Extreme Blockadeover: Chawunky

The costume contest submissions are multiplying, fruitfully! (Take that as you will.) Here's one from Chawunky, who writes:

This is definitely a minimalist design, shading towards the outright nondescript. Such is my own tendency; however I did set myself the goal of incorporating numerous elements that recur in your wardrobe, hopefully without replicating particulars.

The colors are typical but of a darker, richer shade. I've incorporated what I THINK is a new logo into the medallion and the stitching on the belt. The overall intended effect is evening casual, with slim expectation of a Computo attack.

Again, hardly adventurous, but you should have seen the concept I rejected for being way too fussy in the Perez tradition. Mr. Frenz would have no trouble with this one.

I look forward to your reactions!

~Chawunky

P.S. The inclusion of Cootie is not meant to curry favor, mostly I just leapt at the opportunity to illustrate the little dickens.

In one word? Bangin'. This design may not be "adventurous" but from a design standpoint it's graphic and clean... and more importantly, it's visually striking. The handsome logo is new and to be honest it's worlds better than any one I've designed for myself. I dig the overall vibe of this look: simultaneously bad-ass and debonaire. As you know, I have no problem with bleaching my hair white (all over, heh-heh) and I like how the spiky, tousled hair is a youthful contrast with the "friendly" muttonchops, i.e. the type that join to a mustache. By completely exposing my chest -- and yet creating a visual "collar" via the chain -- and by shortening the sleeves, you've used my magnificently-furred skin as another design element... well done, sir! (And you certainly didn't neglect my nipples. They're large and in charge! Just like in real life!) I also appreciate the detail of the small buttons on the sleeves, which tie in with the same-size buttons or posts on the collar.

Good work, Chawunky! This one's another contender!

Extreme Blockadeover: Jonathan Munroe

Hey, Jeremy forwarded me another costume design! This one's from a Canadian gent named Jonathan Munroe, a.k.a. "Dr. Capitalism" if his e-mail address is to be believed. ("Dr. Capitalism"? Sounds like a Green Arrow villain.) Well, let's see what he dreamed up.

Say...! Pretty snazzy! Check me out! I'm all steampunk 'n' shit! Nice. Jonathan writes:

I figured that you've been rocking the 'pirate of the sea' look for a while, so I figured that since you're likely to keep up the piracy itself you might be interested in a look based on a different kind of pirate. I decided to go with air pirate rather than software pirate, and so outfitted you in a leather flying helmet, goggles, a red leather flight jacket and gray wool leggings. Since the whole thing was looking a bit steampunk-ish, I went with a full-on handlebar mustache for the facial hair. Finally, since I agree with Dr. Tectonic about the need for some offensive weaponry to complement your defensive powers, I outfitted you with electricity-conducting gloves (which really should be covered in intricate brass detailing or something, but psh, who wants to do that in Photoshop on a Saturday?). Don't worry, though - they're completely Thirtieth Century. The sparks and dangling wires are all holographically generated in order to look impressive.

I like it. What really makes it work is the brass-plated technology on the gloves, and the ginormous handlebar (which I would totally consider wearing). This is good example of how you can take a sharp, classic outfit to the next level by adding the right accessories. The only thing I would have liked to have seen is how my hair looks under the helmet. Since we're going for a retro-future look, I presume it's short, and maybe parted down the middle. I'd also dye it purple to match the mustache, with a punkish lightning-streak of orange down one side. Also, what's all that stuff on the badge?

Interlac! Oh, I totally understand now, being fluent in the language myself, but, er, maybe you should tell my readers what it means! Yeah, that's the ticket. *flopsweats*

It's a horrible Interlac kludge that I enjoy very much: Blok with a c inside plus a d e.

I knew that.

Oh, and Jonathan included a drawing of me in action:

I can only presume I'm electrocuting the bejeezus out of that "perp" because he's wearing short-shorts with long sleeves. "Eat electro-fist, deviant!"

Congratulations, Jonathan! This one's definitely in the running!

Extreme Blockadeover: Dr. Tectonic

The H.M.S. Exquisite is nearing civilized space, so I bet we're finally close enough to a transmitting satellite for my e-mail to start working again. ...Yup! Hmm. Mostly spam. No, I don't need any herbal supplements or inertron-trading tips right now. And no, I'm really not in the mood to see any "farm-studs gone wild at Manna-5's Harvest Week." (Ask me again in a couple of hours.) Freakin' spam... hey! Jeremy forwarded me something from Dr. Tectonic! Costume designs? Sweet! Let's take a gander!

The good Dr. writes:

"What ho, a costume contest entry!

Because nothing says "blockade" like crenellations! (And a dashing musketeer mustache.)

It still needs a little something more. I was thinking a very small trebuchet on top of the head, but they're devilishly hard to miniaturize, and quite frankly I don't know how to draw one. You could probably use ballistae, though. Yes... a whole array of remote-controlled micro-ballistae, one between each merlon! Give you some offensive firepower to go with your superb defensive capabilities!

Not sure how you'd reload them, though. Might have to train mice, but they're always leaving crumbs about.

Well, that's why it's generally worth the cost to pay a professional to do your costume. Ask someone like me and you end up with mice in your hat, shields on your knees, and buckles all over the place. Suppose I should stick to tinkering with the old Earthquake Projector Ray, eh?"

What an exuberant design! It's unabashed! And I respect that.

The good: I love the idea of crenellation. (And now I know what it's called!) I'm especially intrigued by the crenellation tattoo. The square neckline shows off my lush chest hair to good effect. The boots and gloves are awesome. The knee crests are a nice touch. The Musketeer facial hair is awfully dandy-ish, but you know what? I could definitely rock that! Oh, hell yeah. And I like the overall color scheme. ...I suppose I should have mentioned this before, but I'm certainly willing to consider other color combos besides orange/purple. And bravo to you, Dr. Tectonic, for striking out on your own like that.

The bad: That hat. Wow. I see what you were going for there, but it would make me look too much like an extra in Disney's "Beauty and the Beast." I can also see Cootie curling up in it and falling asleep. And then I'd have to train Cootie to operate the trebuchet, because she sure as hell would kill and eat the mice. What else? Too many belts. I think one wide belt, even if it had multiple buckles, would have worked better. And I'm not sure about the crenellation on the arm-holes. (It's Li'l Abner Chic!) Still, great attempt.

But wait, here's another entry from Dr. Tectonic!

Dr. Tectonic says:

"Okay, it started out with the silly hat, but the rest of it turned out better than I expected. So here's a different hat and an anchor beard, which is much more flattering than the musketeer (suave as musketeering is).

Note also that there should be some patterning on the shirt and suchlike that makes it look kind of like stonework, but I can't quite manage it.

I still don't know what to do about the mice."

It's Ultimate Jughead!

I like the anchor beard just fine, but the hat is still a problem. (And from your message I'm guessing you feel the same way.) Adding a stone pattern might make this design too literal. Unless it was stylized and maybe faded out in the center or on the sides of my torso. Still, something to consider.

Dr. Tectonic has thrown down the (crenellated) gauntlet! What brave soul will be next to offer up a design? I'm trembling with anticipation! No, wait, it's just because the air conditioning is on and I'm not wearing a shirt. *arranges beard to cover shoulders*

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.