Shrink Me Deadly (by Blockade Boy's Pal, Gadfly Lad)

Phht. Amateurs.

Gadfly Lad here! I'm blogging on a secure line (that goes directly to your era and dimension), so I think it's safe to tell you that my one-man, unauthorized, danger-fraught and 98.239% kick-ass secret gonzo rogue mission is going really quite well! (And thanks for asking!)

Here's the deal: since he became a space-pirate, Blockade Boy has enjoyed "cult hero" status with the criminal classes. This only increased once he adopted that bogus "twin brother" identity, because it allowed people to make up shit about what the "real" Blockade Boy was doing. So he was "sighted" everywhere, doing everything people wanted a populist sociopath to do. When those intraweb sites spread the truth of what happened, it could have caused some serious damage to Blockade Boy's "street cred" (as they say on the streets). But of course, the big ape had to spectacularly resist arrest and catapult himself to the top of the U.P. Most Wanted list. And now, he's out there, somewhere, kicking all kinds of tail, and forcibly making over everybody he defeats. He's become a legend.

My idea: infiltrate Lallor's underworld, and get some juicy intel on where Blockade Boy is hiding. Once I locate him, I'm sure I can convince him to turn himself in. He's such a smooth talker (when he's not breaking things) that I bet he can cop to some kind of plea deal and not even do any prison time! Then we can go back to work for Eyeful Ethel and everything will be cool again.

For my scheme to work, I had to adopt a new identity, courtesy of my super-disguise kit. So I shaved off my mustache (which killed me, since I'd been growing it for three years, eight months, two weeks and one day, and it was just starting to come in real nicely, in my opinion) and I buzzed my hair down to a spiky thatch on top, with just some fuzz on the sides that extended down to my sideburns. Then, I dyed it all a cornflower blond. (With as fast as my hair grows, the roots won't show for a good seven weeks, at least.) While I was at it, I went ahead and dyed my body hair -- which is to say, the seven strands on my chest. I changed from my action-costume into a new get-up that included a battered straw cowboy hat, mirrored goggles, a sleeveless flannel shirt, and baggy polymer hip-waders with cacti embroidered on the sides. And there ya go: I'm no longer "Gadfly Lad: private detective", but am instead one Eli "Tater" Bugzz: Winathian "singleton", runt-of-the-litter, con-artist, ladies' man (but of course) and all-around bad dude.

As "Tater", I've been hustling chumps out of their space-cheddah in trivia games at some of the sleaziest dives in town. See, I let 'em start out thinking I'm some dumb hick, and then I drop some knowledge on 'em! BOO-YAH! I've gotten into a couple of scraps over it. No problem. And I gotta tell you, it's a real rush, staying full-size and fighting hand-to-hand, instead of shrinking down and using ranged weaponry or maces. With my naturally-superior size advantage, I'm pretty slippery, and I've got some barely-legal moves I picked up from watching Beat the Living Crap Out of You League exhibition tourneys. Two of the three people I tussled with had switch-lasers. No problem. "Tater's" gimmick is his joy-buzzer work gloves (favored by 28.6% of all Winathian criminals, ages 18-35, according to a recent poll) so I can just apply a judicious shock to the 'nads if I get cornered. I feel amazing after toppling a guy three times my height. It's better than sex! (From what I understand.)

The last pub I was in, I overheard some rough-looking dudes whispering about "the new kid" and how I'd be perfect for "the operation."

Gee, I hope they're talking about a criminal enterprise.

The Tinytanic (by disgruntled guest-blogger, Gadfly Lad)

Sure, make the Bgztlian do all the work. And the Protean doesn't even get to sit in the boat! It has to swim alongside. Unless, maybe it's in training for the Space-Olympics...?

It's me, again. Gadfly Lad. I'm not blogging because Storm Boy asked me to. In fact, he's stopped asking me to!

Let me back up.

I guess I should have realized that if Storm Boy was going to ask me to guest-blog, that he might actually read what I wrote. He called me into his office -- by which, I mean Eyeful Ethel's -- to chew me out over my "insubordination." He demanded to know why I didn't respect him. (And that's the hallmark of an effective manager, double-eyeroll.) So I told him! I said that while I respected his scientific genius, I thought he was a disaster as a leader. I started to give him what I'm sure would have been only between 6.8852 and 7.0023 minutes of explanation for this, but he only let me get to the 1.7304 minute mark before he interrupted me. He shouted, "I ONCE RAN A MULTI-BILLION-CHEDDAH COMPANY!"

And I said, "Yeah, INTO THE GROUND!"

And then he fired my ass. That's right!

I told him I was planning on quitting, anyway. (Confession time: I totally wasn't, you guys. But that's just between us.) Dentata Damsel poked her head through the door and murmured that she was quitting, too, since she'd gotten an offer to (subliminally) narrate a new line of "better sex" holo-vids from Paramount-Universo. Out of sheer spite, I snatched up a big stack of Storm Boy's comics off his desk (YOINK!) and I buzzed out the door. Storm Boy's sole remaining employee is now Frigid Queen, and she spends most of her time macking on and/or pummeling Phantom Lad. It gets hard to tell the difference, sometimes. Not that I'm any expert, mind you. But I'm pretty sure a lady wouldn't like it if I punched her in the boob.

...Hang on. I just heard the buzzer go off on the sonic clothes-tumbler.

Okay. Let's see, here... spare costume (all warm from the clothes-tumbler!), three cans of concentrated space-java, one pack of soylent jerkey, polymer underpants, road flare, my super-disguise kit... and I'm good.

Screw this nonsense!

I'm gonna find Blockade Boy.

Tomorrow in this spot: who the hell knows anymore?

Gadfly Lad... BABE STALKER! (by especially-heterosexual guest-columnist, Gadfly Lad)

Hey, Bill S.! Yeah, you, you comedian! I'm STRAIGHT! Got it?!(!!!!)

I was the third-maddest I've ever been when I read that comment you made in yesterday's post (and after Storm Boy explained to me what it meant). I'm a LADIES' MAN, 110%!

...No, that's impossible.

100%, then.

I just haven't had a metric-ton of luck with them. That's all. And the last thing I need is for some primitive Earth-jerk killing my game. Someday... someday I'll go all the way with a hot sexy woman. You'll see. Well, not literally. Unless you're into that. (I'm sophisticated! Just don't touch me.) Are we cool? GREAT.

I suppose you all are wondering what's going on with Blockade Boy. Yeah, us too. He's been spotted around the city, beating up Science Police cops and U.P. military officers, and then forcibly re-tailoring their costumes. Mostly, he just turns their jackets into vests, confiscates their shirts, and lowers the waistlines on their trousers. It turns out, some of 'em like it.

Here at the office, business is dead. Storm Boy has us cold-calling people, to see if they need any crimes solved. You can imagine how well that's working. Storm Boy gave us this big, emotional speech about how he was going to quadruple our business. So I said, "And four times zero equals...?" That got a pretty good laugh out of everybody. Everybody except Storm Boy.

Alright, people. It's time for another comic cover review by Gadfly Lad, the spectacular character find of 3008! ...Wait, what? Wasn't it 2988, just last week? If I didn't know better, I'd swear I existed on some kind of sliding time continuum.

Oh! Oh! I know who this guy is! For once!

I should warn you, my knowledge of 2oth-century popular culture is operating at only 21.077% of capacity but I do watch the heavily-degraded holo-transfers of ancient Earth I.Q. tests on Lallor's "Gameshow Station." The old commercials are the best part!

*ahem*

As should be obvious from the logo on his chest, this bow-legged buccaneer is "Targitt", the official corporate mascot for the Targitt chain of discount superstores. He's a wholly-fictional character, who exists only to sell merchandise -- just like his contemporaries, Cap'n Crunch, Spuds MacKenzie, and Queen Latifah.

I'm not sure whom the old guy with the death-cloud spewing from his hair is supposed to represent. (Is it the fearsome Discount Warlord, Sam Walton?) And man, if that's "the dry look", I'll just stick with my pomade, a-thank-you very much.

What I don't understand is, Targitt's talking about "mopping up" and yet, that's clearly not a mop in his hands. A mop traditionally consists of a staff, which is composed of [EDITED FOR SPACE] but then we started finding blood in his stools. Well, enough of this for now. I'll see you fools tomorrow, assuming the space-bank doesn't foreclose on our office. ("Padlocked doors?" Naive throwbacks--! Here on Lallor, they just haul the entire building away!) Stay cool, people!

It Was Either This Or Proofread Storm Boy's Novel (by guest-columnist, Gadfly Lad)

Hello, ancient otherdimensional people!

It's me, again. Gadfly Lad.

Y'know, I could be a whole 13.875... hang on, er... 6922103 percent efficient at my job, if Storm Boy would stop making me review these dopey comic book covers for you. What's that? Oh. The estimating. Sorry. I just can't stand to round numbers off. It makes me feel all dirty.

I'm not blaming you folks in all of this. You're great! Hey, why not give yourselves a big round of applause, for even bothering to read this thing while Blockade Boy is away! 21st century alternate-earth audiences are the best audiences!

...Anybody? Nobody?

Aaagh. I suck at this.

Let's look at today's cover, already.

Whoa.

Lookit! In the back!

Somebody set that poor guy on fire! And then they threw a net on him, and fired him out of a cannon or something. I take it he racked up some hefty gambling debts with the space-mafia. Still, this seems like overkill to me. Usually they just atomize one of your fingers.

Huh.

Up in the left-hand corner, we have the Universe's comeliest brain-globe. She even has part of a hand, growing out of her stumpy neck. Unless that's some sort of mandible. She seems anxious. Which reminds me: did you know that anti-depressants for brain-globes can cost upwards of [EDITED FOR SPACE] until it looked just like a grub making out with an inchworm. Oops! I got off-track again. Back to the cover!

Then there's a big guy, throwing himself at another guy, or maybe it's a sensibly-shrunken Imskian man who is already way past another guy. I like the second idea. I just hope he doesn't land on that big, floating arrow. It looks pointy. But if he buys the space-farm, I wouldn't mind borrowing his outfit. I bet I could score a whole new class of lady if I sauntered into the hobby store or an astrophysics lecture while wearing that.

And finally, we have the big orange puppet-headed man, who appears to have fallen into an automatic peanut brittle machine. Just like I did once, at that amusement park! I was frozen solid, and some dumb kid mistook me for a dog's chew toy. Luckily, all the space-poodle saliva dissolved my candy coating. After 41.474 hours. That's why I always go to the amusement park with a buddy nowadays. Or with a girl! Yeah. A girl.

You know what I just noticed? Some jerkwad scribbled his name on this cover. And I'm not talking about Storm Boy. It was some other jerkwad. Named... Rich Bucket?!

What kind of screwy name is that?

The Middlemath (by special guest-columnist, Gadfly Lad)

I DO NOT WET THE BED. All that much.

Stupid Tusker. I just don't understand why I even told him that. Or when! Hmm. Unless... yeah. It must have been the night of that karaoke party he had over at his pod. He didn't spend a lot of time singing. Or even working the karaoke machine! He made me do that! He said I probably knew everything there is to know about them! And I do. The original karaoke machines were manufactured in [EDITED FOR SPACE] and then yank it out at the very last possible second. But I digress.

What Tusker did do at that party was to serve up alcohol, and puh-lenty of it! Not that I ever saw him do any drinking himself. No, ma'am! He just got us all to blabbing about ourselves, while he listened. I don't know what he would have done if Storm Boy the Rootin' Tootin' Teetotler had shown up. Maybe give him about twenty bunt cakes and see what happens.

And then, Tusker the World's Stupidest Evil Genius lost his "slam book." And then somebody else immediately found it and posted it on the Intergalactic Intraweb, and then everybody everywhere knew everything about everybody in the office.

The upshot? My girlfriend broke up with me, and now I'll probably never have sex, and all the guys from my tabletop gaming club are calling me "Waterbug" and "Supersoaker" and "Urinalysissy" and... OH. You mean, how's everybody else doing?

I'll make this brief. You know how [EDITED FOR SPACE] seats six people, quite comfortably! Sorry; I seem to have gone off on another tangent. So, to sum up: Eyeful Ethel, Rainbow Girl, and Nightmare Boy are all in jail. Phantom Lad refused to press charges against Frigid Queen, so she's okay. Blockade Boy and his cat are on the lam, although I understand their exploits have popped up on the Heroes United forums, while he judges costume designs if you can believe it. And nobody has laid eyes on Tusker since last week. That means that the Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency now consists of Dentata Damsel, Frigid Queen, and I, with Storm Boy somehow in charge! (I didn't vote for him. Heck, I demand a recount!) Oh, and Phantom Lad is answering the phones. During the few moments he can spare between hour-long personal calls.

Storm Boy keeps talking about wanting to keep up Blockade Boy's "legacy" like he's already dead or something, so he's making me post in this dumb blog about comic book covers. From his own collection, and not Blockade Boy's. (The Science Police hoisted away the entire building Blockade Boy's bachelor pod is in, "for evidence.") Here's the first cover Storm Boy showed me:

It took me a good 28.24 seconds to pry this thing out of Storm Boy's hands! He kept mooning over the big hairy dude on the cover. He just would not shut up about the guy's whiskers! *snort* I bet you, I could grow a beard like that. If you gave me 17 years, seven months, and three days (approximately). The arm hair? Yeah, that'll probably never happen.

Huh. So... what can I say about this cover? Hmm.

First of all, I think he should ask that lady back there what the deal is with the voodoo drums. She looks like she just came from outside; maybe she'll know. Also, I'm pretty sure that's a surfboard leaning up against the wall, so maybe he should just hit the beach and "hang some waves" or however it is the saying goes. Or, heck... he should just up and move away from there. Post his resume on SpaceMonster or some other website, and find himself a good job in a big city. Then, maybe he...! Hold on, please. I just got handed another comic.

Oh.

I guess he did!