visual) no matter what. And then the little ingrate demanded an apology! The best I could muster was, "I'm sorry the raw, brute power of my sexuality bends all male humanoids to my will." Storm Boy ended our conversation when he repeatedly smashed his visi-phone into his bedside table.

The tiny cloud showed up an hour later.

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!

Some Live Like Ozymandias

Yesterday, my coworkers and I went up to the First Planetary Bank of Lallor, so we could all enjoy seeing my brutally handsome countenance forever immortalized as a giant... um... art... thing.

Eyeful Ethel's rocket-limo pulled up in front of the bank, just as Gadfly Lad and I were nearing it on our humble feet. Tusker, Rainbow Girl, Dentata Damsel, and Frigid Queen quickly piled out. They were followed by Nightmare Boy -- who was wearing his mobile visi-phone headset, which resembles a motorcycle helmet. He didn't say much the entire time, aside from the occasional, drowsy-sounding "Eyeful Ethel's Detective Agency, please hold" and some muffled snoring. Finally, Ethel herself stepped out of the conveyance, onto a red carpet she keeps for such occasions! And sure enough, the moment she emerged from the rocket-limo, a jetpack-wearing paparazzo zoomed by, and snapped a photo of her. She tilted her head coquettishly, and smiled for him.

I thought it was awfully nice of Ethel to take the time to join us, considering how busy she is with her public speaking engagements, and her book club, and her signature line of gourmet tabasco sauces.

I wondered where Storm Boy was, but I decided to keep that to myself. Too many people already have the misguided opinion that I'm seething with jealousy over his entirely hypothetical romance with this "Ox" character. But no, I just regret making him mad at me. Even though I can't figure out how I even did it in the first place! Heck, just two nights ago I showed up at his apartment, about 1:30 AM, unannounced and heavily fortified with space-wine... to make amends! And if I just happened to catch a glimpse of Ox, well, that would have been a convenient coincidence. But Storm Boy refused to even let me inside! (Blockade block!) I started in on the little speech I'd prepared, but Storm Boy interrupted me, and said, "I'm sorry, Blockade Boy, but I can't even look at you when you're... like this." And of course, he was making this sour, wincing face, and only looking at me from the corners of his eyes, with his head all twisted sideways, the whole time I was there. Just like I used to do with him! WHAT THE HELL?! I tried again to talk, but he just said, "Goodbye, Blockade Boy," and (gently) shut the door in my face.

On the slow-moving X-ray treadmill that takes you into the lobby of the bank itself, the eight of us chatted excitedly about what sort of medium would be portraying my magnificent visage. I envisioned a mega-sized, working diorama of my skull, made out of swords, and axes, and other cool weapons. Spiky maces for my eyeballs, perhaps. Ethel surmised it could be a dynamic holo projector. Tusker imagined -- or maybe he was just hungry for -- a butter sculpture. Dentata Damsel wondered if it might be inflatable, like those bouncy fortresses they have at kids' birthday parties, and the art patrons could enter it through the back of my head, and exit through my mouth (sliding down my beard). As with most of her ideas, her complete lack of vocal modulation made it impossible for me to tell if she was serious. After what felt like days, the treadmill jerked to a halt, and deposited us into the bank's spectacular lobby.

And then I saw it.

A mobile.

It was a fucking mobile! With a big red clown nose! Gah!

I'm pretty sure Gadfly Lad, Ethel, Tusker, and Rainbow Girl all managed to hold their tongues. Frigid Queen had her hand over her mouth, but audibly tittered, plus she was shaking all over, like Michael J. Fox on crack. Dentata Damsel's blandly agreeable mug barely moved, while it emitted a percussive, congested snorting. And Nightmare Boy laughed so hard, he hyperventilated and briefly passed out. I can't be one-hundred percent sure of any of this, however, because I was too busy screaming "MOTHERFUCKER!" over and over.

I'm afraid I made a real scene. I must have ranted about that goofy mobile for a good twelve minutes, at least! I think everybody else was mainly amused by me at first, and then they got kinda terrified, and towards the end, boredom set in. When I'd finally run out of invectives -- and steam -- I was left just standing there, all red-faced and panting, fixing the mobile with a goggle-eyed stare. Behind me, I could hear my coworkers muttering in exasperation.

"Up on the housetop, bitch, bitch, bitch, 'Santa,'" sighed Tusker. (Like he should talk--!)

"Drama queen...!" mumbled Nightmare Boy.

"The mobile, as an art form, has enjoyed increasing prominence on Lallor ever since the Atomic Wars," droned Gadfly Lad to nobody in particular. "Why, in the Modern Museum of Lallor alone, there are..."

It was Rainbow Girl who clasped my shoulder and said, gently, "You know Klup meant well, right?"

With no little amount of resignation, I conceded that point.

Rainbow Girl pointed out that it was a rare thing to be the inspiration of such a prominent piece of art, and she added that nobody had ever made any artwork because of her. The others chimed in to say pretty much the same thing -- except for Eyeful Ethel. She just grinned at me and said, "Remind me to show you the holo-painting I posed for. That no-talent doofus made my hair look like Spider Girl's."

Heh. It's strange: I put up with Weight Wizard's constant murder attempts for umpteen years (exactly how many years I can never be sure, thanks to this dimension's damn sliding timeline) but I was more upset by Klup's artistic hackery. As one of Amadus' greatest anonymous poets once said, "I have a heart of steel, but an aesthetic sense as tender as the hairs of a child's biker 'stache." Hmm. I'm going to have to ponder that one for a while. Seeing as how I'm so deep and wise and shit.

*philosophically puffs on pipe*

All Bending Low with Folded Wings

I gotta be honest, here: I did not want to work with Gadfly Lad on this undercover "Mall Santa" deal. Why? 'Cause the dude's annoying, plain-and-simple. Besides his raging hard-on for rules and regulations, he's an eavesdropper, which bugs the shit out of me. I'll be telling Frigid Queen some anecdote from my kick-ass life (only slightly altered, to omit all references to space piracy) and then Gadfly Lad -- who is across the room --will holler corrections at me about the coordinates of some planetoid, or about how long it takes to travel from Braal to Throon, or some other piddling nonsense that has nothing to do with the point I'm even trying to make! I'd jack his shit up, but I don't want to lose my job. Also, he's like five-foot-one, tops. And how would that look?

So. The assignment. Gadfly Lad and I are practically living at the damn Mall of Lallor, working in overlapping 36-hour shifts. That means that both of us are there every day while it's open, and then we alternate evenings, patroling it while it's closed. It takes me about an hour-and-a-half to get into my Santa costume. (The majority of that time is consumed by beard grooming.) Then I help Gadfly Lad get into his costume. It's an interesting look for him, I have to admit. The costume itself might even be sexy, if it weren't being worn by a wiry li'l bugger with grotesquely-oversized hands and feet. Plus, he has a pretty big noggin.

That's a Lallorian's idea of a Christmas elf, for you: raven wings and lederhosen (in this case, a modified version of Gadfly Lad's flying harness) worn without a shirt; a beaky mask straight out of a Venetian carnival; leather gloves and boots. All in black. It seems like the good people of Lallor have confused Santa with Odin, and Santa's elves with Odin's ravens... and ravens with people who go to raves. Do you like the hair? That was my idea. I thought it would look better with the outfit if it was all spiked up. Gadfly Lad didn't want to do it. I tried to reason with him, and when that didn't work, I thought I had just better show him how he'd look. But when I tried to touch his hair, he freaked out on me. So then, of course, I had to put him in a headlock to keep him from fidgeting. And then he shrunk down and tried to fly away. I finally managed to trap him in an old mayonnaise jar, and I jabbed at the goopy, product-drowned mess on his head with a toothbrush, until his coif had achieved the effect I wanted. Once Gadfly Lad calmed down and saw himself in a mirror, he understood how right I was! So now, he'll just stand in front of me, all serious-like, while I do his hair for him. It reminds me of how Mom would tie my ties for me. Until I was three, and I learned how to do it myself. And then I discovered ascots... er, but I digress.

Gadfly Lad's official character name is "Munin", after the mythological raven, whose name means "memory." But I like to call him "Brainfart." Just to piss him off.

And oh, how the little fucker deserves it! Just yesterday, I was holding court as Santa, just "chilling" (as the young Tharrians like to say) in my sweet Santa throne, which is located about three stories up in the highest part of the mall, so I can see everybody. Have I mentioned, the throne is accessible only by a narrow flight of steps, sans a railing? (And before you ask, movie buffs, there's no slide, either. Know-it-alls.) Anyway, I noticed that the crowd looked a little more disorganized than usual. Then I spotted Gadfly Lad, stomping purposefully around, and looking very important. He was talking into his visi-phone, like bodyguards and bouncers usually do. So I wondered what was up, and I made whichever douche-nozzle who was sitting on my lap and crying into my beard at the time get the hell off me for a minute. I figured something big must've been going down. I called mall security on my own visi-phone, to see why Gadfly Lad was calling them. Turned out, he wasn't. A few more quick calls told me he wasn't calling the agency, or the local emergency dispatch. I got pissed.

"SILENCE!" I bellowed. "SANTA DEMANDS SILENCE!" I rapped my barbed candy hook weapon on the platform several times, for emphasis. The throng gasped, and dutifully parted for me as I descended the long staircase and headed for Gadfly Lad. As I approached him, I could hear Gadfly Lad's congested haute-contre voice: "Jena... Jena, baby... I do say 'I'm sorry.' I do! I've apologized to you a total of thirty-two times over the course of our relationship! Thirty-four-and-a-half, if you count the times you've interrupted me before I could finish... Well, that's because you're wrong... No! Jena... honey, listen...!"

He was so wrapped up in his call, he didn't even notice me... until I snatched the visi-phone out of his hand. I leaned in, and snarled in his ear, "Conference. Throne. NOW." Drawing back, I motioned broadly toward the throne, and with a jovial, booming voice, I roared, "COME, BRAINFART! SANTA CLAUS HAS NEED OF YOUR WISE COUNSEL!" Gadfly Lad shrunk himself down to bird-size and perched on my shoulder. I gently booted my last client off the platform and into the crowd below (they caught 'im; he's fine) so I could rip Gadfly Lad a new one in private.

And he apologized! Then I felt like a jackass, so I apologized for snapping at him, while still explaining about the need to keep one's job and one's love life private. (I learned that one the hard way!) I firmly-yet-politely told him that the little stunt he had just pulled could never happen again. He seemed to take me seriously. But a couple of hours later, I caught him doing it again. I finally decided to confiscate his visi-phone until the end of the day. He objected, rattling off some spiel about how the agency's contract with the mall specifically stated that I was his "associate" and not his "superior."

"STILL THY TONGUE, THRALL!" I thundered back at him. As a symbolic gesture, I deposited the visi-phone inside my codpiece. (It was a snug fit.) When I gave it back to him, he complained that it smelled funny. Maybe I should have rinsed it off, or dusted it with Gold Boy Medicated Powder, or something.

I don't know what Gadfly Lad's deal is. Maybe his problem is that he's just young, is all. He's nineteen, but emotionally, he's more like fourteen. I get the feeling he hasn't had much interaction with other people, outside of visi-phones and omnicoms. He might not be such a bad little dude. At any rate, I'm stuck with him for the foreseeable future. So I guess I'll find out.

D-List Monsters of Super-Hero Land: Anthony Lupus, Part One

In "Detective Comics" #505 (August, 1981) Batman is asked by a woman to track down her brother, as he is the only viable bone marrow donor for her sick daughter. The complication: the brother is Anthony Lupus. Who is a werewolf.

Lupus is (to my knowledge) the only monster on my list to have made the transition into television; he appeared on the Batman cartoon in 1992. The story was based on his first comics appearance. Except they changed his last name to "Romulus", since that's vaguely less stupid. Vaguely. Fun fact: his voice was provided by Harry Hamlin, who always looks like he's about two lap-dissolves away from completely turning into a werewolf, anyway.

But back in 1981, Lupus was just another dead one-shot villain.

Or was he? Commissioner Gordon just happens to have a newspaper clipping about a hunter named "Anthony Lupus" who is in hot water with the EPA for slaughtering "a rare species of Alaskan timber wolf." The species is especially rare, because the writer (Seasoned Professional Gerry Conway) just made it up!

Ah, the Wonderful World of Gerry Conway, where nobody does anything, until they absolutely have to. I'm picturing the scene now: "Has a bloodthirsty monster possibly resurfaced after being presumed dead?" Gordon pondered. As he puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, his gaze wandered down the page to the night's television listings. A-ha! KGC-TV was re-airing a "Fantasy Island" episode he'd missed once before. "And I'll miss it again if I have to sit on the roof with the Bat-Signal all night long, waiting for that long-eared galoot to show up." thought Gordon. "If he ever does. Supposedly he has "monitor duty" on the Justice League satellite on certain nights, but I'll be damned if I can ever get his schedule pinned down. 'Monitor duty--!' Batman and his super-pals probably just play poker or have wild sex parties up there, and I'm stuck down here like a jerk-off. All because of a "lead" -- which may or may not even be legit! The hell with it! Besides, it's all the way up in Alaska, for fuck's sake! Let the pipeline workers and the lesbians sort it all out."

"Of course, now it can't go on..." I mean, before, it was merely illegal and harmful to the environment. But now there's that damn kid and her leukemia in the mix. What a pain in the ass. That's motivation in a Seasoned Professional Gerry Conway story for you: imposed on the character by an outside source, and heartily resented.

The brown-suited guy all the way down there is not Batman's Biggest Fan Ever. Far from it, actually. It's mayoral candidate Arthur Reeves, and he's running on an anti-Batman platform (which is also how Jacques Chirac and Hugo Chavez got elected).

Reeves is a black belt in Taunt-Fu! Here he demonstrates the "praying mantis" style. It's a good thing Batman smacked him down, because Reeve's follow-up move is a wedgie. And since Batman's undies are on the outside of his tights, he's pretty much asking for it.

But the bitch, he is slapped, and so Batman must lam it out of town. He heads for Alaska -- not in the Batplane, but in a commercial liner... that looks suspiciously like my old living room.

Well, hello, Bruce Wayne! You're simply slathered in purple, and you're reading the Gotham Gazette's fashion section? I'm definitely intrigued! Just grow some kick-ass facial hair, and then we'll talk. Also, you might want to adjust your pose a tad. It's looking a mite prim. C'mon! Sprawl out a little bit. Spread those legs wide. Find something to scratch. And would it kill ya to grunt randomly?

Sorry. I seem to have gone off on a tangent. It's just that I can't stop thinking about how I'd "improve" Bruce Wayne, i.e. make him more like myself. Oh, well.

Tomorrow: Bruce and a handsome, rugged, bearded fellow make plans to spend the night alone in some other dude's cabin. You're getting there, Bruce! You're getting there!

But today, I'd like to close things out by showing you how the "cool kids" dressed in 1981:

...Well, of course, they had to wear baggy, voluminous clothing! How else do you expect them to cover up all the tattoos?

The Beaten Generation

In this excerpt from "Fly Man" #31 (Archie Comics, May 1965) the wily Fly Man's plan to defeat the dastardly Spider somehow involves letting the villain knock the crap out of him for two whole pages.

Triumph is a Dish Best Served Flame-Broiled

Mmm... triumph.

As you can see from this panel, the reviews for Mesmero's one-man show are in, and the critics have not been kind. (It's a good thing Farley Granger didn't pull this shit on the closing night of "First Impressions", huh?) The sad thing is, Mesmero looks ten times better in that fireproof gear than he does in his own costume!

I wonder if he's still wearing the bonnet.

Honey Do

Dimitrius?

Sweetums?

Could you be a dear and pick up my dry cleaning while you're on that side of town? And there's this sandwich place right next door -- they make the best turkey on sourdough with provolone and guacamole -- grab me one of those, if you could... I can't pay you right now, so you'll just have to put it on my "tab", heh-heh! Oh! And there's a news stand just down the street, get me a copy of The Sporting News and an InStyle and maybe a Cottage Living if they have it, and if they don't, could you ask them why not, because it's a really great magazine and I just know I'm not the only one who enjoys their home decorating articles, and also, swing by that coffee place across the street from the news stand and buy me large toffee-soymilk frappuccino, only not in the plastic cup because you know how concerned I am about the environment.

Okay?

658 Windows in the Capital Building, and He Uses None of Them

Iron Man--! Buddy, c'mon! There was a window, like, ten inches below where you tore through the roof! Is that fold-up George Jetson armor of yours so durable you can just pound through walls just to make yourself look cool? I'm having trouble buyin' that, because one piece of plaster falls on you and you freak out like Omarosa on season one of "The Apprentice." Not to mention you can't do three jumping jacks in that get-up without completely draining your batteries. Hell, the impact of your little stunt has apparently sledgehammered your skull halfway into your chest and crushed your legs until they're Posh Spice-sized. Of course, you're so jacked up on your own ego the pain receptors haven't started firing yet. But they will.

So focus up and cool it with the "mad trix", showboat.

I'm onto you.

Legion of Substitute Costumes: Dynamo Kid

Hey, everybody? Come here. No, closer. Shh, shh... be cool! Be cool! Wait, don't-- Storm Boy's looking. Just act natural. ...Okay, he's gone. Listen, we have to keep the subject of this post under our collective hats. Why? Because today I'm designing a costume for Storm Boy's ex-husband.

Like Storm Boy, Dynamo Kid tried to con his way into Legion membership by hiding a special device on his person. He didn't count on the presence of Saturn Girl and her power of super-symbolic-emasculation!

And as Storm Boy told you, the Kid turned out to be a money-grubbing asswipe, so he probably never had it in him to be a proper hero. Still, it's not unheard of for that type of person to make a go of it. So if Dynamo Kid ever feels a whim to do something selfless, he can start on his heroic journey by purchasing this costume from me:

I took my design cue from that stupid girdle of his and repeated the cylindrical motif elsewhere on his uniform. That's not Pac-Man licking a light socket on his belt... that's the Interlac "D"... and it's about to get killed by a lightning bolt, I guess. Or else it has a really bad headache. I dunno. The belt, gloves, boots and mask all feature ribbing, which conceals the wiring for his electro-shock weaponry. (The mask shocks anybody else who tries to remove it.) Instead of a cape, I went with a scarf, just like one of my "Enchanter" designs, and just like the original version of Ms. Marvel. It's stuck to his shoulders using Colorforms technology, so nobody can cinch it tight and strangle him with it... no matter how much they might wish to! That said, the Kid can peel it off when necessary and use it as a weapon. When a special contact plate on the scarf touches another contact plate in Dynamo Kid's glove, it can be electrified for locker room towel-snapping action! And the scarf provides a loosey-goosey visual element to contrast with the rigidity of the rest of his costume. The colors are faded into one another, to keep him from looking like Marionette of "Micronauts" fame. And the horizontal shape of his punky haircut is mirrored by his sweet tailback goatee. By the way, don't worry about his ears being covered by the mask. Plenty of heroes have covered ears on their cowls, and they hear just fine. So back off, man. ...Sorry. I'm just a little wound-up lately. You understand.

Oh, and speaking of loosey-goosey, I'm experimenting with a freer, more calligraphic inking style. As you can see, I'm not quite there yet. Maybe next time!

The Big Blockadeski

Fade in.

Setting: the H.M.S. Exquisite. Rainbow Girl drags a sober and visibly healthier (if still chunky) Storm Boy down a metal corridor.

Rainbow Girl: We've had some terrible news. Brigadier Blockade is in seclusion in the port side of the ship.

She presses a button, and two heavy wooden doors slide open to reveal Blockade Boy's latest cabin, formerly the crew's lounge. In a corner, Weight Wizard dozes nudely on a liobear-skin rug. Nearby, Cootie the cat contentedly grooms herself. And Blockade Boy himself sits dejectedly on an ottoman, facing a crackling atomic fire which emits little black Kirby-esque bubbles in lieu of smoke. A somber, dirge-like rendition of "Hair of the Dog" reverberates through the room.

Rainbow Girl (softly): Brigadier Blockade.

Blockade Boy waves Storm Boy inside without looking at him.

Blockade Boy: It's funny. I can look back on a life of blogging, costumes bettered, deadlines overcome. I've accomplished more than most pirates-slash-fashion designers, and without the use of organic legs. What... what makes a hero, Storm Boy?

Storm Boy: Myke.

Blockade Boy: Huh?

Storm Boy: My real name is Myke Chypurz, wow, I can't believe I've never told you be-

Blockade Boy: Yeah, I'm not calling you that. But the "hero" stuff. Is it... is it being prepared to do the right thing? No matter the price? Isn't that what makes a hero?

Storm Boy: That and some kick-ass spiky shoulder pads.

Blockade Boy: You're hopelessly tacky, but perhaps you're right. Maybe I'm just not "kewl" enough.

Storm Boy (laughs nervously): Uh-huh. You have a purple beard and metal legs, which practically makes you an official X-Men character, so I really don't think that's your problem.

He thumps on his uniform pocket.

Storm Boy: Mind if I eat a protein bar?

Blockade Boy: Next Top Hero.

Blockade Boy turns to face Storm Boy. In the flickering light of the atomic fire, glistening tears roll down his cheeks and disappear forever within his thick Donegal beard.

Storm Boy: 'Scuse me?

Blockade Boy: Next Top Hero. The internet "reality show" for super-heroes. I got voted off. In a freakin' landslide. What am I, Hate Face?! GODDAMN! ...Are you surprised at my tears, Storm Boy?

Storm Boy: More like alarmed and a little squicked-out, but okay...

Blockade Boy: Amadan men also cry... Amadan men also cry!

He clears his throat, which sounds like a waterlogged outboard motor.

Blockade Boy: I received the news just a little while ago.

He hands Storm Boy a print-out of an image from an ancient Earth computer screen.

Storm Boy: Well, that blows.

Blockade Boy: Rainbow Girl will fill you in on the details.

He turns away and stares into the atomic fire once more. Rainbow Girl taps Storm Boy on the shoulder and leads him out of the room. Storm Boy speaks over his shoulder to Blockade Boy as he exits.

Storm Boy: No, I'm good, you don't have to... I don't-- why do I need to know any details?!

Out of Blockade Boy's cabin, Storm Boy tears the wrapper off a protein bar and devours it.

Storm Boy (crumbs spilling from his mouth): What in space was that all about?

Rainbow Girl: Oh, he's had me drag everybody in there. First Tusker, and then I had to cart Plant Lad's zombie carcass in to see him, and now you. It all goes in order of rank.

Storm Boy: I'm outranked by Plant Lad?! He's the ship's figurehead! He does absolutely nothing at all...

Rainbow Girl smiles wryly, one eyebrow raised.

Storm Boy: ...and I do less than nothing. Got it.

Rainbow Girl: Thanks for not making me say it myself. But here's the main thing you need to know: the Brigadier will be holed up in there feeling sorry for himself for quite some time. I can't see him snapping out of it until Thursday at the earliest. That means no marching--

Storm Boy: Thank God.

Rainbow Girl --and no piracy and certainly no blogging.

Storm Boy: No blogging? Say, in the meantime, could I maybe post some of my poems?

Rainbow Girl: Absolutely not.

Storm Boy: Says Blockade Boy or you?

Rainbow Girl: Does it really matter? And think hard before you answer me.

Storm Boy (cowed): ...No.

Rainbow Girl: Good kid. Now get out of here.

Blockade Boy's hoarse, whining bellow is carried through the dense wooden doors.

Blockade Boy: Rainbow girl? ...RAINBOW GIRL?! Can you make me another Orando Sling? Weight Wizard doesn't know how to do it right...

Rainbow Girl (mutters): I swear to God, if he doesn't stop this shit by Thursday I'm going to stop it for him...

Fade out.

The Red Metal Boot Diaries

"No... falling civilian too leggy... rack too pert and alluring... must... concentrate... modulate repulsor rays... to cradle her... NOOOO!!! ...Her ass--! Too luscious--! Overpowering me! ...Must make her forget dillweed caveman boyfriend... fly her down to Bahamas for intimate weekend... coconut oils... edible bikinis... make love atop beached dolphin-- MUST CONCENTRATE ON SAVING LIVES! ...No good... aw, the hell with it... blacking out..."

Okay, Tony... the suit is losing power, but you're the one "blacking out." What is that, the "dog ate my homework" excuse for high-tech rummies?

Thanks, But I'd Rather Plummet To My Doom

But nobody knows that you're Superboy, Clark! And don't you want people to think Clark Kent is a pathetic screw-up anyway? I think you can handle a pretend social emasculation.

What really impresses me here is how Lana can tow the balloon downwards from one side without causing the basket to tip over and dump Clark out on his ass. (Tactile telekinesis? You decide!) And from the begrudging tone of his thank-you, I bet she really wants to.