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.

Duo Dumbass

The pudgy, baby-headed loser up there is the Split-Man: a recurring hero in the DC stable.

No, seriously.

Explorer/helicopter pilot Cliff Battles first used an ancient artifact called "Zantac's Golden Belt" to twin himself, way back in "Strange Adventures" #166. I don't know if I would have worn it. With my body type, it would make me resemble a humongous "D" battery. Besides, I've already "twinned" myself, by creating this preposterous Mike Murdock-styled identity of mine.

In "Strange Adventures" #203, the Split-Man fights "El Grando", an offensively-drawn "bandido" who sports a "legendary headband" that grants him fantastic powers. It's the Battle of the Accessories! (Note to editor: have a nice, long talk with your artist about what a "headband" looks like.) I'll delve further into the story next week, interspersed with more commentary on that Detective Comics tale.

Now, as holiday time draws near, might I suggest the perfect gift for the li'l future mafia thug (or terrorist) on your shopping list:

I haven't visited your era for a while, so refresh my memory: do M-16 rifles make fart noises?

That's a fantastic selling point! For the kids. For the parents? Not so much.

Beloved Local Stripper-Gram Service Falls On Hard Times

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

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

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

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

Deerstalked!

I can't wait to see Tub's face when Mister Angst explains how he can pay him back for the ice cream. (The Esquire Magazine mascot is out cruising! I'll be damned!)

But honestly... "Ivan Angst"?! Who came up with that ham-fisted moniker? Steve Ditko? ...Naw, with Ditko it would've been something even more goofy and even less probable, like "Iv Nast" or "Vag Naiv". (For some reason, the typical Ditko character's name always seems more appropriate for a pixie, a caveman, or a Martian.)

Live, From Lincoln Center, an All-Star Tribute to "the Tub's" Calculator

If I didn't know better, I'd almost think he did that on purpose.

Check out the shoes! That heel! That buckle! ...In between panels, the balding hipster douchebag who grabbed Tub's calculator must have handed it to a metrosexual Pilgrim/Luddite. With height issues.

It was awfully nice of the Thirty-Something Gang to spread themselves out behind Tub, so widely and evenly. (Although, they could have used two more members, for Stripey Tank Top Guy's side.) This panel would have made a good George Perez cover. Crisis on Infinite Calculators!

...Aw, jeebus. This is going to turn into a musical number, isn't it? Before we know it, the gang is going to start swaying back-and-forth, and slowly raise their arms in the air, as Tub hoarsely brays an elegiac "power ballad" to his busted toy. And more and more background characters are going to join in, with people doing somersaults, and flipping themselves off of lamp posts, and doing the Charleston atop moving cars... and then the Gotham P.D. swoops in with their helicopters, thinking it's a riot, and tear-gasses the whole lot of 'em.

I'm Telling You Why

I woke up Friday morning -- alone, consarn it! -- to find a white patch in my beard, just on the upper part of my chin. I wasn't all that surprised. It happens to a lot of Amadan men, when they hit their mid-twenties. No big deal.

I didn't think it went that well with the "Boy" part of my codename, though. I decided to call in sick, and see if I could "fix" it. Normally, I'd get a professional, to-the-DNA-strand dye-job from Color Kid. However. His services cost a fortune, nowadays. He's hit the big time! As for me, I have only the smallest crumble of space-cheddah to my name. So I had to spring for a box of "Just For Male Humanoids" facial hair dye, down at Lallorgreens. Guess what? It didn't work. On the contrary, upon contact with my beard, the dye itself blanched a pure white. In fact -- if the Lallorgreens clerk who keeps angrily visi-phoning me is to be believed -- the boxes of dye on either side of the one I purchased were remotely affected, somehow, and rendered every hair on their purchasers' bodies permanently, indelibly, snowy-white! My manliness, it is metaphysical!

I realized that until I afford to see Color Kid, I'd just have to tough it out. Begrudgingly, I phoned the detective agency, and reported a miraculous recovery. On the way to work, I picked up two entire racks of barbecued kanga-bronc ribs for lunch. Seeing my beard, the dude at the drive-up window offered me the "senior discount". Bastard. Not that I was too proud to accept it, mind you. The restaurant even gave me a complimentary wheelbarrow, filled with sauce, to carry the ribs in.

When I got to the office, Nightmare Boy blinked wonderingly at me. He took a break from reapplying his mascara, to make a wiping motion in front of his chin. With a smirk, he informed me that I had "a little something, right there."

I flicked a dollop of barbecue sauce into his perfect hair. "So do you," I replied.

The only other person I saw in the office right then was Gadfly Lad, who noted that I looked "twenty-two years and eight months older." I sat down at my desk, fired up my computer, and started in on my ribs. A minute later, Gadfly Lad peered over my shoulder (as is his wont -- he has a thing about not talking to people face-to-face) and pestered me with questions about the white patch. "Did you have a scary dream?" he asked. "Did somebody throw bleach on you? Is it a virus? Will I catch it? Have you tried Just For Humanoid Males dye yet? Because I read some studies that say it may be toxic..." Etc, etc.

I raised a sauce-covered paw and growled, "So help me, I will stick this hand where the dainty little sun of Imsk don't shine if you don't get out of my face." He retreated.

The door to Eyeful Ethel's office slid open. The Boss Lady Herself peered out into the "bullpen." "Blockade Boy!" she cried. "There you are! Listen, I have a new assignment for--!" Her eyebrows shot up as she took stock of the white in my beard. Her lips parted in a huge smile. "Oh, that's perfect! Come in, come in...!" She gestured anxiously for me to join her.

Plopping down on her comfiest couch -- with my legs splayed wide apart, natch -- I wiped the sauce from my lips with the back of a hairy hand. "'Sup?" I queried.

"I just got a call from the owners of the planet's largest shopping complex, the Mall of Lallor. They have a huge shoplifting problem."

"Huh. No offense, Ethel, but it sounds like a pretty run-of-the-space-mill problem. Do they really need to call a detective agency of our magnitude for something so minor?"

"Give me a chance to explain, wiseapple. When I say 'shoplifting,' I mean that entire stores are disappearing, floors and windows and inertron siding and all. So far, they've managed to hush this up, by replacing the empty spaces with tents, and erecting "Under Construction" and "Pardon Our Mess while We Remodel to Bring You a More Exciting Shopping Experience" signs. Eventually, of course, folks are going to catch on."

I was suitably impressed -- actually, I was stunned, to be honest -- but I managed to restrain my reaction to a murmured "Ah!" and a curt nod.

"The owners suspect that the theft is an inside job," said Ethel. "That's why they want a detective working undercover there, as an employee. Since it's the Solstice Season, you could take a job as their mall Santa Claus, and nobody would suspect a thing! Now, I don't know if you're familiar with the concept of Santa Claus. It's an old Earth custom that the Lallorians have adopted."

"Sure!" I said. "I know all about Santa. In fact, I wore a Santa Claus-inspired costume for a while when I was stranded in the 21st century."

"Good. So you know that a mall Santa wears a red, fur-trimmed..."

"...Suit."

"Well, a cloak, anyway. With no shirt. So everybody can see your abs and your massive guns? Remember? And then there's the silver codpiece and the matching belt with the polar bear on it, and the bear-themed boots? With the spurs?"

"Er. Yeah. Of course. And a big, floppy hat with a pom-pom."

"No...! It's just a holly crown! And you'll make your entrance every morning in a chariot, pulled by dark beasts -- y'know, those huge, wingless, bat-like creatures -- while you brandish Santa's traditional weapon, the barbed candy hook."

"Holy cats! Won't that scare the kids?"

"What kids?"

"The ones who line up, to sit on my lap."

"Ew, no! Santa Claus is strictly Adults-Only! No children allowed! I mean, it wouldn't do to have children sitting on your lap and telling you all of their darkest, filthiest secrets, and then asking you to punish them accordingly! I mean, that'd just be grotesque."

"Yikes."

"Exactly. I mean, really, Blockade Boy, I thought you said you knew all about Santa Claus!"

"...I was just trying to impress you."

"Aw! That's cute. So, what do you think about the assignment?"

I pretended to mull it over. Finally, I said, "Well, I think I can throw myself on that grenade...!"

"Terrific. The role usually goes to an older man, with some white in his beard. I was afraid we'd have to resort to bleaching to get you to look right, but look at you! You're way ahead of me! It's just that Santa beards are usually longer and fuller than that. I know that Amadan beards grow pretty quickly. Do you think you can grow it out another decimeter or so by, say, next week?"

"I suppose," I said, coolly. "Or, I could do it right now! BEHOLD!" I tensed up my entire body, and closed my eyes in concentration. With a grunt, my beard flowed down to the middle of my chest. I opened my eyes and grinned up at Ethel, whose mouth was agape.

"How did--?!"

It's a trick most Amadan guys have to learn," I explained. "The older we get, the faster our beards grow. A few years ago, I could grow a nice, full beard in a few days. The hair on my upper lip grew even faster than that. Nowadays, the whole shebang grows out at four times that rate. An Amadan man's only options at this age are to stop shaving altogether and let it grow out to its terminal length -- which is usually past his feet -- or to master the ancient art of Suspended Follicular Animation. Some planets have holy men who can slow down their heart rates by an incredible amount. Amadans like myself can do the same thing with their beard growth. That way, I can wear my beard in all sorts of styles without having to constantly trim it back. I'd been holding this beard in for a couple of weeks."

"It's amazing!" Ethel gasped. "With the squinting and grunting and everything, it's like you pooped it out of your face!"

"Hey! You don't have to put it like that."

"Sorry. You're the only Amadan I know. I guess I should be more sensitive to your culture."

"It's okay. Just think for a second before you say something about my facial hair... er, boss."

"Certainly. Oh, and you'll need an 'elf' to keep the crowd in line. So you'll be working alongside Gadfly Lad."

"Who?! Wait a minute--!" But she was already shoving me out the door.

"Too late!" she laughed. "You already agreed. Get back to work, 'Santa', while I make the rest of the arrangements."

Back at my desk, I wound up brooding so intently on our conversation that I dribbled about a liter of barbecue sauce all over my huge beard. The white hairs had a Teflon-like quality that made the sauce bead up and roll right off of them, but the brown hairs were a sticky mess. I set about dabbing up the sauce with the puny, one-ply napkin the barbecue joint had provided me.

Storm Boy strolled in, late again, and glowing with what I took to be the satisfaction of another round of lovemaking with his never-seen, so-called "boyfriend", Ox. His entire body looked to be coated in shellac, he was so shiny. His teeth were not merely white; they appeared to have been lit from within. He was drenched in cologne -- the vapors made the air around him shimmer, like a mirage. He made a beeline for my desk. I presume he wanted to brag. He stopped short when he saw me with my sauce-covered beard. His smile vanished.

"I hope you gave 'Ox' my regards," I offered.

He stared at me in mute disgust. Then, with a bitter edge in his sing-song voice, he said, "I swear, Blockade Boy, sometimes you can be perfectly appalling." He spun around on the heels of his shiny new boots.

As he walked away, I called after him, "Don't pretend you don't want some of this!" He stumbled, as though he'd been hit with a phaser rifle. Then he shook his head, and continued on his way.

Gosh, I hope he realizes I was referring to the barbecue sauce.

And here I am, now:

"KNEEL DOWN BEFORE SANTA, MORTAL FOOLS!"

(And don't worry, I'll get around to showing you Gadfly Lad's get-up sometime this week.)

Mine is Better

Okay, boys... whip 'em out! Er, your costume and hairstyle designs for Rainbow Girl, that is.

On the left, is (the vastly more skilled) Gary Frank's cover for "Action Comics" #862, which just showed up on the internet this month (your time). To the right, is my makeover for Rainbow Girl, which I published on my blog last July (your time). In an amusing coincidence, both Mister Frank and I thought Rainbow Girl would look nicer with shorter hair, dyed purple. However, he forgot to layer it, and as a result it's hella limp. Mister Frank also thought Rainbow Girl's appearance would be improved with skeletal Barbie doll arms. You're alone there, buddy. Unless... are the arms a plot point? Does she suffer from an eating disorder? Will the shocking ending feature Lois Lane holding Rainbow Girl's hair as she throws up in the Daily Planet ladies' room? Maybe we can get Tina Fey to do an intervention for the Action Comics Rainbow Girl. "These are Princess Projectra arms! We want you to have Rainbow Girl arms!" But enough tomfoolery out of me. I thought I'd ask Rainbow Girl what she thought of her otherdimensional doppelganger's new look. And here's what she said:

Hey! I'm trying to work here! Why are you always shoving crap in front of my face? What is this? Another birthday card for Nightmare Boy? Didn't we just have a party for him last October? What? Fine, I'll look... what the hell?! Is this supposed to be me? Who drew this? I look like I haven't washed my hair for a month. And why am I in my gym socks? And who slapped ginormous rainbow stickers all over my jogging outfit? And what's the deal with my arms? Is this a joke? It's not? Huh. I don't know who modeled for this thing, but she needs to eat a food pill, STAT. Criminy. Yeah, I'm a real scream. ...Sorry I snapped at you. It's just that Eyeful Ethel has me working four different cases right now... at once! I barely have time for all my charity work! And I'm only sleeping two hours a night these days, instead of my usual three. No, I'm sorry. Can I get back to work now, Blockade Boy? I promise, we'll go out for space wine after work, and we can talk about it some more, then. Yeah, that little place on Gurn's Grove Parkway would be great. Okay. Goodbye... I said "Goodbye, already!" Criminy! ...I'm sorry.

There you have it. I win!

Happy Thanksgiving, or Whatever

As previously stated, we don't have a Thanksgiving holiday here in the glorious 30th century, but I figured I might as well "give thanks" for some things... y'know, as a gesture of solidarity with (some of) my 21st century pals.

Let's see...

• I'm thankful to all of my readers, with a special shout-out for everybody who took the time out of their lives to work up costume designs for yours truly. You didn't have to do that, and I really appreciate that you did.
• I'm extremely thankful to my identical ancestor, Stockade Boy, for giving me his body. Especially the dingus part. No more robo-dingus! From now on, the only oil for my pecker goes on it, not in it!
• I'm thankful that Eyeful Ethel helped me evade a draconian United Planets law about space piracy by creating a new civilian identity for me. Even if it's pretty much turned me into "Mike Murdock" and none of the hipster doofuses out there (i.e. Phantom Lad) respect me. Eh, screw 'em.
• I'm thankful to have a regular job. Again, that's thanks to Eyeful Ethel. Sadly, my grief over Weight Wizard's demise has manifested itself as a rampaging sex spree... which, in turn, has maxed out my credit cards with charges to all the best man-whore brothels on Lallor. But that's hardly Eyeful Ethel's fault.
• I'm thankful that Storm Boy has cleaned himself up, dropped a ton of weight, and has gone from being an irritating rival to a merely exasperating pal. And I'll be thankful if this "Ox" guy he's allegedly dating turns out to be a real person and not a blow-up droid, or -- the Luck Lords have mercy! -- an actual ox. I asked Eyeful Ethel if she knew anything about "Ox". She told me that although Storm Boy is quite explicit about their sexual encounters, she can never glean any information from his babblings in regards to Ox's real name, occupation, home address, or physical appearance. The suspense is killing me! The Blockade Boy, he is frustrated! Grrrrr...!

That's not a bad list. I mean, I'm still hurtin' for cash, but other than that, I'm in terrific shape. Especially physically! *peels off top of costume and strikes several weight lifter poses for your edification and enjoyment*

Happy Thanksgiving! Or whatever!

...And Next, the Lady Natural Underarm Turn

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

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

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

My Other Tank Top is a Porsche

To quote Crow from MST3K, "He's an idiot savant. Minus the savant."

Jeebus, but these 1978 fashions depress the heck out of me. From the racing-stripe tank top worn by the balding douche in the back ground, to the Dennis the Menace/Incredible Hulk/Pirates of the Caribbean tribute ensemble sported by the balding douche in the foreground, it's all one big, ugly blur to me. A big, ugly, purplish blur. It makes my retinas throb. No wonder everybody in your country became addicted to cocaine!

...Er, that is what happened, right? Aside from my time travels, most of my knowledge of your era comes from one of my planet's grade school text books, "Amadus Is Way Better Than 20th Century Earth." (Apparently, my home planet is way better than a lot of places! How fortunate I am to have lived there!)

So THAT'S How Deathstroke Lost His Eye!

Today in science:

1977: Baskin-Robbins announces that it has partnered with Lockheed Martin to produce a "frictionless" ice cream cone, capable of breaking the sound barrier. ("WOOOSH!")

Say It Ain't So, Sack

Hey, gay stoners! Feeling blue because you don't have a "treasure trail"? Just sew a fabric version onto that smelly tank top you're always wearing! Voila!

(You're welcome.)

Marge's Little Lulu's John Stanley's Bob Kane's Batman

BRACE YOURSELVES, DEAR READERS, FOR A WEIRD, SCANDALOUS, SPINE-CHILLING, AND ENTIRELY FABRICATED TALE OF COMIC BOOK HISTORY!

True* fact: In 1978, veteran cartoonist John Stanley was asked to take over the writing chores for "Detective Comics!" Stanley was a master of pacing, and had written some classic stories for the horror genre, so he should have been a perfect fit for the "weird crime" milieu of "Detective Comics." And yet, something, somehow, went horribly wrong.

Stanley pitched an idea for a story about a mute juggernaut who would mercilessly pummel Batman in a reservoir until the wily detective discovered a way to defeat him. Editor Julius Schwartz loved it, and asked Stanley to submit a full script. Stanley complied, and even included penciled layouts, just as he had done on the "Marge's Little Lulu" books. However, his confidence in his own ability to write a straightforward super-hero story had evidently faltered in the interim. The script's tone was wildly divergent from the one set by the book's previous writers. Stanley had even gone so far as to change Bruce Wayne's surname to "Van Snobbe," and to depict most of the protagonists as children -- or, at least, midgets.

In brief, the story focuses on "Tubby Banekins", who is kicked out of a "Tuff Fellers Club" for being the best pal of orphaned "rich kid" and "world champion softie" Bruce Van Snobbe. Incensed, Banekins boasts to the club that he's "the perfect fighting machine." He extracts a promise from the organization that he will be readmitted to their society in exchange for winning a fight with whomever they deem to be "the toughest feller around." The club agrees ("Just to show 'im up!") and demand that he fight Batman. Banekins is internally rattled, but makes a go of it, even donning his mother's sleeveless pajamas and swim goggles in an attempt at a costume. Batman -- who is, in reality, Van Snobbe -- sees through Banekins' disguise immediately. ("Tubby's gone bonkers! I'd better humor him 'til he comes to his senses!") Unwilling to do serious harm to his friend, Batman throws the fight. The success goes to Banekins' head, and he decides he is now the Number One Crime Fighter in Gotham City. Batman finds himself trailing behind Banekins as a sidekick, in order to secretly rescue him from a number of mishaps. Banekins' growing ego and his barrage of flippant remarks wear on Batman. In front of the "Tuff Fellers Club", the seasoned detective finally gives Banekins "a poke in the nose", flattening him with one punch. The "Tuff Fellers" readmit Banekins out of sympathy, and even offer to give a trial membership to Van Snobbe (into whom Batman had changed while off-panel). Van Snobbe declines, saying it would take valuable time away from his hobby of collecting butterflies. Everybody groans. The End.

Upon reading the script, Schwartz fired Stanley on the spot, and handed the assignment over to the more malleable Denny O'Neil and Don Newton.

Below: a penciled panel from Stanley's version.

*And by "true", I mean "grotesquely false."

Weirdest "Montclair Moment" Ever

Down, boy.

In close-up, we now can see that "Tub" is being bullied by a gang of thirty-something sophisticates.

He's Not the Perfect Fighting Machine; He's Just Big-Boned

"Tub"? So that's where I've seen him before! It's just that I didn't recognize him, without that undersized sailor cap hovering over his noggin.

Yes, the Perfect Fighting Machine is, in reality, one Mister Tubby Tompkins... a.k.a. Little Lulu's special friend.

(A special thank-you goes out to Michele Maki's "Little Lulu" page, which was the original source of all these covers.)

The Sphinx in Pink

Big Pink up there is throttling Batman so hard, his head is emanating pork gravy! It's a manly miracle!

So... who is this guy, anyway? Since he refuses to introduce himself, it makes his mystery all the grander. Is he a refugee from one of those freakadelic new PBS kids' shows? An early adopter of the German "industrial pop" aesthetic? A once-handsome pajamas-and-goggles model, mutated by a gamma bomb into an engine of pastel destruction? I'm tantalized!

I personally think it would be awesome if he turned out to be the DC Universe cousin of the John Byrne Marvel villainess, Pink Pearl. Remember her? She was a radical Québécois separatist and circus "fat lady", and she wore a pink dress? And later on, when Bill Mantlo took over writing "Alpha Flight", he kept referring to her as "Pretty Pearl", probably because Marvel's lawyers finally realized that "Pink Pearl" is a brand of eraser?

Or maybe he's just a metaphor for Catwoman's clitoris.

Big Men Aren't Usually Fast

"Men that big aren't usually fast--"!

That's what Storm Boy is counting on! (I once told Storm Boy about a gas station/convenience store I saw back in the 21st century, called -- I shit you not -- "Kum & Go." His reply: "Sounds like every date I've ever had! Nobody wants to cuddle anymore!")

I mean, I presume this "Ox" character he claims to be dating is a "big man." Unless he's some spindly, pot-bellied Ivy League intellectual whose full name is "Oxnard M. Nancypants (Jr.)" and he spends every evening just doing Storm Boy's hair, instead of, y'know, doing Storm Boy. Huh. But I digress.

It was just last week when this all (allegedly) started.

I was at the detective agency, comparing tentacle-print records, and Tusker was regaling Dentata Damsel with that story about the time he crashed his hoverboard into a pair of mating camelephants and was trapped underneath them for two days while they finished their business. Dentata Damsel was smiling vacantly at him and nodding, while nibbling delicately on a piece of rebar she'd found somewhere. Then she giggled and put her hand on his, and said something to him in that whispery, mumbling voice I've grown to despise. The next thing I know, Tusker has plopped his chunky ass on my desk.

Tusker: It's going really well!

Me (annoyed): What is, buddy?

Tusker: You know. Me and Dentata Damsel. I think it's time to make my move!

Me: You're kidding, right?

Tusker: What? She really likes me! I make her laugh, I'm always fetching stuff for her when she's too tired to leave her desk, she tells me all her personal problems, and I rack my brain coming up with solutions for them...! Just now, she said to me, "Tusker, sweetheart, could you grab me a box of staples?" She called me "sweetheart"! The next step is, we go out! Um... isn't it?

Me (smoothing out the plasto-film sheet Tusker creased by sitting on it): Nope.

Tusker: WHY NOT?!

Me (hoisting my enormous metal tankard of space-java): Because, genius -- setting aside the fact that an office romance is a horrible idea -- all that shit you just described isn't sexy at all, and it sure as hell hasn't made you into a potential lover in her eyes. It's made you into a pal. (takes a swig of the powerful coffee-like subtance -- which is black, natch)

Tusker (hopefully): Like a... "fuck buddy"?

Me (spits out space-java): Bwah! Sorry. Tusker, amigo... if Dentata Damsel is like most people, she wants her boyfriend to be somebody who makes her forget about her problems, not somebody who solves them, and who suprises her with things she never realized she wanted, not someone who retrieves crap for her like a dog.

Tusker: Dang it. I'm an idiot.

Me: Rookie mistake. Don't worry about it. There's plenty more ladies out there.

Dentata Damsel (breathily shouting): I'm still waiting on those staples, Tusker!

And just as Tusker trudged away from my desk, Storm Boy breezed into the office. Gadfly Lad looked up from his desk, glanced at the clock, and hollered to him that he was "14 minutes and 3.297 seconds late." By way of a reply, Storm Boy thwacked Gadfly Lad's forehead with his thumb and index finger as he passed by. The feather-light l'il Imskian toppled backwards, chair and all. Storm Boy was positively glowing. No kidding, he looked like he'd been polished. Everything was shiny. And he reeked of cologne. It was stifling. Making a note of Tusker, who by then had emerged from the supply pod with tears streaming into his mustache, Storm Boy bustled over to my desk.

Storm Boy: Mornin', Blockade Boy! So, what's the matter with our own private Henrik Egerman this time?

Me: I had to shoot down his hopes and dreams again. For his own good, of course.

Storm Boy (with a hint of mockery that makes me want to punch him): Oh, of course!

Me: You stink, by the way. What, are you moonlighting as a perfume spritzer?

Storm Boy: No! This is just how my new boyfriend likes for me to smell!

Me: Feh. You're drunk again, aren't you?

Storm Boy: I am not--!

Me: Yup. You're off the wagon. Let me check your breath.

With only nominal protesting on Storm Boy's part, I grabbed his head, pried open his mouth, and took a good long whiff.

Me: Jeebus! What've you been eating? Garbage? You might want to look into some mouthwash before your next big date there, killer.

Storm Boy (flushed): Oh! But I thought--! Balls.

Me: So, who's the lucky guy? Assuming you aren't just making this all up.

Storm Boy: His name is "Ox" and he's everything I've always dreamed of in a man.

Me: Like?

Storm Boy (grinning): Hmm... no. I don't think so.

Me: What? I'd like to meet the guy! I can't have you wasting your life with somebody who's unsuitable, y'know.

Storm Boy: That's the problem. No, Blockade Boy, I'd like to keep Ox to myself for just a little while.

Me: I don't understand...

Storm Boy: Oh, how can I put this...? Blockade Boy, you're great. Honestly. You're the absolute best. You're like a big brother to me, or like a really overbearing uncle, or maybe just a psychotic gorilla that kidnaps you and won't let you leave its cave, but...

Me (impatient): But what?

Storm Boy (squeezes my shoulder, warmly): ... and I mean this in the nicest possible manner, but... you ruin everything.

And with that, he flounced into Eyeful Ethel's office. There was a lot of high-pitched squealing and giggling for about twenty minutes, while I stewed at my desk.

So, even though my life is already complicated enough, I've decided I'm going to find out what I can about this "Ox" guy.

For Storm Boy's own good, of course.

Spare Tire Kicker

"Like kicking a bulldozer"?!

Really, Batman? Kicked a lot of bulldozers in your time, have ya? Or are you thinking of that souped-up Zamboni that Mister Freeze used to tool around in, and which I have just made up?

Also, I think you'd have better luck stopping this dude if you aimed your feet just a smidge lower.

(You're welcome.)

"He's Creaming Me -- and I Don't Even Know His Name!"

Yes, every Gothamite is either at the beach, or closeted. With fans. Specifically, delicate little Japanese fans, which they flutter, coquettishly.

Heh. I was going to type, "Sound familiar, Storm Boy?" but I just remembered, he's the one with the (alleged) fancy new boyfriend ("Ox"), and I'm the one who's nearly bankrupted himself with an addiction to man-whores. Hmm. Maybe this "Ox" guy is a man-whore. He's got the name for it, and -- aw, hell! What if I've slept with Ox? That puts me just one slab o' beefcake away from sleeping with Storm Boy!

...I don't feel so good.

Basically Anything That Is Awesome

"Gotham City belongs to the Mutants!"

Wait, I'm thinking of that other big bald dude who slapped Batman around in a junkyard. But anyway, there it is, folks! PINK MUSCLE SHIRT! Although the ensemble, when taken as a whole, looks more like hospital scrubs. He's a disorderly orderly! No, Mister Wayne, you may not have an extra helping of Jell-O! *SLAP!* For realsies, guys! With the sleeves chopped off (to better showcase his "guns"), the Perfect Fighting Machine has the air of a Hulked-out "Dr. 90210." (Yes, Dr. 90210 = Bruce Banner, with surgically-enhanced dimples.)

But then I see the bare feet, and I wonder if the Perfect Fighting Machine going for a martial arts thing, instead. And his mom accidentally washed his karate pants in the same load as her red blouse. Now all the other kids at the dojo are gonna laugh at him! The big, dumb dope.

Wow. The Batman really needs to quit smoking.