This Is Exactly What It Was Like For the Menendez Brothers

(Having recently gambled away Lana's college fund) Professor Lang is eager to support her entry into the world of law enforcement. Sure, he's suggested she take up other life-threatening hobbies in the past -- skydiving, spelunking, piranha farming, succrology* (admittedly, that last one takes a while) -- but the flightly redhead just flat-out refuses to die.

"I trust something in a muddled, fleshy pink with an enormous zig-zag pattern will suffice--?" Meanwhile, Pa Lang nabs the opportunity to once more nip down to his dungeon -- I mean, "workshop"! Workshop!

*I'll save you trouble of Googling it. It's the collecting of sugar packets. There, isn't that amusing? It's not? And I shouldn't have to explain a joke? Oh.

Kid and Super-Ego

So Lana hasn't even finished her first superheroic mission and already she's referring to herself in the third person? Blockade Boy disapproves.

(Back at the police station, the bad guy's lawyer will arrange for him to view a police line-up of girls with white socks, black pumps... and huge glowing belts.)

Stop, or My Hobo Will Shoot

"So I'm not bleeding internally right now... that's a pleasant notion..."

And the unremitting perkiness--! Ugh! I know I've spoken out against "gritty" depressing superheroes before, but this nonsense is really too much. I mean, would it kill her to spend a panel grimly, silently wrenching the bad guy's arm out of its socket? Just as a sort of palette cleanser?

(And how can you tell this man is bad? No necktie. Why, you can see his collarbone and everything. The pervert.)

Legion of Substitute Costumes: Tusker

How do you solve a problem like Tusker? Sure, he got rejected for Legion membership during the oppressive Dynamo-Boy Administration. And that evil little turd was rejecting some solid candidates, like the dreamy Animal Lad. "The" Tusker, however, was not a solid candidate.

The real Legion would have bounced his sorry ass out of there in a Rimbor minute with their classic "out-of-control powers" excuse. And in Tusker's case, it would actually be a legitimate complaint!

("Great stars!" gasps Overbite Kid. "His fangs are extending to fantastic length, l-like an elephant's tusks!" I suppose I should mention here that elephants can do that in my era, what with roughly 1,000 years of evolution to work with. I watched a remake of "Dumbo" the other day. It's now a horror film. Makes "Hostel" look like "Pippi Longstocking." Which is admittedly a lateral move.)

So what could I do with Tusker? And I do mean "Tusker" without the pretentious fratboy "the" in front of his name. No way I'm calling him that. And when I catch him calling himself that, I hasten to remind him that he's "a" Tusker, and that's about it. And then I give him a friendly slap on the ass to show I'm not cross with him. Anyway, how could I make the big dumb lug at least halfway cool, much less halfway viable as a superhero? I gotta admit, it was a struggle. I tried dressing him for the tundra, complete with a parka and Captain Cold goggles. No dice. At one point I actually had him walk around in a floor-length mink coat, with a big silk top hat tilted rakishly on his dopey noggin. (I kid you not, and I honestly don't know what came over me.) Finally I settled on just armoring Tusker up. Like my idea for Stone Boy, only with far less skin, therefore laser-blasting every atom of sex appeal to smithereens. Am I repeating myself? Haw! The very notion! Shame on you! Because I gave the armored suit a little thematic twist and a very special weapons system I had Storm Boy whip up during one of his rare sober periods!

The armor is painted in shades of red, the better to show off the gleaming white tusk motif. And also, it looks like the inside of a mouth. Yeah, that's what it looks like. Details? The visor is still based on Captain Cold's Inuit-styled shades. And with such a walrus-like henchman, I couldn't resist making him grow what used to be called "friendly muttonchops." Those are the kind that meet over the lip to form a mustache. Like they're shaking hands, I guess. But wait, what's that peculiar contraption emerging from his glove? It's a high-tech, thought-activated dental tool, buddy! There are different tools for yanking out different types of teeth, and they're all contained in those gloves. Now when Tusker gets in a scrap with a fabric store security guard (or whoever else is keeping me from taking the sewing supplies that are rightfully mine) he can commemorate his victory by collecting one of his vanquished foe's molars! I think Tusker is really getting into his new hobby -- not that he's been any less sullen or taciturn since I gave him the new costume, but the Tupperware containers of bloody teeth have sure been piling up in his cabin!

This Looks Like a Job for a Pert Teenaged Busybody

Of course by the time she gets done explaining herself, the victim will already have been stabbed to death.

Pinky and the Brainless

"I-it's frightening! My little girl... doing these amazing things!" God help Ma Lang if her daughter ever changes a tire or gets a college degree... she'll be overcome by a full-blown case of the fan-tods. (Fun fact: Mrs. Lang once petitioned the city council to rescind her personal right to vote. They agreed. Unanimously.)

And Lana... why would it even occur to you to try lifting that STEINWAY (product placement!) piano with your pinky in the first goddamn place? (I'm picturing a Geoff Johns rewrite of this scene where the piano's weight tears her finger right off her hand while Clark Kent peeps through the window, a single tear running down his noble cheek.)

Legion of Substitute Costumes Bonus: Weight Wizard

The crew of the H.M.S. Exquisite has the distinction of including five individuals who were rejected for membership by the Legion of Super-Heroes and one bad-ass Brigadier who could give a space-rat's ass about those stuck-up phonies. Although the Legionnaires have purchased costumes from me and as such are valued customers. What's that, you say? Weight Wizard and Plant Lad aren't on the official list of Legion rejects? Apparently their try-outs were so embarrassing that the Legion didn't even bother to record them! I wasn't there for Weight Wizard's. I found out about the whole deal one day when I came home to find him splayed out on the divan, crying his eyes out. He still refuses to divulge all the details. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure he didn't actually try out for the Legion, he came on to someone in the Legion and got "rejected." Timber Wolf, maybe. Huh. Now I'm kinda pissed.

As I explained in my very first post, Weight Wizard wasn't wearing his costume at the Super-Stalag of Space. That was just a nice t-shirt and cargo pant combo I'd found for him at Old Space Navy. My old 21st Century buddy Jeremy sketched Weight Wizard (and Plant Lad) in some older costumes I'd designed for them.

But that was years ago (my time) and I thought you all might like to see how I'm gussying up Weight Wizard's short, stumpy frame nowadays.

"Weight" + "Wizard" = THIS. I designed it all, including the hairstyle and the nifty scales tattoo. I wanted to make him look a little like a sorceror, ergo the "Doctor Strange" by way of "Iron Fist" feel of it. ("Karate Kid" who?!) The robe hugs his torso via the latest in Colorforms Technology. Cover up the nipples? Not on your life, buddy! I need 24-hour access to those babies! The sleeves are voluminous to support the wizard theme, but the rest of the costume is tight because what little there is of Weight Wizard's body is in fine shape, and also you can't put baggy clothes on a short dude without them looking like a Jawa. And although Weight Wizard is a natural blond, I thought he looked more "mystical" and grown-up with black hair... that had a huge spiked-up purple forelock smack-dab in the middle of it. And yes, although I loves me some hairy chest, it was worth it to get rid of Weight Wizard's chest hair to make room for that tattoo. And the rest of him is still kinda hairy, so, y'know. It's a win-win for me.

I'll get to the rest of the crew over the next week. And I'm allowing Storm Boy to write his own post, which should be... fun. *rubs temples, hoping to stave off incipient migraine*

I've added the "Legion of Substitute Costumes" tag to all my old posts in this category. So instead of having to click on each item in a list, you should be able to hit the tag and pull up every "Substitute" post, including this one. I'll be working on getting every post I've done tagged up, so the tags are actually useful. (A radical idea, I know.)

Ask Mister Greenjeans!

I don't know that I'd trust the cognitive abilities of any man who's buy trousers like that. Although they may have been purchased by Mrs. Professor Lang, if that dress is any indication. (It was originally solid pink, but then she got mowed down by a monster truck.)

Damn Imperialist Venusians!

"Because God knows the ancestors of those dumb face-paintin' shmoes we passed on the way over here couldn't have done anything this cool! D'ya think maybe Leif Ericson made it this far south, or... naw! And I can't think of any other white guys who might've done this! I guess it's th' dang Moon Men!"

Professor Lang is so enraptured by his white colonialist fantasies that he doesn't even notice the legendary Ninth Wonder of the World: namely, Earth's Largest Chia Pet.

Yo-Ho-Ho, Check Me Out

New headshot! Because the old one made me look like Axel Rose, as delineated by Margaret Keane. My new mask/do-rag gives me a nice swashbuckling look, plus it helps me to *click* strike terror in th' craven hearts o'me enemies, me hearties! There's none 'at sail the spaceways wi' a mask so orange nor a beard so purple as ol' Brigadier Blockade! YAARRRGH!!! *click* Sorry. Stupid robot voicebox. Anyhow, I'm not the only one aboard the H.M.S. Exquisite with an exciting new look! This week, along with the ongoing adventures of Lana Lang and her hideous new belt, I'll be showing you my makeovers of my crew: Weight Wizard, Tusker, Rainbow Girl, and Plant Lad. I never mentioned Plant Lad before because he's in a hyper-dormant state right now and has actually petrified like an old Sequoia, so I strapped him to the prow. His official title is "Kick-Ass Figurehead." When he wakes up he'll get a share of all the loot we've plundered. Which right now is about 80% ankle socks and banana clips, but hey! A job's a job.

Also, I have an important announcement to make. The "request line" for makeovers is closed for now. I need to concentrate on finishing up all the series I started before I can promise to do anything new. I've made some serious dents in the "Rescue Me" makeovers and I've gotten a good start on the Fearless Five/Teen Tyrants "Moral Reversal" makeovers (and I'll also get to that "Spider-Man and his Amazing Friends" version of it) and the "Legion of Substitute Costumes" makeovers, so that's something, but it's still a ton of artwork and I only have so much time. I'll do Steven's "Criminal Accessories" idea (i.e. giving classic villains funny hats and such) at the end of this month. Everything I've promised to do up to this point, I will do. But I can't promise anything beyond that. Fair enough? Alrighty then.

Lanarexic

Lana Lang is offered a classic strand of pearls to wear but she opts instead for a garish, glowing, red-and-yellow belt. This proves to me something I've always suspected: if there had been magenta halter tops emblazoned with rhinestones spelling out the word "WHORE" in 1961 Smallville? Lana would have bought three.

"...A race of very small, slender people who lived in outer space!" Ah, the Kucinich people of Rossperot 9. Nice folks, if a bit talkative, plus you have to try and ignore the "crazy eyes". There's a legend that some of them tried (unsuccessfully) to take over the United States in the late 20th/early 21st century. But of course, such an idea is preposterous.

And of course the belt fits Lana. She's been subsisting on nothing but coffee and soda crackers since 1958! Because she's sure that if she can only get skinny enough, Superboy will finally commit to a relationship! (Sorry, hon, but you'll have to get past Pete Ross first.)

You're not flying, Lana. It's just that you've lost so much bodily mass that Earth's gravity no longer has any effect on you. (You're going to be doing a lot more of that "*gasp* YEEOOOOWW!" crap once you hit the ionosphere.)

She's Not Kidding

Lana wants to take the mask along when she and the other girls of the Smallville High School Auxiliary Welcome Wagon visit that nice "colored" family that moved to town.

(Notice how I'm avoiding the "pearl necklace" joke inherent in this panel. You're welcome.)

Anybody Here Look Familiar?

*ahem* Well? ...Redheaded guy, third bubble from the left, next to the moon-faced blonde gal? No? Seriously? Oh, COME ON--!

It's me, motherfuckers! From back when I looked like this. I remember that day. I'd decided that morning that I'd try growing a mustache. It was coming in pretty good by 11 AM. By 4 PM it was Sam Elliott-sized, and then I got sick of it and shaved it back off. Anyhow. You might think the above panel is some sort of symbolic mental montage, but it most assuredly ain't. Nope! Y'see, Blondie up there lives in Central City, where the impossible vastness of the streets necessitated the invention of tesseract-based communication. Telephones? Those antiquated devices are decidedly out in Central City. It would take twelve days for the signal to cover the distance of even one city block! And cell phones--? Not that they had been invented yet, but feh! Feh, I say to you now. All the phones would need those giant CETI dishes on top just to capture the weakened signals. Forget it, brother! Tesseracts are the way to go. Want to talk to somebody? Just open up one of these miniature gloryholes wormholes and stick your head right through! It's easy! Although it gives a sinister "third dimension" to obscene calls, if you know what I mean.

So, the lady with all the dirt and grit in her hair (seriously, what is that crap?) thinks all these swingin' young squares are macking on her. If she would have let me finish talking (instead of flipping the fuck out) she would have heard my full sentence as "I need you, sweetheart, to tell me where all the best boutiques are!" Because I had some hand-made jewelry I was going to try to sell. And for some reason, the only guys in 1971 who were interested in huge chunky orange-and-purple jewelry were the ones without any money. So I thought I'd try the chick market instead. But it never worked out, because somehow I managed to get in a screaming match with every boutique owner in town.

But I'm sure it wasn't me. It was them.

It's Curtains, For Sure

"The carpet... it doesn't match the curtains! *sob*"

In this thrilling issue of "Valerie Valance: Drapery Inspector" Valerie encounters intrigue and romance while investigating the window treatments of Barbie's Dream House. It's a dangerous mission, requiring stealth, but with some quick thinking she altered her jacket so she resembles one of those little cinched-up cloth pouches they use for expensive bottles of liquor. But will her ruse be discovered by her arch enemies, Ventriloquisto (and his life-sized Boy Toy) and Orthographica, the Woman of a Thousand Map-Print Dresses (she's sporting one of Krypton for this special occasion)?

(The beauty of the actual cover? The text over the picture, which I trimmed out so as to make the image larger, reads "Kiss me... hold me... but don't ever love me! I'm ruined for any boy! My father saw to that! Read: LIKE FATHER... LIKE DAUGHTER!" Which led me to believe the old guy cautioning and fondling the prospective beau was the girl's father and not the boy's. Which is incorrect, but you have to admit it would make for a more interesting story.)

Nipples Are for Pussies

Then Jimmy turns around and she sees he has no nipples and she throws herself screaming off the nearest pier.

Just kiddin'! Jimmy knows that most women prefer their men to have smooth, hairless, feminine bodies. That's why he gets his chest waxed! But first and foremost, Jimmy is a man. A man's man. So when his latest round of waxing pulled his nipples right off, Jimmy didn't so much as grit his teeth! Because that would be a sign of weakness. And does he cover up his curious amputation? HELL NO. Because that unlicensed and probably illegal Brazilian waxer had played right into Jimmy's hands! Because Jimmy's been around. And Jimmy knows. If the ladies love a hairless chest, they'll go apeshit over a chest with no hair and no nipples! Finally, Jimmy's vast, rotating coterie of girlfriends can run their busy fingers over his slab-like body without hitting the "speedbumps" as they used to call them. No, it's "smooth sailing" for old Jimmy Banion from here on in.

(Myself, I'd rather die.)

Rescue Me: Blue Streak

The Scourge of the Underworld: if there's a lame-ass villain, he'll lamely assassinate him! Blue Streak: an evil rollerskating spy who dresses alternately like Evel Knievel or an immunodeficient baseball umpire! Their paths pretty much had to cross one day, huh? And so they did (in "Captain America" #318) when Blue Streak was forced to hitch-hike. (Lame!) And who, disguised as a trucker, offered him a ride? No, not me! Have you been paying attention at all?! Criminy.

So that was the end of Blue Streak, exactly one-hundred-and-one issues of "Captain America" after he was introduced. But did Blue Streak deserve to die? That's a rhetorical question, natch. You already know my answer. Which is "No, he didn't. Because there are no lame characters; there are only lame writers." I think the idea of an evil rollerskating spy is just dandy in the proper context. And "Captain America" is not the proper context. "Rocky and Bullwinkle"? You bet! I think Blue Streak's basic concept just needed a little tweaking to make him a decent Captain America villain. Get rid of the roller skates and just concentrate on his being a super-fast evil spy and "wham-bam, thank you, Weight Wizard" you have a great start.

Blue Streak was a redheaded guy, real name unknown, who got his superpowers from technology. First it was just a pair of amped-up skates. Then he upgraded to better skates, a suit that protected him from friction burns (quiet, Scipio), a laser, and caltrops (spiked jacks). Which was fine, sort of, except he was still getting around on skates and the new suit didn't look any cooler. It just looked differently goofy. I say he could have upgraded again to the comic book science equivalent of "a wizard did it": nanites! Sure, why not? I think he could have used nano-robots to bestow super-speed upon himself, along with a fancy blue frictionless "skin." And since he was a redhead, maybe he had some Celts in his family history. So maybe his villainous look could have been based on the blue-painted Celtic warriors who fought the Romans! If I recall correctly, the Celts also did something to their hair to make it spikier and more horrifying. (And a lot of them had big mustaches, which isn't necessarily scary but I thought I'd better point it out before I showed you the picture.) So Blue Streak could have resembled a stylized Blue Celt.

The tattoos could glow, if you're into that sort of thing. And the facial tattoos symbolizing a mustache and eyebrows (y'know, like Little Richard has) are meant to be Kirbyesque. With the hair, it makes him look more than a little like Lobo. Which wasn't on purpose, since I honestly can't stand Lobo. Of course, I was well into this design before I realized that blue + spiky hair + really fast = Sonic the Hedgehog. So what, I say. SO WHAT! Er, anyway, his weapons could have been replicas of a Celtic spear and shield ('cause he was a Cap villain) that were made of energy. And for a power limitation, maybe he could only have manifested the spear and shield when he wasn't accessing his superspeed. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Previous "Rescue Me" challenges:

• Turner D. Century
• Shellshock
• Mirage
• The Vamp
• The Basilisk
• Megatak
• Hellrazor
• The Melter
• Cyclone
• The Hijacker
• The Fly
• The Cheetah
• Lionfang
• The Miracle Man
• Bird-Man 2
• Steeplejack 2
• Commander Kraken
• Titania
• Bonus: Annihilator and Son
• Red Skull 3
• Black Abbott
• The Wrench

The Many Loves of Jim Shooter

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

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

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

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

In the background, Al Milgrom seethes with jealousy.

(...And Across Town, the Nose is Discovered Within a Loaf of Bread)

This week's redesign post is a "Rescue Me" for the Blue Streak but it will have to wait until tomorrow. In the meantime, please enjoy this. No, please.

"Are you bothered by a beak-like protrusion in the middle of your face? We have a formula that can make it vanish completely!" Just try not to make eye contact with this bewitching alien creature. Because she'll devour your soul. And then later she'll stick her finger down one of her throats and throw it right back up again but you really won't want it at that point.

Trust me.

It's Fun to Stay at the J-A-I-L

As a former inmate there myself (from my travels in the DC Universe's Ye Olde Weste) I'm proud to give you a tour of the Red Gulch City Gaol (or "Jail" as you 21st Century people spell it nowadays back then). Here is their one jail cell... and that's about it. The sheriff and his deputy don't even have desks. All they get is a single chair and they have to play rock-paper-scissors to decide who gets to sit down. The cell, however, has all the amenities a fashion-conscious felon would ever want. There are pegs on the wall so you can hang up your chapeau, stubble razors (remember them?) only since it's Ye Olde Weste they're powered by steam, a goodly selection of hair pomades and alcohol rubs and boot polishes, a little iron so you can press your kerchief, and a complete manicure/pedicure set. I loved that little cell! Too much, actually! It got to where I couldn't pass by the Red Gulch Citibank without at least trying to rob it, just so I could get sent to the "pokey"!

And what's this dumb shmoe in for, you ask?

Voyeurism.

Spiritually Uplifted (and Separated)

Hey, quit ogling her! Can't you see she's a nun? What the hell is wrong with you?! Christ almighty!

Okay, so according to the dialog (in "Rebirth" #1 from Tokyopop) she's technically a monk, but I'm having enough trouble accepting the idea that she'd wear that inane get-up under her (conveniently destroyed) robes without trying to factor in the notion of a co-ed monastery. Huh. I wonder if all the monks have to dress like that, or just her? ("Brother Matthew, the Abbot is concerned you're spending too much time studying the scriptures and not enough time grooming your bikini area.")

But mainly it's the tonal discrepancy that bothers me. "Rebirth" is a serious, if melodramatic, action-horror manwha and then you have Our Lady of Perpetual Hotness here looking like she just stepped out of a David Lee Roth video. I dunno. Maybe I don't get it because I'm from a different culture (i.e. the FUTURE!).

Rescue Me: The Wrench

Not all of the D-list villains assassinated by Scourge were lucky enough to have their final moments of ignominy illustrated for the approval of bloodthirsty fanboys. Some of those perfidious unfortunates had to make do with a Scourge "honorable mention." Getting name-dropped by Scourge wasn't exactly on par with a mention on "Page 6." It's more like working your ass off on a diorama of "Lab Coats Through the Ages" for the Lunar Elementary Science Fair and receiving a Certificate of Participation, while a lazy dim-bulb like Weight Wizard submits a stalk of celery with freaking googly eyes glued onto it and walks away with a goddamn red ribbon and sure, later you hold him down and threaten to force-feed him googly eyes until he gives you his ribbon but somehow it just makes you feel all hollow inside... um, but I digress.

The Wrench was one of those off-panel victims. "Who?!" you ask. Exactly. The Wrench, a.k.a. Kurt Klemmer, wasn't exactly what you'd call a "supervillain." He was just a big crazy oaf in overalls who clubbed folks to death with a big wrench. Oh, and he also carried a gun. He didn't have a costume and to be honest, he was never even called the Wrench in the one comic in which he appeared ("Omega the Unknown" #6). That comic's cover has one of those old-timey bombastic word balloons where a Hulk-sized Klemmer boasts about "THE POWER OF THE WRENCH" while he belabors Omega about the noggin with a perfectly humongous wrench that leaves a crackling energy trail. (You could always rely on a Gil Kane cover for a spicy, over-the-top rendition of a book's actual contents!) So it's unclear whether that pimped-out version of Klemmer was referring to himself in the third person and by a code name at that -- admittedly, normal villain behavior in the world of 1970's Marvel -- or if he was just really proud of that wrench!

I think it's clear that Omega's writers, Steve Gerber and (uncredited) Mary Skrenes, never intended for Kurt Klemmer to be an out-and-out "supervillain." Which is totally cool. But could he have worked as one? I think so. He had an interesting hook, in that he was a handyman who was obsessed with "fixing" his fellow human beings. Which involved bludgeoning them to death with a wrench, but hey, it's a start. He was a big, sturdy guy, so at normal strength with an ordinary wrench for a weapon he'd make a fine adversary for one of the Marvel heroes who fight street-level crime, like Daredevil or Power Man. Or a writer could go the "Absorbing Man" route with him and have some cosmic being magic-up his wrench so he could battle Thor and Iron Man. Maybe he could join the Wrecking Crew! And maybe he could dress like so:

I thought a somber blue/gray color scheme would be more appropriate for Mister Klemmer's hypothetical villain costume than the mustard hue from his overalls. I designed a stylized "W" using the shape of a wrench, and I added stripes to evoke the overall straps. The boots and gloves have cut-outs in the shape of a wrench's clamps. (Or whatever they're called... here in the future we fix everything by waving a humming rectal thermometer over it!) The long, shaggy haircut symbolizes the Wrench's unkempt mind. I decided to bleach it out to more of a white blonde so it's more dramatic.

Previous "Rescue Me" challenges:

• Turner D. Century
• Shellshock
• Mirage
• The Vamp
• The Basilisk
• Megatak
• Hellrazor
• The Melter
• Cyclone
• The Hijacker
• The Fly
• The Cheetah
• Lionfang
• The Miracle Man
• Bird-Man 2
• Steeplejack 2
• Commander Kraken
• Titania
• Bonus: Annihilator and Son
• Red Skull 3
• Black Abbott

When You're a Valet, You're a Valet All the Way

Nobody can press a velour jogging suit like the gentlemen's gentlemen of the New Jersey mob!

And what's under those coats? I'm guessing it's a spare wifebeater, some pinky ring polish, and a little jar of cement shoe remover.

(Sorry about the delay. When I called my internet provider OF EVIL! last night about my connection problems, they told me it was a neighborhood-wide service blackout. When I called them tonight about the same problem, it was just me and had nothing to do with that localized outage at all. I'm guessing "neighborhood-wide service blackout" is internet tech guy code for "Your phone call is keeping me from enjoying my caramel latte and I really don't feel like dealing with you right now." Feh!)

Tomorrow: a "Rescue Me" design for the Wrench!

Anorexic Get Your Gun

Eating disorders of the OOOLLLLD WEST!

Well, it's not so much a smile as it is a rictus but still. I guess she's smiling because she managed to avoid nibbling at that gigantic pancake somebody had temptingly placed on the eastern slope of Mount Hood. She's still troubled by how much bigger her thighs are, but that's only because no one bothered to explain to her that she's wearing jhodpurs.

Amateur Photographer Discovers New Type of Zebra Mussel

(From "The Riverdale Shopper-Democrat", June 1, 2007)

Local teen and self-described "sex magnet" Archibald Andrews has provided the Riverdale Zoological Society with photographic proof of a new strain of zebra mussel. Dubbed Dreissena Veronica, the bivalve can be found in large bodies of water, mostly aboard yachts. Unlike its famous cousins, the Dreissena Veronica mussel has a vaguely humanoid appearance and is capable of walking on land, flirting, scheming, and making catty remarks. As of press time, only one specimen of this new mussel has been spotted. However, some scientists advise citizens to be vigilant. According to Dr. Dilton Doily, a Ph.D. and Hall Monitor, should the Veronica mussel go unchecked, "the town's banks could be sucked dry!"

A Little Less Conversation, A Little More Babbling

Clicker is so overcome by Millie's loveliness that he's reduced to Caveman Language, or possibly German. And I'm pretty sure he was wearing a bow tie but his spasming Adam's apple popped the darn thing right off! (The Adam's apple: the boner on your throat!)

But really, who could blame him? Millie strolled into the office dressed in a giant sausage casing! Sure, it pinches at the shoulders and forces every limb to splay outwards at bizarre angle and you end up walking so oddly that every bystander is certain you got lost on your way to Lourdes but hoo-boy does it ever show off your curves! The tricky part? Getting your local hotdog plant to consent to letting you climb onto the assembly line.

She Got Tired of People Asking, "Who Are You Wearing?"

At least, I assume she's the one who scribbled all that crap on the front of her own desk. Of course, the people I feel sorry for are Donna Elam and Marlene Baron. Because I'm pretty sure they intended for their designs to be worn by Millie, her rival Chili or (less likely) Millie's less glamorous friend and doglike one-woman support team Toni, and not some stuck-up scam artist who appears in only one story. Of course, I have other questions... like, how does the rest of Donna's outfit look? Is it just a blouse? Or does it connect to a skirt, or culottes or maybe some huge flared trousers? Or the bottom half of a pantomime horse costume? Or is the model agency lady connected below the waist to some kind of blocky machinery, like Captain Pike or Korvac the Machine God? (Certainly, I could relate.)

Also of interest: Millie's handbag by Hefty! (What's she got in that thing? A severed head? Or the model agency lady's lower half?)

I Hate Theme Weddings

"Jesus!" Chad thought. "My only reason for even suggesting a Tarzan-themed wedding was to get Jennifer to finally take her top off... but then she had to turn into a complete chickenshit at the last minute. Like always. Where'd she get that white tarp, anyway? You can't even see her knees! God only knows what she brought for our honeymoon tonight. Probably a jogging suit. Balls. Meanwhile, I'm left standing here like a jerkoff with a synthetic loincloth on. Damn thing itches like crazy. And I think the trained chimp we hired to be a flowergirl peed on it. Like, a minute ago.

Hell, I bet the only person more ticked about how they're dressed for this wedding is Jennifer's maid of honor, LeVonna."

Update: I'm now 99.99% sure I'll be able to post with laxative-like regularity for the rest of this week. Just don't expect any new artwork until early next week. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go supervise Tusker's gold tooth implantation procedure. (I've been trying to talk him into replacing one of his hands with a hook or perhaps a giant corkscrew, but he just won't go for it.)

Avast, I've Run Aground!

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

...

...

...

...

...

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

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

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

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

(Handsome Archie is playing Amadus, of course.)

Pandering to the Lois Common Denominator

Gratuitous bra-and-pantie sequence: 1980! Although somehow I always imagined Lois would wear those voluminous, droopy "granny panties"... and a chastity belt. Still, I have to give kudos to artist Bob Oskner for depicting her with internal organs and a working spine. And inker Vince "Kirby Killa" Colletta actually managed to not screw it up! I guess there was nothing good on TV that week.

Artificial Hair Transplant

"Honey, a huge envelope filled with hair just arrived for you! Do we know anyone who's being held for ransom?"

For some reason, I'm picturing horses on a conveyor belt, being fed into a machine that snips their tails off. (Then it's off to the rendering plant!) And I love that the long, blonde braid ends in a handlebar mustache. But the little 'stache really ought to have an equally dainty Meerschaum pipe dangling from beneath it. Or perhaps an adorably miniature frothy stein of German lager (or a micro-brew)! Huh. I'm getting kind of pissed about their negligence, now I think about it. The fuckers! Honestly, they just should have turned over the entire ad campaign to me.

Right Track, Wrong Tranny

"Nonsense! Why, there are vagina marks all over the body!"

Fresh From the Coven

"Why so depressed, Pamela? Is the weight of your gigantic medallion making it hard for you to stand up? We all wear them, Pamela! It's traditional! And you can use it to open bottles and change tires! No, Pamela, I don't care if you're a size 0 and can't wear any fabric heavier than organza for fear of bone fracture... you're not allowed to wear a daintier medallion! Hmm? There's something else? What-- your shoes? Well, of course they're orthopedic! Why wouldn't they be? They symbolize our great demon lord Azazazazel's fallen arches! Now put on your neckbrace and stovepipe hat so we can start the ceremony!"

Archie Andrews: Origin

Strange... the poor deranged fellow has been scampering about the Canadian woods for months now and there's still nary a wisp of hair 'pon his apple cheeks. Even creepier? He has no nipples. (Where do I put the alligator clamps?)

Ah,well. Sooner or later, Mister Weatherbee's goons will throw a net over him and drag his ass screaming back to Weapon X Memorial High School.

Archie Andrews, Son of Satan

Either Archie's hair is a symbiotic organism that reacts to emotional stimuli, or Daimon Hellstrom's dad got himself some hot action in Riverdale about eighteen years back. (In my imaginary next panel Archie psychically materializes a flaming pitchfork and eviscerates Reggie Mantle.)

The Posting Rate Has Just Increased

Weekday posting is back! So besides my costume redesign posts every Monday, I'll be posting a fashion-themed comic panel (or two) per day, with brief snarky commentary. I am positively inspired by (i.e. ripping off) the genius of Adam Barnett at Comics Make No Sense. (I wish I had the time for my old long-winded style of posting but y'know... I'm all busy being a space pirate. Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of x-tra strength lavender beard dye, mateys!)

Nineteen Years Later...

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

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

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

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

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

The only downside? I'm a space pirate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rescue Me: Black Abbott

In the early 1960's, stylish women wore pillbox hats. In the early 1980's, pretentious supervillains were pills with boxes for hats. Case in point:

Ah, so that's where they got idea for the ending to "Se7en." Backstage at the CMA's, a dickhead in a box! I suppose the vet put that thing on him to keep him from licking himself. Y'know, I have this really strong urge to fill it with packing peanuts. ...What? You want me to get on with it? Alrighty then, you killjoys!

This idiot is "Black Abbott", one of many D-list supervillains who done got themselves kacked by the Scourge Organization. Yes, the Scourge Organization, dedicated to ridding the Marvel Universe of pretty much every supervillain who first appeared in either "Marvel Two-In-One" or "Marvel Team-Up." Which is actually kind of a shame, since a lot of these dumb shmoes actually had a lot of potential! Like Black Abbott, just for an instance.

Black Abbott had the kind of mental mojo one can acquire under the tutelage of bald, pseudo-Buddhist monks... sort of a pulp novel/David "Kung Fu" Carradine deal, drained of all genuine spirituality. And for some reason he dressed in a big, box-like hood, like a circus clown version of Anne Boleyn. Oh, and one time "psychic feedback" caused him to burn his own hand off. Er, oops.

That's right! Get pissed, you stupid bastard! Oh, he's positively livid! Look at 'im, clenching his teeny, impotent little fists! And who can blame him? He sucks! No wonder he got offed by Scourge! And off-panel at that! But here's the part that fired my imagination: Black Abbott's wonky, ill-defined ESP allows him to basically possess several people at once, and even speak through them. I'm sorry, that's just completely bad-ass. Ever see "Slither"? Then you know what I mean.

And y'know what? Black Abbott has used his "disciples" to impersonate him in the past, so he could still be around. Bring Black Abbott back, I say! But if I might make a few suggestions...

*he-hem*

He needs a new costume, of course. That's a given, and I'll get to it in just a moment. But more importantly, he needs a bit of a tune-up in the villainy department. I was going to quibble about the extra "t" on the end of his name but it looks like that's an accepted British spelling, so what the hell. (Still, I'm guessing most American comic book readers -- and most Americans in general -- read the word "Abbott" and think of the skinnier, more taciturn half of a certain old-time comedy team instead of the head of a monastery.) But--! How's about we add a "The" to the front of his name? That way he's the Black Abbott which sounds way more mysterious and hard-core. Not to mention it carries more historical weight. It sounds like a character from a Gothic novel, or at least a Sherlock Holmes story. And yes, readers, it's kind of like the early Batman villain, the Mad Monk. Nerds. Aannyway, I think "the" Black Abbott would have imparted more menace if he'd ditched the goofball duds and just dressed more like a monk. Specifically, a Satanic monk. Behold!

Now we're thinkin' outside the box hat! My early sketches had "the" Black Abbott all dolled up in everything from just a basic monk's robe to a gaudy Satanic ceremonial affair (with goat-head themed mask and shoulderpads, and even one of those Hellraiser skirts like Pinhead likes to wear). This, I think, is the happy medium. We have the monk theme with the hood, and the stylized cape evokes a monk's robe while still allowing him to run and fight hand-to-hand. Meanwhile, the body suit with the inverted cross gives him some standard supervillain flavor so he doesn't look too out of place while he's getting his ass handed to him by Power Man and Iron Fist. The gloves are fingerless, the better for him to gesture evilly, and to coordinate with the gloves I gave him my patented calf spats. And yes, I drew him with two hands. Why not? It could be prosthetic. Or hell, he's got magic mental powers, maybe he regrew the damn thing. I know, I know... it's obvious wish fulfillment on my part. *gazes sadly down at robotic dingus*

Note: stylistically, I wanted to try drawing in the style of Korean artist Min-Woo Hyung, as seen in his manwha series, "Priest."

Next Monday: a post nineteen years in the making!

Previous "Rescue Me" challenges:

• Turner D. Century
• Shellshock
• Mirage
• The Vamp
• The Basilisk
• Megatak
• Hellrazor
• The Melter
• Cyclone
• The Hijacker
• The Fly
• The Cheetah
• Lionfang
• The Miracle Man
• Bird-Man 2
• Steeplejack 2
• Commander Kraken
• Titania
• Bonus: Annihilator and Son
• Red Skull 3

Rescue Me: Red Skull III

I know assassinations of characters who have appeared in "Captain America" are all the rage nowadays (your time) but I believe my current subject was the first. And unlike a certain chemically-enhanced blonde muscleboy freak I could name, Red Skull III managed to get unexpectedly assassinated without a lot of soft news stories or needless tie-in books. It wasn't one of those queeny, hand-fluttering, melodramatic "oh, look at me!" type of assassinations.

Red Skull III was just one of dozens of second-tier -- oh, alright, make that fifth- or eighth-tier villains who got themselves whacked by Scourge in the 1980's. I've argued before that these deaths were needless, that all these poor bad guys needed were better writers and better costumes, but I can (sort of) understand the reasoning behind whacking Red Skull III. He was a duplicate of a more famous and iconic villain: Red Skull II! Or Red Skull I, if you want to be an annoying entitled retcon-happy fanboy doofus. (Have I mentioned that I didn't really die in "Adventure Comics" #345? ...Oh, I have? Er... um...oh.) See, Red Skull I, the first one to appear in print, was an American businessman. The second and more famous Red Skull was a Nazi, and he was such a smash that it got decided later on that he was actually the first one and that businessman Red Skull was just an employee of Nazi Red skull. Phht! Whatever. The third Red Skull (or second, according to the aforementioned retcon-happy fanboy doofuses) was a Communist phoney (like Michael Moore!) and wound up in the interesting position of fighting one of the fake Captain Americas. Two fakes battling each other... sounds like your typical Presidential debate! Er, anyway, I don't see the problem with having two coexisting villains with the same name. Maybe that's 'cause I'm from the DC Universe, where we have two heroes with the same name all the time. Like the Tornado Twins! Okay, so maybe that's not a great example.

But here's my theory: Red Skull III was already a little different from Red Skull II by dint of political affiliation. All they had to do was give him a different visual theme. And maybe use the Russian version of his code name, whatever that is. Unless it sounds stupid, in which case never mind. So here's how I'd have gussied up Red Skull III:

It's Sci-Fi, see? Sweet! The "skull" part is a gas mask, patterned after this Soviet-era model. To rationalize the gas mask, I figure the Commie Skull's modus operandi could be one of the Nazi Red Skull's tricks: hit folks with a face-deforming gas and Red Skullerize 'em. Which he admittedly ripped off from the Joker, but hey! It's a good theme. I initially was just going to pair the gas mask with a Soviet military uniform, but that didn't differentiate him enough from the Nazi Red Skull. But I really liked the combo of the gas mask and the hat -- so much so, in fact, that I was tempted to keep the hat when I changed the outfit to a body suit. But of course, that would have caused the whole ensemble to veer into S&M Territory (a bleak, rubbery wilderness occupying much of what you folks currently call "Massachusetts").

The suit has a big honkin' Soviet star on the front, surrounded by a ribcage design. So it's like the star is his heart... if he'd gotten in a car wreck and the impact had forced it from the left side of his chest to the center of it. Again, bad example.

Style-wise, I tried to emulate Soviet posters, with their simplistic forms, solid blocks of color and charcoal shading.

Next week? Rescue Me: Black Abbott! And the first thing I'm doing is getting rid of the extraneous "t".

Previous "Rescue Me" challenges:

• Turner D. Century
• Shellshock
• Mirage
• The Vamp
• The Basilisk
• Megatak
• Hellrazor
• The Melter
• Cyclone
• The Hijacker
• The Fly
• The Cheetah
• Lionfang
• The Miracle Man
• Bird-Man 2
• Steeplejack 2
• Commander Kraken
• Titania
• Bonus: Annihilator and Son