Adjusting Crotch Radio...

Oh, swell... another one of these sequences. Just get your ass out there and save people already! CHRIST! And what's with all the Snap-Tite/Lego crap goin' on? He didn't have to do that last time! Young Gerry Conway, my patience with your shenanigans is growing perilously thin at this point.

Still, wouldn't it have been great if "THINCH!" had become as closely associated with Iron Man as "SNIKT!" is with Wolverine? Every comic-con would have herds of fanboys wandering around with "THINCH!" emblazoned on their too-small t-shirts. *sighs wistfully*

Shellhead's on a Rampage!

Iron Man calls himself "Shellhead"? Yeah, I'm not buyin' it. I suppose there's a certain class of loser out there who calls himself derogatory nicknames created by his friends, but I think Tony Stark is in an entirely different class of loser.

Here are some nicknames you'll never hear Tony's compatriots call themselves:

• Captain America: "U.S.A-hole"
• Thor: "Girlyhair VonPrettyboy"
• Ant-Man: "Microbe Dick"
• Giant-Man: again, "Microbe Dick"
• Yellowjacket: "Batshit Crazy Microbe Dick", also "Wifeybeaterkins with the Teensy Peterkins"*
• Wasp: "Talentless Whore-Slut" (or maybe I'm the only one who calls her that)
• Hawkeye: "Sir Smirks-A-Lot", "Spooge Central"
• Quicksilver: "Mister Zip", "Satanic Anderson Cooper"
• Scarlet Witch: "Perm-Meister", "Big Chief Buffalo Thighs"
• Vision: "Sobby the Robot"

*And now I just have to wait for the deluge of comments complaining that Hank only hit Jan that one time in that one comic from like a million years ago, and why does everybody keep bringing it up? Because it's so wrong it's hilarious, that's why! I'm never letting it die! Hank hitting Jan is my own personal Stephanie Brown memorial floaty costume trophy case! So suck it! *laughs maniacally* Now go back to complaining on the Newsarama boards about Supergirl having a larger-than-24" waist, nerdleys.

Blockade Boy: the Home Game

After a rigorous twenty-four hours of bathing, featuring intensive scrubbing and rubbing, pumice-laden soaps, horse shampoos, and several bottles of hand lotion moisturizer, I am exhausted. Clean, but exhausted. But now I'm faced with a new dilemma. Once word reaches the U.P. that I'm not missing any body parts, they're going to revoke my pirate captain's license. (It's the law!) Fine. Screw 'em. I'd rather quit, anyway. Too many bad memories.

So on top of a new job, I'll need a new look! And my head's just too effed-up right now to figure one out. I still have plenty of ideas for how other people should dress, and that feature will start back up next week. But my most important client has always been myself, and I'm just too damned intimidating. I'm so demanding! I'm kind of a bastard, really. I don't know how I put up with myself sometimes.

That's where you come in.

My next great look will be designed by you, the reader! I'm pitting you all against one another in sartorial combat for my amusement. And the winner gets a fabulous prize! You don't have to be a professional artist. (It's true! Many successful fashion designers can barely draw at all!) You can just save the image below to your computer and alter it however you see fit. If you don't have a computer program for doing that, just print th' dang thing out and color on it! You can make my hair black if you wanna. If you wanna make me blonde or whatever, just use white-out to erase whatever parts of my noggin you'd like and then draw on top of that. I'll post and review every one I get on this very blog... unless your drawing is disqualified (as explained in the rules).

Here are the rules:

1. The contest is open until September 15, 2007 (your time) at midnight CST.
2. Use the admittedly creepy drawing above or draw my handsome body yourself, showing my entire figure, from the front, in color. If you want to throw in other views or even a close-up of my rugged face that's up to you but it's not necessary and I won't think any less of you if you don't. *pats your shoulder in a warm, brotherly fashion*
3. If you send me the drawing as a file, it should be in JPEG form. Because that's what I'm used to working with. Yeah, I know TIF would probably be okay. Don't sass me. The picture should be a manageable size, but no smaller than 200 pixels wide. 300 is a good number to shoot for.
4. Don't go talking smack about me on this or any other blogs just because your shitty local internet provider lost your e-mail before they could send it to me. The same goes for the Post Office or any other physical mail carrier.
5. Like I said, I'll review the ones that I don't disqualify, and that means I get to critique your design and you don't get to cry about it. You knew what you were getting into. But it's all in good fun. And I promise to restrict my comments to the costume's design and such, and not say anything about your drawing ability. Or your mama! Still, quit yer whinin' and grow the hell up... er, pal.
6. Written descriptions/explanations of your design are helpful but not mandatory. However, if you didn't explain something and I misunderstand it, don't get yer undies in a bind.
7. I'm willing to consider any kind of hairstyle, including a shaved head. HOWEVER. Facial hair is mandatory. Failure to depict me with facial hair will instantly disqualify you. It could even be just a soul patch or one of those dapper Old School Tony Stark mustaches. But I gots to have some kind of hair on my face. Those weak, ear-lobe length "Beverly Hills 90210" sideburns do not count. (They will also disqualify you.)
8. Anything that I deem to be a "joke" submission will be disqualified. Examples would include drawing me in Captain America's costume, sending me the above image with "BITE ME" scrawled over it in blood and/or feces, etc.
9. The one other thing that will disqualify your drawing is the combination of long sleeves and bare thighs. I don't care if every other Timely superhero wore that crap, it's the Devil's work and I will not stand for it.
10. If you draw me with exposed arms/legs/what-have-you, don't forget to depict my copious body hair! And if for some reason my chest is completely exposed, you should pay particular attention to my nipples.
11. NIPPLES!
12. Don't forget to provide a physical return address -- a post office box will do -- so I can mail you the fabulous prize.

...Okay! That's reasonable, isn't it? (That's a rhetorical question, by the way.)

You can e-mail your designs to:

jrizza1@cox.net

If you'd rather, you can physically mail your work to:

Jeremy Rizza
3210 S. Handley, Apt. 102
Wichita, KS 67217

And then Jeremy will use some arcane method to forward the designs on to me.

I'm forgetting something... oh yeah! The fabulous prize! That'd be a beautiful watercolor-and-ink drawing of myself in a kick-ass action pose, wearing your costume and hair style! I can autograph it with a special message to you (platonic only) if you'd like. We can discuss it more once you win.

There! Hop to it, friends! I never brought any pants on board, and I'm tired of wearing Tusker's hand-me-downs.

Not All That Much Time to Lose (by special guest blogger Storm Boy)

"For words have a habit of passing away in a time of action...!" Not in this comic, they don't!

Sorry, folks... Tony can't save anybody right this minute. He's not dressed for it! I'm picturing Tony sprinting past folks who are already half-buried in rubble, stepping on elderly/disabled/just-plain-clumsy individuals who had the bad fortune to fall in his path, slapping away the grasping hands of those in need... y'know. Hero stuff. And that "sonic cry"? It'll be just as "loud and clear" despite the screams of all the crushed senators and pages he ignores as he looks for a bathroom or a janitor's closet or whatever.

Hey! Wouldn't it be kind of super-hilarious if he'd grabbed the wrong briefcase? He's in a men's room stall and he flips open the briefcase and all that's inside is that morning's Washington Post, a mechanical pencil, some condoms, a pack of smokes and a couple of porno mags. Okay, so it would have to be a lot of porno mags to equal the weight of his Iron Man suit, but try to work with me here. AAAANNNYway, Tony would just look at all that, shrug, murmur "This works for me, too!" and sit down.

I think we all know it.

The Day Perspective Died (by special guest blogger Storm Boy)

Hey! Wait a minute! ...Just who is that speaking in the foreground? I think it's supposed to be Tony but his suit has somehow gone from brown to purple. The Speaker of the House strikes again! And even though everybody had been sitting comfortably, now there's no chair anywhere to be found. And the Distinguished Gentlemen from various districts are executing an impressive series of flips and cartwheels! You know what I think? I think Tony never made it to the real Congress. I think he somehow (i.e. drunkenly) wandered into an interpretive dance workshop version of Congress, choreographed by Twyla Tharp. ("Please place your jazz hand on the Bible and repeat after me...")

That New Body Smell

I owe Stockade Boy big-time for giving me his old body. That said, I kinda wish he'd done a little sprucing up before he handed it over to me. (Flip That Corpse!) Right now I'm working my ass off trying to get rid of the smells. Yeah, smells, plural. Every time I scrub myself down in the shower I get rid of one layer of stank, only to discover yet another one lurking beneath it. I'm a metrushka doll of odor! First there was the smell of that high-powered pipe tobacco he'd been using (hey, it made his astral form leave his body and zoom to the other end of the galaxy one-thousand years in the future, so I'm pretty sure it's illegal) and under that it was a pemmican fart or something, and then wet buffalo, and what I'm pretty sure is coyote urine, with a hint of moonshine breath, and I still haven't penetrated to the core of his own natural b.o. It's turning into an all-day job! So I'm afraid I'm going to have to turn today's Iron Man blogging over to my dear friend Storm Boy!

...Wow. You should see the looks on your faces!

Take it away, Storm Boy! (Take it far, far away.)

SQUEE!!! I'm pumped! Don't worry, people. You're in good hands. Oh, and as you can see, I took Dr. Tectonic's suggestion about trimming my glorious mane of hair down to a mohawk. But then I made it, like, ten times better by dyeing it green! Yes, it is handsome, isn't it? Thank you for noticing.Let's see, let's see... where's that panel scan? Ah. Here it is, under this pile of protein bar wrappers. Don't you just adore protein bars? They're packed with vitamins, and yet it's just like you're eating chocolate candy! I usually have about twenty or thirty of them in a typical morning. (On what I'm certain is an unrelated note, my kidneys are threatening to shut down.) Where was I? OKAY!

"Last week I gave a speech at the U.N.-- on "The Scientist's Responsibility Towards Man. Or at least, I launched a satellite that hypnotized the world's population into believing I had. Whatever. Same difference." *shrugs*

Tony's very toothy today. Like, pre-Queen Freddy Mercury toothy. No, wait, I got it. Tony's slipped in one of those mouth guards. You know. Like the boxers use? That's for the inevitable moment when he's swarmed by outraged Libertarians.

I mean, there's gotta be one Libertarian in that room. In the back, delivering coffee and sandwiches, or perhaps just sweeping up.

...There ya go. How do you like me now, nerds? (Um, do you like me? Because I really need for you to like me.)

Prophecy and Loss

Friends, I extend to you the warmest of greetings. My name is Leopold "Sturdy" Sturdevant, also called "Stockade Boy" by my fellow mountain men. I may also have been called by another name, in another place, and perhaps some day I shall learn it.

The man and woman who reared me were not my true parents. They told me I was found as a babe within a great hole in the ground, near the ruin of a cyclopian Engine, the origin of which they dared not guess. In childhood I was blessed with a miraculous gift: through mere thought, I could transform my body into any manner of wall, be it sod, plank, log, stake, or even brick! At twelve years of age, I looked to all who saw me like a man of twenty-one, and so I left my rustic home to make my way in the world. At fourteen I met an Indian soothsayer who told me I would one day espy a double, and that another day I should come to his aid, when my journey would at last lead me to a realm beyond the tread of mortal man. In this manner, quoth he, I should be of service to his own people, who called themselves the Wolf Clan. Much of his prophecy has already come to pass; the remainder will very shortly occur.

I saw my lookalike, your captain, six years ago, through the window of a telegraph agent's. He was attired as a dandy and conversing with a band of adventurers from another Era, one of whom had seen fit to imitate me. This mimic was of a garrulous disposition, and despite his many skills as a storyteller, he could not long hold the attention of your Captain, who doubtless possesses as active and restless a mind as myself. Indeed, his gaze wandered with great frequency from the mimic's clownish gesturing and gamboling to the buttocks of a ranch hand, namely a young Mister Oswald "Acorn" Oakley. In this I cannot blame him, for Acorn's firm, taut posterior has oft brought great comfort to myself as well, albeit in more intimate circumstances. It occurred to me that I should introduce myself to your captain, but alas, a sudden cramp in my bowels forestalled me. By the time I'd sufficiently recovered, he had vanished. Today I am able to give him my aid, and I do so joyfully, for to help those in need is my dearest pleasure.

I should perhaps explain at this point how my voyage to this distant age was accomplished. My life's path brought me often into the company of the Wolf Clan, and through my good deeds they came to accept me as a friend. At the last they bestowed upon me the greatest honor they can offer to one not of their blood: I was to join a host of Spirits, thereby to assist in the selection of the tribe's new Saganowahna (or "Super-Chief" as the white men call him). I was made to remove my weapons, buckskins and furs, and my hair and beard were alike unbraided and stripped of their many charming adornments. In this plain fashion I was led into a lodge, there to join in the chanting of their most holy and reverent elder, and to draw frequently from a ceremonial pipe, so as to prepare my senses for the Spirit Realm. After a period of time unknown to myself, my Soul slipped my rude, hairy form and flitted into the Ether, there to search for its new vessel. The earthen floor below my feet spun like a child's top and dropped away, the firmament swept over me in a shower of sparks, and peculiar beings paraded themselves before my newborn eyes. Again I saw my double, now a jolly brigand, piloting his craft between the stars themselves, and I saw within him a cancer. I looked ahead, precisely one year beyond your own, and I saw him dead, eaten from within by this metal blight. And so I sent my Soul within him, both accelerating and devouring the disease, until only this shell and the invisible spark of his own Soul were left.

I will now take the shell into the Infinite, thence to test the mind and mettle of the prospective Saganowahna and, the Fates willing, enjoy many further adventures. As repayment for your captain's suffering, I give to him my own fleshly form, and he may take it with my compliments, to do with however he pleases.

Farewell.

...And from what they tell me, tobacco smoke poured out of the metal body's mouth, filling the room. When it cleared, the metal body was gone, and there I was, in a daze, lowering an ancient pipe from my mouth, bare-ass naked. Er, not that you could see anything, what with the hair and the beard. Meanwhile, everybody else was hacking up their lungs.

Storm Boy broke the tension by shouting "Huzzah!" and although I was still kind of out of it, I instinctively slapped him -- albeit kind of weakly. It didn't even make any noise! (Damn it.)

As for the business with Weight Wizard... well, you'll excuse me if I don't feel like talking about it right now. I don't blame Plant Lad for what he did, though. I mean, it was one of those situations where it's him or you. Except I was already kind of dead. I don't know. Sorry. I'm not making a ton of sense, am I?

One thing's for sure, I'm hella thankful to have a 100% genuine organic body again, and the fact that it's from my home planet is just gravy. And Stockade Boy was right about that time way back in Ye Olde Weste. Chameleon Boy was so long-winded and that ranch hand was so hot that I missed the part where Cham said he'd been imitating a real person. Go figure, huh? I'm sorry I didn't get to meet him. He sounded like a cool guy.

I do have some issues with the ridiculously impractical length of my new hair and beard but I don't want to cut them until I can figure out what my bangin' new look will be. Which could take a while. My brain's kind of a total mess at this point.

Still, Cootie seems to enjoy the long beard. She climbed into it and she's asleep right now, just above my knee area.

And I'm standing up!

Everything Comes to a Head

[Excerpts from the transcripted video logs of the iFul Security Services cameras aboard the H.M.S. Exquisite, the morning of 29/08/2987 between 12:02 and 12:18 AM]

CAMERA A-1, CARNIVALE DECK, CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS: RECORDING ERROR, CAMERA MALFUNCTION

CAMERA A-2, CARNIVALE DECK, CORRIDOR 1: CABIN BOY EMERGES FROM CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS, DRAGGING LARGE PURPLE VELVET SACK. SACK'S CONTENTS BOTH ANGULAR AND BULBOUS. IDENTIFICATION IMPOSSIBLE. 12 SECONDS AFTER SUBJECT IS BEYOND RANGE OF CAMERAS, RED LIGHT FLASHES THROUGH LOUVERS OF VENT IN CORRIDOR WALL.

CAMERA B-1, BONDI DECK, MONITOR ROOM: WALL OF MONITORS INDICATE THAT 30% OF CAMERAS ON BOARD ARE NOT FUNCTIONING. SWAB SITTING IN CHAIR WITH BACK TO WALL OF MONITORS AND FACING OPEN DOOR. SWAB TOSSES HUMAN BICUSPID IN AIR, GRABS IT WITH SAME HAND AND TOSSES IT AGAIN IN SEEMING IMITATION OF COIN-FLIPPING GANGSTERS FROM "BROADWAY MELODY" SEQUENCE IN 1952 EARTH FILM "SINGING IN THE RAIN." AFTER TWO SUCCESSFUL ATTEMPTS, SWAB DROPS TOOTH ON FLOOR.

SWAB: Balls.

CAMERA B-2, BONDI DECK, CORRIDOR 1: CABIN BOY PASSES BY OPEN DOOR OF MONITOR ROOM.

SWAB: Who goes there?
CABIN BOY: Shit. Hey, Tusker.
SWAB: Whatcha doin'?
CABIN BOY: Oh. I, um, couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd do a little housecleaning.
SWAB: That's a big pile of garbage!
CABIN BOY: Yes... yes, it is!
SWAB: Need any help?
CABIN BOY: No, I've got it handled.

CABIN BOY PEERS AROUND SWAB AT MONITORS.

CABIN BOY: So, it looks like Rainbow Girl's on the bridge. But where's Storm Boy? I don't see him on any of these monitors...
SWAB: I think he said somethin' about makin' some adjustments on the solar collectors. Or maybe he did that already. Or he could be in his quarters. Or the galley. I dunno. Half the cameras got fried when we had that meltdown.
CABIN BOY: What about the room with the big metal compactor and the airlock access door in it? Does the camera in there work?
SWAB: Sanitation? Oh, hells yeah! Actually it's got three cameras, coverin' the whole joint, and they're workin' just fine. Well, I s'pose I'd better get back to watchin' these stupid monitors.
CABIN BOY: Oh, hey! You know what? The vending machine on the Hula Deck is busted and it's spitting out an enormous pile of free taffy!
SWAB: Awesome! I am so there, dude! ...Wait a minute! Are you tryin' to distract me?
CABIN BOY: Light.

CABIN BOY LEAPS APPROXIMATELY TWO METERS INTO THE AIR.

CABIN BOY: Heavy.

CABIN BOY SWEEPS FOOT INTO SWAB'S FACE, BREAKING OFF ONE OF HIS TUSKS. SWAB FALLS TO FLOOR, UNCONSCIOUS. CABIN BOY RESUMES DRAGGING SACK DOWN CORRIDOR.

CAMERAS B3, B-5, BONDI DECK, CORRIDORS 2 AND 4: CABIN BOY DRAGS SACK DOWN CORRIDOR. AS CABIN BOY PASSES EACH VENT, RED LIGHT FLASHES THROUGH IT, ONCE.

CAMERA C-18, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: CABIN BOY DRAGS SACK INTO ROOM. CABIN BOY EMPTIES SACK'S CONTENTS ONTO FLOOR IN FRONT OF METAL COMPACTOR. IDENTIFICATION OF CONTENTS: LIFE-SIZE METAL PUPPET IN LIKENESS OF SHIP'S CAPTAIN WITH ORANGE CLOTH BINDING ITS MOUTH. ERROR. RE-IDENTIFY. SCANNING. SHIP'S LOGS IDENTIFY SUBJECT AS SHIP'S CAPTAIN, TRANSMOGRIFIED BY UNKNOWN MEANS INTO MOSTLY HOLLOW METAL BEING. CABIN BOY CROUCHES DOWN IN FRONT OF CAPTAIN, REMOVES GAG.

CAPTAIN: What th'--? Weight Wizard? Honey, what are you doing?
CABIN BOY: Think of it as a breakup. Only it's forever.
CAPTAIN: Oh, for Pete's sake. I'm too tired for this right now. Look, just take me back to my cabin. You don't really have to do anything to piss me off this time. We'll just pretend you did, instead. When I'm all better, I'll go ahead and whup your ass just the way you like it. Okay? Okay. Great. Let's go, kid.
CABIN BOY: I'm not shitting around here. You and me? We're over.

CAPTAIN ROLLS EYES, EMITS DRAWN-OUT GUTTURAL SIGH.

CABIN BOY: No, I mean it this time. I'm sick of it! Not just the whole pirate dealio. It's everything you do. And every time we get back together I just feel sicker and more numb inside, and the worst part is I can hear everybody laughing at me, oh, there's the little pussy who needs Blockade Boy to protect him. As long as I'm with you, I'll always be that shrimpy toddler who needed the big freak to watch his back. And it's not just me -- you feel that way too, I can tell, I mean, you're always calling me "kid" and "boy" and we're the same goddamn age! I feel like I'm stuck in my teens and I'll never grow up! When I'm around you, it's like, it's like I'm nothing. Nothing!

CAPTAIN: Yeah, okay, so I spent twenty years of my life taking care of you. Although it feels more like forty-five for some reason... damn sliding timeline! But don't blame me for holding you back. You could act like an adult if you wanted to. We both know I gave you plenty of chances. And hell, look at the state I'm in. Now it's reversed. You can take care of me. That's what a real relationship is all about. Two people taking care of each other.
CABIN BOY: That's... not what I want. At least, at least... not with you.
CAPTAIN: So leave! At the next planet you can go fake your death. Just like you always do.
CABIN BOY: That never works. You know that. Every time I think I've finally done it, I've finally made you angry enough to just leave me the fuck alone, you come looking for me or worse, I go looking for you again. We always find each other, sooner or later. And I've been so weak, I always let it happen. I've got to stop this. And the only way I can do it is to get rid of you. Permanently.

CAPTAIN MAKES SCOFFING SOUND, LAUGHS.

CAPTAIN: Oh, bitch, please. Are you kidding me? Sure, okay, you're going to kill me. C'mon. There's no way! I know you, sweetheart. You don't have the heart for it. Or the balls.
CABIN BOY: Look in my eyes and say that again.

CABIN BOY LEANS DOWN, HIS FACE INCHES AWAY FROM THE CAPTAIN'S. SILENCE: 11.2 SECONDS.

CAPTAIN: ...Damn.
CABIN BOY: Damn right. Y'know, I was just going to dump your useless carcass in the compactor but screw it. I'd rather do it myself.

CABIN BOY STANDS UP, RAISES FOOT OVER CAPTAIN'S HEAD.

CAMERA C-19, PANNING MODEL, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: UNIDENTIFIED ITEM OR SUBJECT OUTSIDE OF SHIP'S HULL MOVES AWAY FROM PORTHOLE #568 WHENEVER IN RANGE OF CAMERA. VIEW OF SPACE DEBRIS THROUGH PORTHOLE #566. ANALYSIS PENDING.

CABIN BOY: Any last words, baby?
CAPTAIN. Special sauce.
CABIN BOY: Heavy.

CABIN BOY CRUSHES CAPTAIN'S HEAD WITH FOOT.

EXTREME DISTORTION OF HEAD AND TOTAL LACK OF FLUIDS INDICATES HEAD IS NOW DEVOID OF ORGANIC MATTER.

CABIN BOY: Wait, what? Special sauce?!

CAMERA C-17, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: SHIP'S MASCOT, IN DIVIDED FORM, MELTS THROUGH VENT, FLIES IN DIRECTION OF CABIN BOY.

CAMERA C-18, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: SHIP'S MASCOT, RED FORM, ATTACKS CABIN BOY'S LEFT LEG. YELLOW FORM: RIGHT LEG. GREEN FORM: LEFT ARM. BLUE FORM: RIGHT ARM.

CABIN BOY: Ow! Damn it! Ow! Shit! Get the fuck off me! Light! Light!

CAMERAS C-17, C-18, C-19, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: CABIN BOY BOUNCES AROUND ROOM, SHAKES MASCOT/S FREE OF LIMBS. CABIN BOY'S LEFT LEG IS ON FIRE. CABIN BOY ROLLS ON FLOOR, TRYING TO PUT OUT FLAMES. SHIP'S MASCOT, BLUE FORM, POUNCES, WRAPS SELF AROUND CABIN BOY'S NECK, CONSTRICTS.

CAMERA C-19, PANNING MODEL, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: ANALYSIS OF SPACE DEBRIS COMPLETE. IDENTIFICATION: BUNGEE CORDS.

CAMERA C-17, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: AIRLOCK ACCESS DOOR IS FORCED OPEN BY AMBULATORY CARNIVOROUS FLOWER/CREATURE, APPROXIMATELY 3 CUBIC METERS IN SIZE, INDENTIFICATION: VORNIAN GREATER LACERATING ROSE.

CAMERA C-18, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: DIVIDED FORMS OF SHIP'S MASCOT RETREAT INTO VENTILATION SYSTEM. ROSE SEIZES CABIN BOY IN ITS TENDRILS. SERRATED PETALS OF MAMMOTH FLOWER HEAD FLEX, PULSATE. CABIN BOY TREMBLES, WETS SELF. CABIN BOY CLOSES EYES.

CABIN BOY: Heavy.

CRACKS APPEAR IN FLOOR BENEATH CABIN BOY. COLLAPSE OF DECK IMMINENT. WITH CONVULSIVE MOTION, FLOWER ENGULFS CABIN BOY'S HEAD, SEVERS IT FROM HIS BODY, EJECTS IT.

CAMERA C-19, PANNING MODEL, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: CABIN BOY'S HEAD REBOUNDS OFF OF WALL, ROLLS BACK IN DIRECTION OF ROSE.

CAMERA C-18, RIVIERA DECK, SANITATION FACILITY: STANDING IN PLACE OF ROSE IS SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD.

SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD: That's how we roll in the Beat the Living Crap Out Of You League.

SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD SPITS ON CABIN BOY'S SEVERED HEAD, KNEELS DOWN BESIDE BODY OF CAPTAIN, CRADLES IT, SOBS.

SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD: Oh, no. Oh, Luck Lords, please, no... I'm sorry I didn't get here in time, buddy. You were so good to me. You knew I could be better than I was. You believed in me, even when I didn't, and--

CAPTAIN'S BODY SPASMS, SLIDES ITSELF AWAY FROM SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD, SITS UP. BODY'S HEAD BULGES OUTWARD INTO ITS FORMER SHAPE. DENSE WHITE SMOKE CURLS FROM ITS MOUTH AND NOSTRILS.

SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD: What in--? Blockade Boy...?

CAPTAIN'S BODY SLOWLY SHAKES ITS HEAD, RISES TO ITS FEET. BODY MOVES TOWARD CORRIDOR 11, MOTIONS FOR SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD TO FOLLOW.

................

CAMERA E-4, HULA DECK, SHIP'S LIBRARY: 1ST MATE ENTERS, FOLLOWED BY CAPTAIN'S BODY, BOSUN, SWAB, AND SHIP'S FIGUREHEAD. 1ST MATE LEADS CAPTAIN'S BODY TO COMPUTER TERMINAL, ACCESSES AUTHORING SOFTWARE, INDICATES KEYBOARD TO CAPTAIN'S BODY, TAKES ITS FINGER AND PRESSES DOWN ON A BUTTON. CAPTAIN'S BODY NODS, PRESSES BUTTONS RAPIDLY. MESSAGE APPEARS ON SCREEN.

Battle Hymn of the Exquisite

Hello, blog lovers!

There was an... incident earlier this morning. I'm not sure if I'm ready to post anything about it yet.

...Okay, now I am.

The solar collectors are complete and fully-functional, so now all we have to do is wait for them to charge up, which will take a few days. Weight Wizard wanted to turn in, but the rest of the crew thought a celebration was in order. That's when Storm Boy revealed his "surprise" for me. It turned out to be something he called "An All-Star Tribute to Blockade Boy Featuring Storm Boy With Special Guests Rainbow Girl and Tusker." Which was a fancy way of saying the three of them had worked out a marching band routine in my honor! And I know how much Storm Boy hates marching, so my mighty heart was moved in a wondrous manner.

Rainbow Girl played her fife, and Tusker struggled along as best he could on that ocarina I gave him, and Storm Boy... well, I'm not sure when he even found the time to construct the damn thing, but he was playing an instrument of his own design, a perfectly ghastly-looking object he had dubbed an Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone. It combines the features of a Sousaphone, a saxophone, a timpani drum, and a trombone. And when he operated it, Storm Boy looked like he was simultaneously pleasuring and being crushed by something from an H.R. Giger painting. As near as I can tell he had pre-programmed it with tunes so it was closer to a barrel organ than something you'd see in an orchestra. Cootie was so alarmed by its noise that she scrambled for the lower decks after the first note. I wasn't familiar with any of the songs they played. After the incident I demanded he tell me the titles for all of them and then I also made him show me the sheet music so I could read the lyrics.

It explained a lot.

They started out with "Toxic" by Britney Spears, then segued into "Ain't No Other Man" by Christina Aguilera. I didn't know any better at the time, so I just sat in the reviewing stand (i.e. a folding chair) smiling and holding on to Weight Wizard's increasingly slippery, fidgety hand. Storm Boy and the others stomped merrily around the deck and even made a pass under the big dome in a nod to our temporarily-petrified figurehead, Plant Lad, who is several decks up and strapped to the "prow" in the unforgiving vacuum of space. They had made it halfway through Kylie Minogue's "Come Into My World" when Weight Wizard wrenched himself free of my grasp. "This is bullshit," he hissed at me. "How much longer are you gonna make me sit here and listen to this no-talent fat-ass suck-up and his loser brigade?"

"Easy on the hyphenated insults, kid," I chuckled. I tried to grasp his hand again but he yanked it away. I glanced over at Storm Boy. His face was crimson. He held up his right hand in some kind of signal and his confused bandmates suddenly started in on a new tune, which I later found out was something called "Girlfriend" by one of Canada's most revered prime ministers, Brigadier-General Avrile Levigne-Thicke. Weight Wizard stood there with his back ramrod-straight and his arms folded, scowling at Storm Boy. For his part, Storm Boy marched with great intensity in a circle around him, dipping the bell of his Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone ever-closer to Weight Wizard's face.

"Light," spat Weight Wizard, contemptuously. He leaped almost to the top of the dome. Then he shouted "Heavy!" and he came down like a cannonball on top of Weight Wizard, smashing the Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone and not-so-coincidentally breaking Storm Boy's arm. Then it was on. The two of them started brawling, with Storm Boy getting a couple of rabbit punches in on Weight Wizard with his good arm, Weight Wizard unleashing some impressive karate moves on Storm Boy, and Tusker whaling on the both of them for no discernible reason and with a goofy grin on his face. Rainbow Girl, bless 'er, split into her energy forms and did her best to pull everybody apart. But Weight Wizard was so light and so slick with perspiration that she couldn't get a proper grip on him. I threw myself off my chair and propelled myself across the deck just using my arms, like Ursula in "The Little Mermaid" and the next time Weight Wizard bounced into the deck I snagged his foot, pulled him down, and threw my body on top of his so he couldn't get away. Storm Boy used this as an opportunity to kick him in the arm before Rainbow Girl zapped him with an enervating ray and he crumpled to the deck himself.

Meanwhile, Weight Wizard frothily screamed at me to get off of him, getting spit all over my rugged, handsome face. As I roared back at him to calm down I was overcome by vertigo. My voice went strangely flat and buzzy, my arms lost all feeling, and the two of us suddenly shot up into the air. He deftly rolled my body off of his own. I slammed into the deck. I could see Weight Wizard moonwalk-bouncing off to God-knows-where. Rainbow Girl and Tusker rushed over to me. I could tell by the looks on their faces that it was bad. "It happened again, didn't it?" I buzzed.

And sure enough, it had. My body is now almost totally metal, except for a few fleshy parts inside my skull. Everything else is hollow. Since my hands are useless and I'm not about to put any art supplies in my mouth I had to ask Storm Boy to do a rendering of my current state. Yes, I know. Don't start with me.

I haven't seen it yet. Let's discover it together!

Sweet fancy Moses!

I'm pretty sure I have never adopted that pose in my entire freaking life. (Although you just know Storm Boy does, whenever he needs to hitch a ride or score a free pastry or whatever.) Ugh. Of course, I can't stand up at all now but if I could? I wouldn't do it like that. The picture also makes me look a bit too curvaceous and Art Nouveau for my tastes, but otherwise it's a fair likeness.

I don't know what will happen if (or when) the last of me disappears and the only thing left is this shell of steel. I might be like Plant Lad, frozen solid with my eyes wide open. I wonder... is his mind frozen, too? I know he gets stupider as his whole body slows down in preparation for dormancy, but maybe his brain never completely shuts off... maybe he sees everything and hears everything but it just takes him a long time to process it all. It's a mystery. There are nights when Rainbow Girl is at the wheel and everybody else is asleep, and I pace the deck by myself, looking up through the dome at Plant Lad, and he looks down at me with that glum, sleepy-eyed stare. (Which I sketched a while back. See?)

Maybe he knows exactly what's going on and he's inwardly pissed, and there's nothing he can do to stop it... I hope that's not how it will be for me.

But you know what? I didn't get as far as I have by being a pessimist. I've rebounded from fates as bad... well, almost as bad as this. I refuse to worry about what's to come. And I've got a crew to take care of, so I'm going to focus on that. Okay, enough philosophical claptrap. Back to my narrative! *Portentiously intones* EPILOGUE!

Rainbow Girl helped me into sickbay. I had a heart-to-heart with Storm Boy (the poor sweet dope) where I explained in no uncertain terms that I Just Wasn't Into Him. I think he understands now. Tusker got a stern lecture about Minding His Own Freaking Business and I pointed out that if we weren't in such dire straits he'd be cooling his heels in the brig right now. Then Rainbow Girl and I sat down with some coffee (that sloshed down my throat into the bottom of my hollow feet) and we went through my big catalog of Commendation Medals and picked out an especially nice one for her. (She's also typing all of this for me, which is swell of her as I'm sure she'd rather be in bed.) [Too true! -- Rainbow Girl]

Weight Wizard isn't talking to me, or to anybody else. I know this is hard. It's usually me taking care of him. Maybe I've babied him too much, and that's why he's so stressed-out now. But I'm sure he'll come around. And anyway, with the raucous life I lead there very well might come a day where I have a permanent injury and I'll have to rely on him as my Primary Caregiver. So this is good practice for him. Once he gets over this initial bout of shock and denial, I'm sure he'll be fine. Because I'm an optimist, and I have faith in the little guy.

Everything will be fine.

You'll see.

Filibastard

Whenever Tony Stark speaks, you be certain of one thing: a deep, restful sleep. And Tony's smug baritone will always drown out the assembled congressmen's snores, teeth-grinding, and dream-induced muttering and gibbering ("Spiro... dearest Spiro... no, not here... what if my wife finds out, Spiro...?")

You'll note that Tony has decided to go with ironic self-effacement for his defense, co-opting the anti-establishment sentiment of the time. He was a real pioneer in that sense. Tony's aw-shucks routine might seem quaint to you Early 21st Centurians, what with massive soul-crushing corporations selling prepackaged "rebellion" and "liberalism" to the hipster masses on a daily basis. ("We're an oil company that cares about the environment!" No, if you really cared about the environment, then you wouldn't be an oil company.) But from my perspective (from the glorious 30th Century) the corporations still appear remarkably untangled from your other social institutions. For example, Storm Boy's and Dynamo Kid's wedding took place in beautiful Our Lady of General Electric Cathedral, and the ceremony was presided over by a guy in a Hamburgler costume (as is tradition).

I Say Thee Neigh

Mother o' mercy! Demitrius, your teeth are quite simply horrific. Who were your parents, anyway? Did the English guy from "The Jeffersons" get it on with an Appaloosa? Or Liberty Belle?

But those hands... those delicate, fine-boned fingers, the sinuous movements they make... I believe Demitrius here is was born to be a hand model. (And he's instinctively protecting those lovelies with a pair of x-tra soft kid gloves.) It's just a shame he lived in the Time Before QVC* or else he could have gone legit instead of trying to hack it as a terrorist/psychic/party clown or whatever the hell he's supposed to be.

*Admittedly, the home shopping joints prefer people with beautiful miniature appendages, to make their rings and bracelets appear ginormous.

This Is All Michael Moore's Fault, Somehow

Okay... in the preceding panel Slasher was looking out the back of his van at the Capital Building and a bright blue sky. Suddenly he's bathed in a red light and his goggles reflect a white flash.* Screw your dumb "plan", Slasher. I'm pretty sure the Russkies just nuked Washington and you're about to be burnt to a pretentious, badly-dressed, melodramatic crisp. What will your final words be?

"Demitrius... I know we've had our differences, but I want you to know that I've always thought you were... A FOOL!!!" *is immediately incinerated*

*Yeah, yeah, he's actually about to use -- HIS EYES!!! (What, just the one? Is this Slasher's idea of a sexy wink?) Anyway, you should all know by now that I never let the truth get in the way of one of my jokes.

Start Your Mornings with Demitrius and the Slasher!

All that machinery... I think I just figured it out. That's not a getaway vehicle at all. Nope, Demitrius and the Slasher are two "wacky" DJ's and they're tooling around Washington (emphasis on "tool") in their tricked-out remote-transmitting Morning Money Machine Prize Van. Do you want to be a member of Slasher's Hard Rockin' Army? Just pick up a sticker at your local record shoppe or bail bonds office and plaster it on the back of your rusted-out Trans Am. Slasher and his goofball sidekick Demitrius -- and Kellie Rasperry prototype, Lucie (she's about as sour) -- are out on the road right this minute, looking for some lucky burn-out so they can give him a little book of restaurant coupons. (A $15.00 value!)

Marooned

This is a portrait I sketched of Weight Wizard the other day. He'd been sitting so long, just staring into space (i.e. that stuff right outside the spaceship) that I wanted to capture it. Those big, soulful eyes--! Even when he's pensive, he's beautiful. And that little Hercule Poirot mustache I made him grow makes him look ten years older, and three times as Belgian. Granted, the severity of his expression and the fact I used red pastel (the only thing within reach) makes him look like a Soviet dictator on a bad hair day, but hey, it's a sketch! What the hell do you people want from me? Blood? 'Cause that's in short supply right now. But yeah, Weight Wizard's a pint-sized hottie! I just wish... well, I'll talk more about Weight Wizard in a bit. You probably want to know about how we're doing with the whole "Tusker destroyed our main engine" problem.

I'm happy to report good news in that department. Yes, things are looking up! We're still reliant on our backup engine, which doesn't have anywhere near the power we need to propel the ship, but we've finally cobbled together a plan for getting out of this whole big mess. And it's thanks in large part to Storm Boy, believe it or not! Y'see, he's at long last off the sauce, and he's a real fountain of ideas now. Sometimes his thoughts run away from him and he starts off on some dumb tangent and he's babbling so rapidly I can barely understand what he's saying. However, all I have to do is slap him (which he seems to enjoy) and he gets right back on track. Kind of like when you whack the side of a holovision set to make the picture come in clearer. Simply put, the plan is this: we're going to use the countless bolts of Tharrian heat-absorbing fabric we've "acquired" and some other parts salvaged from the ship itself to construct some massive solar energy collectors. They will power up a battery of Storm Boy's design that should give us enough juice to limp into the nearest spaceport for proper repairs. As a reward for his hard work and sobriety I've promoted him from "Swab Trainee" to "Bosun." The news was enough to render him speechless. Finally.

Later, I overheard Storm Boy whispering to Rainbow Girl about some "surprise" he was cooking up for me. I don't know whether to be excited or scared.

Weight Wizard, on the other hand... I'm not sure what's going on with him. He seems pretty restless, like he always gets before he fakes his own death and runs off. Of course, there's nowhere he can go right now. Last night I tried to set up a romantic evening for us in our cabin, with candlelight and kangobronc steaks and a selection of scented oils and metal polishes, and also I had the stereo playing "our song" ("Superbeast" by Rob Zombie) over and over, but he never showed up. I hobbled throughout the ship, looking for him. I finally found him in the ship's library. He'd hacked into a file of love letters for Plant Lad from his various boyfriends. (I'd taken the liberty of having them forwarded to the ship while he's in his current dormant state). He was crying. It broke my heart. He looked up at me and went pale. His lips parted, like he wanted to say something. But he just couldn't conjure the words, somehow. He pushed past me and ran down the corridor. Maybe... maybe I'm smothering him. But he'll get over this, whatever it is. He just needs some time.

Rainbow Girl, Storm Boy, and Tusker are hard at work on the solar collectors and the battery right now, with me checking up on them every hour or so. And I ordered Weight Wizard to pitch in. It's not like he has anything better to do, what with my dingus having altogether vanished. And it's good for him to focus on something other than the two of us. I don't know how much he's contributing, though, because the rest of the crew isn't very fond of him, or vice-versa. So none of them ever ask Weight Wizard to do anything. I can see him through the porthole right now. He's just floating around out there in his spacesuit, all by himself, at the end of his tether.

Marianne's Bedtime Prayer

Now I lay me down to worry
My mind's as mixed-up as a slurry
If my brain should plumb explode
Don't reincarnate me as a toad
Amen.

Meanwhile, in Apartment 3-G...

Well, that doesn't look like a comfortable pose. Was she in the middle of doing jumping jacks when that migraine hit? Or was she about to throw a low inside changeup? Whatever it was, she's been standing in that position for so long, some industrious spider has used her back as the support for a web of Brobdingnagian proportions!

But never mind that now. Just where th' heck is Marianne, anyway? She flew with Tony to Washington because he had been subpoenaed or somethin', so I presume she's staying at a hotel. Of course, the manic manner in which she bolted off that runway suggests she could be anywhere by now. Maybe she even wandered into some stranger's house, Robert Downey Jr.-style! That sounds more likely to me than a hotel. Because if it's a hotel... hoo-boy! A spindly, skeletal brass footboard, the thinnest mattresses available, and dust ruffles that haven't been cleaned since the Garfield Administration--! Is this the Lizzie Borden room at FantaSuites? Jeebus. She'd be safer sleeping on that sprawling, Ditko-esque chair in the back... providing the alarmingly-angled legs don't break off in the middle of the night.

And then there's the fabric they used for the drapes. Look familiar? Run, Marianne! The jumpsuited terrorists are coming from inside the house!

He Didn't Say "Simon Says"

Hey! Watch where you're pointing that fat finger, Senator Snippy Schoolmarm! (If you please.) Although to be fair, you're probably just pissed because the Speaker of the House poured grape soda all over you and you haven't had time to wash it off. ...Naw, that still doesn't explain your weird matronly ranting or your smooth, fat face. Okay, just keep that finger steady while I hold this panel up to my Comic Book Character Fingerprint Recognition Scanner (another fine Storm Boy product)... *PING!*

Aha! So you're actually Granny Goodness! That explains everything.

Downward Slide

As you may have heard, I'm having some difficulties right now. Don't you worry your sweet little noggins about it, though. *reaches through computer screen and tousles your hair, or pats the bald spot where your hair used to be.* It won't keep me from blogging about "Iron Man" #41!

Uh-oh! The Senator ran out of collapsed building photos and has now moved on to his vacation slides! It's the Senator in bikini briefs -- albeit on the motorized stalagmite tour at Mammoth Cave for some reason -- and the imagery is so shocking it's burst right through Tony's retina and has exploded out the back of his skull! And he thought he was a playa! About the disembodied hand in the lower right corner... imagine it's Crandal's and it merely makes him look shocked. But imagine it's Tony's, and it makes him look Italian. ("Madon'! Never have I seen such a pazzesco slide!")

Becalmed Before the Storm

From Rainbow Girl's diary, August 23, 2987:

"Everything's screwed up.

The big news? We're adrift. Despite constant instructions to the contrary, Tusker found his way into the engine room. Once there, he managed to spill an entire gallon of Bismoll MacMattercuddy's Famous Double-Plutonium Espresso into the reactor chamber, causing a chain reaction that melted the core and destroyed the main engine. We're running on backup power right now, so all the lighting is dim and also RED for no good reason except Blockade Boy must think it looks 'cool' or something. The backup engine is powered by a little hand crank that must be turned every hour. Kind of a pain. I'd make Tusker do it but I'm afraid he'd SNAP IT OFF. Oh, and have I mentioned we're "laying low" in the Gorilla Nebula, far away from inhabited planets and trade routes? Oh, yes, we're quite possibly screwed.

I snagged Storm Boy to help me figure out some way to work around the destroyed engine. But now that he's on the wagon he's really kind of manic and useless, and he can't concentrate for beans. Every piece of machinery he laid his eyes on suggested some outlandish and impractical new invention to him. I just wanted the ship to have a working engine and he kept pestering me with rhapsodies about banana clips that electronically hypnotized head lice into working as a profitable miniature circus, or a combination vacuum-bagpipe that plays music while you clean. And in the middle of all THAT, Weight Wizard showed up in a nude panic demanding to know where we kept the crowbar. And when we asked him why, he just looked down at his feet and said, 'No reason.'

A few hours later and with very little accomplished Storm Boy and I swung by the galley for some breakfast. And there was Weight Wizard. I could tell right away something was amiss, because he was wearing clothes. And he was much friendlier than usual. Normally I can't get two words out of him. (He's one of those smug-yet-frosty types... he's always hanging onto Storm Boy, and usually when I try talking to him he'll either say nothing at all or he'll smirk and whisper something to Blockade Boy. It's irritating.) Oh, and even more suspiciously, he tried to make small-talk. Like we were old friends. But there was something about his eyes that seemed OFF. He looked shell-shocked. So I just asked him point-blank, 'Where's Blockade Boy?'

He shrugged. 'I'm sure he's around here somewhere.' I asked him if Blockade Boy was still upset about getting voted off Next Top Hero. He guffawed, ruefully. Then he mumbled something about Blockade Boy having 'bigger stuff to worry about.'

Just then, Blockade Boy slammed through the swinging doors. He was dragging himself forward on two of his best, most pretentious canes. And the techno-organic bug that had infected his legs and dingus had taken over his arms, shoulders, and a good deal of his torso!

He hobbled over to Weight Wizard and they argued in hushed tones about something or other. I'm pretty sure the word 'dingus' was bandied about. I interrupted them to insist Blockade Boy go to sickbay for a thorough examination. Then Storm Boy interrupted ME by blurting out 'You look HELLA COOL!' He had a peculiar expression. Kind of a surprised smile, like a kid on the first day of Klordney Week.

Scans showed that all the organic and mechanical matter that used to be irretrievably intermingled in Blockade Boy's lower half had VANISHED, leaving everything below his waist a hollow, jointed shell. Like a ventriloquist's puppet! Furthermore, his magnetic codpiece has fused to his crotch, where his robotic dingus USED to be. And the rest of him -- bones, nerve endings, gears and fan belts -- is just DANGLING there inside his chest! To be honest, there is no scientific explanation for why Blockade Boy is even STILL ALIVE. It's weird. And Weight Wizard was not taking it well. AT ALL. Blockade Boy will try to put his arm around him, for support, and Weight Wizard will try to shrug him off, so Blockade Boy will then put his OTHER arm around him and hold Weight Wizard's arm there so he can't let go, and then the two of them will basically WALTZ wherever Blockade Boy wants to go. It's awkward.

I don't know what's going on.

But whatever it is, it can't possibly end well."

The Big Blockadeski

Fade in.

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

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

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

Rainbow Girl (softly): Brigadier Blockade.

Blockade Boy waves Storm Boy inside without looking at him.

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

Storm Boy: Myke.

Blockade Boy: Huh?

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

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

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

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

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

He thumps on his uniform pocket.

Storm Boy: Mind if I eat a protein bar?

Blockade Boy: Next Top Hero.

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

Storm Boy: 'Scuse me?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Storm Boy: Well, that blows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rainbow Girl smiles wryly, one eyebrow raised.

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

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

Storm Boy: Thank God.

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

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

Rainbow Girl: Absolutely not.

Storm Boy: Says Blockade Boy or you?

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

Storm Boy (cowed): ...No.

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

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

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

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

Fade out.

Bits of Bloggy Business

I've got another illustrated mega-post over at Next Top Hero (so that's where all my artwork is going nowadays).

Also my old roomie -- and alleged "author" of the blog (as if!)-- Jeremy Rizza now has a LiveJournal. Go there right now and get your mind blown.

Me? I'm going to go play with Cootie, my new sixteen-legged, rainbow-striped cat.

Make Love to the Death Ray

Somewhere in the jungles of Vietnam...

Pvt. Kenworth: Death Ray Duty is the worst. I hate bein' out here alone. It gives me the creeps!

Pvt. Becker: You ain't alone, Kenworth! I'll protect ya!

Pvt. Kenworth: You know what I mean, Beck. Just the two of us, by ourselves. The rest of our unit off God knows where. Hell, for all we know, we could be surrounded by the goddamn VC right now! All them eyes, watchin' us...

Pvt. Becker: Big deal! Hell, I wouldn't blame 'em for starin'. You look like a friggin' movie star!

Pvt. Kenworth: Shut the hell up! I do not!

Pvt. Becker: No, for real! You're one good-lookin' guy!

Pvt. Kenworth: Naw! ...Honest? No, my nose has this little bump in the middle. I'm like deformed.

Pvt. Becker: I ain't bullshittin' ya, man. You have kind of a Steve McQueen thing goin' on. Real rugged.

Pvt. Kenworth: Okay, okay...!

Pvt. Becker: I bet you got a dozen gals droolin' over ya back at home...

Pvt. Kenworth: Naw, not really. I ain't never been much of a "ladies' man" to tell the truth.

Pvt. Becker: Huh. Well, those dizzy broads don't know what they're missin'. You're like sculptural, like one o' them old statues or somethin'!

Pvt. Kenworth: Awright, now I know you're pullin' my leg...

Pvt. Becker: I'm one hunnert-percent on the level, pal. You ever think about modelin'?

Pvt. Kenworth: ...Yeah. Sometimes.

Pvt. Becker: 'Cause you can make some good money that way. A guy gets in with the right photographer, he can make hisself four hunnert, five hunnert bucks a session, easy.

Pvt. Kenworth: WOW!

Pvt. Becker: Yeah, I had me a good business goin' back in the States, linin' up guys for this kinda thing. I sorta got me an "eye" as they say. For example... go lean on the death ray. *mimes that he's holding a camera*

Pvt. Kenworth: Like this?

Pvt. Becker: *laughs* Relax, for Chrissakes! Pretend like it's a '68 Camaro and you're a bigshot who owns a whole garage full o' classic cars, and you're about to take that sweet baby for a spin, maybe pick up some honeys for a little action... yeah, there ya go! Maybe smirk a little. Attaboy! See? You're a natural!

Pvt. Kenworth: This is fun!

Pvt. Becker: Now, undo some of those buttons...

Pvt. Kenworth: How many?

Pvt. Becker: All of 'em!

Pvt. Kenworth: Yeah, awright...

Pvt. Becker: The hell?! Is the heat gettin' to me or is that a goddamn orange t-shirt you're wearin' under there?

Pvt. Kenworth: You like it? My cousin got it for me at one o' them fancy boutiques in Philadelphia. Only, don't tell Sarge, okay?

Pvt. Becker: Can do, kid. But now you owe me... more posing! Really work that death ray!

Pvt. Kenworth: *salutes* Sir, yes sir! How's about this? *leans back over barrel of death ray with legs splayed wide apart and a soporific, open-mouthed expression*

Pvt. Becker: Sweet Jesus! You sure you never done this before?

Pvt. Kenworth: Well... maybe once.

Pvt. Becker: I thought so, ya big phoney! Climb on top o' that bad boy!

Pvt. Kenworth: *balances self on death ray and strikes a surfing pose* Dig me! I'm hangin' ten!

Pvt. Becker: Good, good, now get mean!

Pvt. Kenworth: *snarls, makes tiny clawing motions with his hands*

Pvt. Becker: Yeah! Show that death ray who's boss!

Ten minutes later...

Pvt. Becker: Man, you really gave that death ray a work out!

Pvt. Kenworth: I guess I did! I hope all my yankin' and pullin' on it didn't hurt nothin'.

Pvt. Becker: Are you kiddin'? This baby's made by Stark Industries! It's like the Cadillac of death rays!

Pvt. Kenworth: I guess you're right. Hell, all that posin', my uniform is soaked clean through with sweat! Maybe I should... take it off?

Pvt. Becker: Leave that part to me, killer! What I want you to do is put your hand on the back of your neck, kinda seductive-like, see?

Pvt. Kenworth: Like this?

Pvt. Becker: Christ awmighty! Now hold still while I get those pants--

*the death ray collapses into about three thousand pieces*

Pvts. Becker and Kenworth, in unison: Aw, shit.

One Panel Makes You Larger, and One Panel Makes You Small

"...So you're saying I shouldn't have made the whole thing out of popsicle sticks, then?"

*stoner voice* WHOA. I like, totally get it now, maaannn...! The whole plot, like it's gonna turn out to be out of the Three Little Pigs, maaannn, like Slasher is the Big Bad Wolf, and Demitrius is... like, the Big Bad Wolf's friend, or maybe his hat or his suspenders, and Stark is like, the little pig... the little Capitalist Pig, dig it? And his armor is like, the house, the last house, the one, the one with the bricks, understaaaannnd, maaannn...? 'Cause nobody's gonna blow Iron Man dowwwnnn, mmmaaaannnn!!!"

*regular voice* Yup, that's about the only way I could imagine enjoying a Young Gerry Conway script.

John Madden's Shadow Puppet Theater

Conspiracy buffs take note: Crandal is giving Stark a top secret Masonic handshake. ...Well, sure, you don't recognize it. You've never seen the real handshake. Until now. Sadly, this means I'm now obligated to track every single one of you down and kill you. Kindly put all your affairs in order.

(I'm sorry. Is that rude, threatening to kill my entire audience? It's rude, isn't it? I'm sorry.)

Or maybe Crandal's going to pull some kind of awesome martial arts move and jab one of Stark's pressure points, causing him to crap his pants right then and there. (Because "the till" is their little code name for Crandal's secretary/mistress.)

The Blockade Boy Committee on Unheroic Activities

Now that Young Gerry Conway has been sworn in, the interrogation -- er, I mean, "inquiry" can begin!

Why did Tony and Marianne (or "Marrianne") never get "that chance for reconcilliation?" They had just arrived at an airport, and by plane, for Pete's sake! You don't land at an airport and then just merrily be on your way. It takes forever to get out of one of those hellholes. Wouldn't Tony and Marianne have run into each other at the luggage carousel? Or the parking garage? Or the little place that sells nachos?

Who is this Senator My Seventh Grade Haircut guy and what is the deal with his orange word balloons? Is it supposed to be a clue? Is he the Vision's flabbier, phlegmier brother? When he talks does it sound kinda tropicale (French!) like you can hear steel drums in the background? Is he morbidly afraid of contracting scurvy, and he's ingested so much vitamin C that it's coloring everything that emerges from his body? (When he sweats -- which is often -- he resembles a low-impact Gatorade commercial. And when he poops it looks like a Play-Doh Fun Factory!)

When is Tony going to realize that brooding about brooding is Spider-Man's bag, as the aging, Social Security-draining hippies like to say, and not Iron Man's? Tony's so far out of character at this point he might as well shave off the mustache, quit his high-paying job, move into a crappy little apartment and just sit there, not banging devastatingly beautiful honeys for the rest of his life. And finally, what does his hand smell like? (I'm guessin' it's a combination of "English Leather", Wild Turkey, and that white-panted guy.)

Well? Explain yourself, Young Gerry Conway!

...

Oh, you've written yourself into a silent panel, eh? Tusker, hustle this crumb-bum outta here! What's that? Oh, I'm letting you walk alright, Conway... on the plank! *deep, throaty laughter that devolves into a coughing fit*

Dave Predicts!

I have the smartest, most perceptive commenters in all of Blogdom! Also, hello, SEATTLE!!! Are you ready to ROCK?!! ...Sorry, I don't know what came over me. I'm not even near Seattle. Anyway, as the clever Dave figured out, Marianne has indeed "stomp(ed) off in a huff, leaving Tony/Iron Man to wallow in self-pity." But what he didn't guess is that while the fitfully feminine Marianne has left an obviously injured and/or sloshed Iron Man to fend for himself, the armored AA member has been assisted off the field by another male. This athletic, white-panted Samaritan is ready to lend Iron Man "that proverbial hand"... in the privacy of Tony Stark's jet, natch. Of course, the whole time that guy is proverbially handling Iron Man (in the cramped confines of the jet's bathroom) he'll get an extra thrill over the idea Tony Stark could burst in on them at any moment! Poor dumb dope.

Get Girls Through the Power of Prestidigitation!

It doesn't work if you're not holding the mystic hypno-coin, Iron Man. Sheesh! Don't they have Charlton Comics where you live?

And from what I can glean of Marianne's hysterical speech, she's finally gotten around to reading the script.

The Carpetbagger

Marianne, don't pester Iron Man about a romance when you're dressed like the Invisible Girl and he's drunk. You just might find out more than you bargained for. Case in point:

Marianne: The man I love? Where is he?

Iron Man: He's still with Ben and Johnny in the Negative Zone, sweetheart... don't you worry your pretty little head about it...!

Marianne: Who? What are you talking a--?

Iron Man: They won't be back for daaayyss, baaabyy! Remeb-- remebber? Re-mem-ber? Member? They're tryin' to get Annihilus to donate a stool sample or somethin'... I dunno. Hey! I got me a l'il idea. You jus' truck that egg-squisite bee-hind o' yours ober, over, o-ver to the bar and get your ol' Tony the Tiger another bourbon...! *reaches for her breasts but dizzily tumbles over*

Marianne: Tony, yes, Tony Stark! He was in the plane, and then--!

Iron Man: Listen, listen, I gotta ask you somethin'... *he struggles to his feet and attempts to whisper through his electronically-amplified mouthpiece* IS THE BRAT STAYING WITH ENDORA OR WHOEVER TONIGHT CAUSE I WANNA DO STUFF TO YOU THAT'S GONNA MAKE YOU SCREAM LIKE BLACK BOLT, BABY!

Marianne: I think you have me confused with someone else...

Iron Man: Hey, hey, hey... hey. Let's go fog up the widows... windows on your Pogo Plane, awright? Lonely I-- only I wanna fly it myself, okee-dokee bay-bee? Naw, no, I'm good to go, look at these hands! *holds up his hands, which flutter wildly* Solid as a rocket. C'mon, c'mon, c'mon. You 'n' me. Up there. Anti-gravity, honeybuns! C'mon, let's buzz the Mansion, I wanna see the look on Jan's face when she sees your sweet invisible cooter pressed up against the piehole -- porthole, and, and Myron -- my iron thumb jammed up your-- *abruptly snorts, farts, and keels over unconscious*

Marianne: Maybe I'll just have Tony paged by the Information Desk.

Rubble-Rouser

Man, the balcony collapsed like two seconds ago, and already Iron Man is surrounded by trial lawyers! And of course Marianne has to skitter over there like a cracked-out sandpiper and hang her own drama queen bullshit on him. Sure, Marianne, you need to find Tony right away! The pair of you have much more not talking to do!

And Iron Man, I wouldn't grant an "exclusive interview" to the guy in the foreground if I were you. He's only pretending to hold a microphone. (No, thank me when you're sober.)

Goodbye, Mister Teeny Eyeballs

Remember that alternate-universe Legion I glimpsed on my way back from the 21st Century? The one where everybody had taut, vaguely-English faces with tiny noses and tiny mouths and tiny eyeballs? Where everyone's hair was feathered (or else looked like Toni Tennille's) and nearly every female wore a belly shirt? Yeah, that one. It was horrific.

Well, a friend of mine from the Time Institute space-mailed me a snapshot of that Legion, and I have to say those poor shmoes seem to be pulling themselves together! For example, that Legion finally has an Invisible Kid whom I don't instinctively want to punch in the mouth (the better to wipe off that stoner smirk, y'see). My friend's letter quoted that Legion's new costume designer, one Mister Francis Manapul, as saying "I'm trying to simply rather than modernize. I think simplicity carries over and creates a timeless look." Amen, brother! Finally, that Legion has somebody working for them who shares my aesthetic. Not that it's a complete success, but still, it's a step in the right direction. Let's review...

• I'm pleased as punch my "off-the-shoulder" look for men is catching on, as Timberwolf is wearing... oh. Those are just orange patches on his shoulders which are blending with a crappy spray-on tan. My bad. It's still a pretty sweet costume. Love the bare toes! (Although I thought they'd be hairier.)
• No more belly shirt for Light Lass! It looks like a proper costume now! Huzzah! See what a difference it makes when you don't go for a trend... that expired eight years ago? Also, I love the longer hair on her. Very fetching.
• Alternate-universe versions of Triplicate Girl continue to be prudish frumps with Moe Howard haircuts, I see. And this one's cape still has that ridiculous cowl-neck... presumably so she can duck her head down into it like a turtle whenever the paparazzi show up. Ugh. Why is mine the only universe where Luornu is allowed to be sexy?
• Not sure why Shrinking Violet (or Atom Girl or whatever the frig they call her over there) needs hotpants. Whatever.
• Their version of Element Lad still looks like a complete tool.
• Is it just me, or does Colossal Boy (or Micro Lad or whatever) looks way better, proportionally, if you mentally erase the random-looking brown quilting on his arms, neck, and head? Also, who designed that thing? The Constrictor? He looks like he's part-armadillo now.
• Chameleon (Boy?) is dressed for Ye Olde Renaissance Faire and I have no idea why. It's not an unattractive costume; it's merely generic and blandly colored.
• Sun Boy's still in his "pants on fire" costume which does absolutely nothing for me. For someone with an allegedly "dynamic" personality he sure looks insipid and tacky.
• Brainy's tunic rawks. I heartily approve! Let's hope he doesn't still have those dumb Bedazzled cheeks anymore.
• Shadow Lass's costume? Still slutty. I don't care if you put a grandly proportioned cape on her. I've seen hookers with floor-length mink coats; it didn't stop them from looking like hookers.
• Star Boy and Karate Kid? Been there, done that. Big yawn.
• Ultra Boy's costume is an old reliable, but at least it's not boring. Not sure about the cut-outs on his forearms. Maybe his forearms need the freedom to expand in battle, like they get really huge, like Popeye's. Also, I'm sure he'll pass that kidney stone eventually.
• Interesting variant on the classic Lightning Lad costume. Simple, but it works. And I applaud the absence of white on this version. It's actually kind of refreshing. Assuming that's not a printing error. For example, the lightning crackling from his hand has been rendered totally invisible, and it's making Saturn Girl's thighs look all wrinkly. And with this much yellow, I wonder if the navy blue should have been replaced with black. Or maybe a deep red! That'd be cool.
• Saturn Girl's costume got a deep, gravelly, rollicking laugh out of me because although I like it, I couldn't help thinking that in a Grant Morrison/Frank Quitely universe all the white bits would be exposed skin.
• Princess Projectra is still in her Count Jugula get-up with the stupid collar on it. Feh.
• Phantom Girl... yikes. I'm sorry, but the sheer number and placement of those cut-outs are just sad (and desperate). Whenever a group of people is ignoring her -- which is often -- she whips out the scissors and cuts another chunk out of her leotard. She's fast approaching the point of "no return," where she'll just be walking around buck-naked clutching a few scraps of fabric to her bosom and ladycrotch.

Blather, Mince, Repeat

"Mister Kline... what shall we do?"

"First we take in a matinee of 'Follies' and then... antiquing!"

Young Gerry Conway's bloated dialog and caption boxes are like some medieval torture device, slowly and methodically crushing the artwork into a splintered, bloody pile. (If you cut out all the repetitious phrases the book would be about eight pages shorter.) I expect towards the end of this story the panels will consist of a few tiny specks surrounded on all sides by melodramatic prose. And on the last page, the artwork is condensed into a black hole, destroying any unlucky soul mad enough to read this four-color turd all the way through.

Earth's Mightiest Weirdos!

Hey, I just figured out who "Mister Kline" is, based on the way he talks: he's a gossip columnist! "A certain armor suited Avenger... was spotted stumbling down Broadway with a bottle of vodka -- and a straw! -- in each iron hand?" I bet he sounds exactly like Roddy McDowall.

Other juicy tidbits from Mister Kline's column in the Daily Bugle:

• "Which uber-manly Avenger secretly enjoys arranging his long blond hair in two braids, putting on a Catholic schoolgirl uniform, and dialing up a teen party line for some heavily-accented 'girl talk?'"
• "One Avenger practically ran away from his redheaded hottie wife on their wedding night to spend some "quality time" with his equally-hot but way-more-crazier sister..."
• "Advice to aspiring young superheroes/actors: you can put away your sunglasses at nightfall, and if you want to parade your blue-furred "dog" on a leash through the Village, you should make sure you're not seen through a boutique window by a certain gossip columnist..."
• "What god-like Avenger has no idea one of the teenage girls he's been flirting with on that party line is in fact a certain defrosted conservative coworker?"
• "An eagle-eyed Avenger was lensed in the middle of some nude sunbathing atop his mansion, and if you ask me his "trick arrow" has a surprisingly tiny shaft..."
• "New York's tiniest socialite is so addicted to shoe-shopping she's nearly bankrupt and it's driving her nerdly husband out of his mind!"
"Who is the seemingly-reserved Avenger who phased his hand through the chest of a sex shop employee who told him none of their vibrators were available in crimson?"

(And don't forget to check out my lastest mega-giganto-post at Next Top Hero!"

Spoil-Sport Utility Vehicle

Oh, for--! It's like they're two little kids, horsing around in the back of a station wagon. If they don't quit all that grab-assin', Lucie's gonna turn that van around and drive right back to Albania (or wherever the heck they're all from). If I were her I would have brought along one of those little travel versions of "Battleship" and perhaps some coloring books to keep them occupied. Or maybe they could all play the terrorist version of license plate BINGO. ("There's one from Florida!" *fires Stinger missile at the hapless motorist*)

The Austro-Hungarian Umpire

"Paranoidic"?!

I mean, I know it's an actual word, but it just seems so... so Conway-esque, somehow. Kind of like how Slasher orders Lucie to "pilot" them "out of this area" when he means "take a left at the next stop light, and could we maybe stop at the DQ for an ice cream sammitch? Pleeeaase?"

And just who is this "Lucie" person? (Besides a hot rat-faced babe with shellacked hair and a love of down vests?) Did the mysterious Mister Kline assign her to the terrorist team with those two losers, or did the fancy-talkin' Slasher hook up with her in some terrorist singles bar (with Demitrius as his "wing man")? Or... in a more likely scenario, is she Demitrius and Slasher's mom? Because she does look a mite taut in the face, like she's a sassy senior who's had some work done. And Slasher is exactly the kind of douche who would call his mother by her first name.

Rectangular for a Reason

Their evil mission complete, the super-powered criminals slip into their high-tech transport and-- oh.

I kid you not, Slasher and Demitrius' getaway vehicle is a freaking VW van. (That's enough terrorism for today, guys... time to pick up the kids from soccer practice!) So I've got to agree with Young Gerry Conway on this: their success is awfully relative! Sure, they defeated Iron Man (with a lot of help from Iron Man's liver) and yet he's the one who'll be flying to the hospital in his own private jet while they're probably scurrying off to some rat hole in a crummy old van. I mean, for supervillains they're not exactly enjoying "the high life." Although Conway probably was, if you know what I mean and I think you do.

Fun fact: if this was a Gerry Conway comic from a mere three years later the Punisher would stroll around the corner and blast their fool heads off! (Life is all about timing, people!)

CHOOM: Cranks Hatin' On Ol' Marvel!

And if that wasn't bad enough, he's about to be smothered by a roiling cloud of his own word balloons! He can't win for losin'! Poor dope. And the final panel has him vomiting inside his own helmet. The End!

So. We had five whole panels of action, six if you count the one of him flying out of the plane, and it all comes to a whiplash-inducing halt with this panel where he passes out. After having saved... one person! But don't think for a moment that this story's frenetic pace is going to falter! No, you can all look forward to many, many panels of people driving places, people sitting and talking, people leaning against bedposts (fully clothed, darn it), and -- of course -- thinking, thinking, thinking! (You can thank me later.)

The Little Engineer Who Couldn't

"Tried... I tried... I tried -- to not look up her skirt!"

As for those "weakened supports", they were crumbling pretty goddamn slowly before Iron Man even got there, Young Gerry Conway. And I think the lovely young lady is gonna be mighty pissed once she figures out that Iron Man's repulsor rays have sanded off the bottom third of her feet.

The Red Metal Boot Diaries

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

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

Not the Worst Break-Up I've Ever Seen

"That girl...! She's got one sweet caboose!" Snap out of it, Iron Man! Eyes on the prize. No, not that one. But yes, she is quite a shapely lass and I bet she's available now that she knows her boyfriend transforms into a sarcastic dillweed in times of crisis. (That's definitely the kind of thing you want to find out before marriage.) Also, judging from his face "Danny" is Moon Boy from the "Devil Dinosaur" comic, all growed up and waxed to high heaven! (Danny and Christine's first fight ended with him throwing his own feces at her.)

Thrusting Upward

I'm pretty sure the "vicious wailing" that "still... fills the ears of Tony Stark" is Stark's own bottomless self-pity. Y'know, Tony Stark's self-pity is a lot like the tortilla chips and salsa they serve you at a bad Mexican restaurant: stale, slightly acidic, and constantly replenished.

And it's the very first panel of him doing anything and yet he "can't... keep up this pace for long"?! Holy balls. Didn't he remember to charge up the suit before he left home? Or was he too busy grooming his mustache and chest hair? (In which case I totally forgive him.)

As for the people on the "trembling edifice", I'm not even sure they're falling! I'm pretty sure some of them are floating, actually! The whole panel looks like a collage (or Colorforms), with people placed hither and thither at random and nobody casting a shadow to anchor them to any one spot. ...Hey, wait just a dad-burned minute! No shadows? Well, hell! They're all vampires, Iron Man! Let 'em fall!

Ridiculous Action Sequence Initiated!

Young Gerry Conway, would you care to tell everyone -- in sound-effect form -- just what you were on when you wrote this story?

Yeah... that explains a lot.

I also see that the crumbling balcony that is "scant yards" away from the plane has now totally vanished. Or crumbled! I guess all we are really is just dust in the wind!

Always at the Party 'Cause the Chicas Think He's Bueno

And now, the first two panels of a five-page sequence depicting Iron Man doing the Macarena.

(By the way, I effed up and skipped some panels so I had to retro-fit them into last Friday to keep the story from going out-of-order. My mighty heart is bursting with shame!)

Pasha Doble

You know why I never wear a cape? Because I wouldn't be able to stop myself from doing this with it, all day every day. For example, a typical conversation with a crew member would go something like...
Rainbow Girl: Captain, I need your approval on this revised duty roster.
Me: No problem! Just give me two minutes to knee-walk over there... *flap, flourish, twirl*