That's All He Wrote

This is my final post, pals.

Just thought I'd get that part out of the way, first. It's like ripping off a Band-Aid (I'm given to understand). Although I wouldn't be surprised if my delusional ex-roommate, Jeremy, added some kind of epilogue.

When last we left your favorite super-hero (me!) I had just laid eyes on the "specialist" that the Citadel of Doom's manager had sent after me. And the sight of this guy knocked me on my ass. Because it was Animal Lad. Remember him?

And it just so happens that Animal Lad is freaking gorgeous. And to top it off, he was wearing that costume I designed for him!

So, my mighty brain was churning with manly emotions. I was shocked and flattered that he somehow managed to find out that I'd done a hypothetical costume design for him, and had gotten somebody to replicate it for him. And I was more than a little irritated that he hadn't bothered to pay me. Also, I was horny.

I hurtled down from the mouth of my cave, roaring like a Venusian gyrak. Animal Lad was startled, but he held his ground. He gestured at me and bellowed, "SLEEP!" Truth be told, I felt just as energetic as before. I guess that's because Animal Lad has the power to "tame" animals, and I'm like, WAY more evolved than that. (No matter what Storm Boy says.) Uninterrupted, I kept barreling towards him. He backed away, and sputtered, "You-- you're a mouse! I command it!" But his power to transform humanoids into lower animals didn't work on me, either. I guess it's because I'm a shape-changer, myself. As a kid, I was diagnosed with "slippery molecules." Although I have been changed into a lot of stuff before. Wait, wait, I got it! It's because I'm in Stockade Boy's body now! Maybe he has some kind of natural immunity. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Before Animal Lad could utter another word, I'd tackled him, and pinned his arms to the ground.

"Nice costume, handsome," I purred. "You can pay me back for the design any way you see fit." I smiled charmingly through my massive beard.

He squinted at me, and gasped. "Blockade Boy--?!"

I nodded, and loosened my grip.

"I didn't even know you were still alive!" he said, sitting up. "Wow, this is a real honor! Still, I have to take you into custody for all the crimes you've committed here. Mainly 'malicious mischief' and aggravated towel theft. Nothing personal. But lawbreakers must be punished."

I grinned. "Actually, I'm the wronged party here. And I can prove it."

His taut, earnest face relaxed, just a tad. "That's... great! I can take your statement on my Omnicom, and...!"

"Nope! It doesn't work that way. You're gonna have to wrestle me for it."

He rolled his eyes. "So you're just messing with me, huh? Fine. Big deal if my powers don't work on you. I'll take you down manually." He scrambled to his feet and took a boxer's stance, adding, "Let's go, big boy."

(And I fell in love with him, right then and there.)

We had a rollicking, devil-may-care, two-man donnybrook that lasted a good thirty or forty minutes, at least. Just punching the crap out of each other. But I finally wore him out, and got him back down on the ground, with one of his arms twisted backwards and my knee on his back.

"Say 'Uncle!'" I growled at him. "Say it! Say 'Uncle!'"

He peered coyly up at me, and hoarsely whispered, "Daddy...!"

That was close enough for me. I spun his body around, and wrapped my arms about him, in a rough embrace. His tongue lapped hungrily at my neck and my chest. And then it moved lower...

Four-and-a-half-hours of sweet lovemaking later, we sprawled langourously on the jungle floor. His head was in my lap. "What were we talking about, before--?" he burbled.

So I told him the whole story. All about how I'd used up most of my space-cheddah last year by purchasing a "hot property" that turned out to be the nearly-worthless dwarf planet of Throon, a.k.a. "the Planetoid of Peril." I figured with a name like that, it was a perfect spot for a summer home. Or a roller coaster! But an unscrupulous hotel chain ("Squatter Suites") had moved into the abandoned Citadel of Doom... even though they didn't own the property! According to regional space-laws, I can do anything in my power to encourage them to vacate the premises. In other words, I can harass the hell out of them, with impunity. I had been planning to sic my lawyer on them anyway, but I wanted to have a little fun, first. I can't help myself! Deep within my furry chest, there beats the heart of a barbarian king.

For backup evidence, I summoned a copy of the planetary deed on my interbloggamunicator. Animal Lad was suitably impressed, and totally on my side. Motioning to the distant Citadel, he said, "You want me to turn 'em all into monkeys? 'Cause I can do that!"

I ruffled his hair. "Sweet kid. Naw, I'll get my lawyer to send some U.P. goods to hussle those bozos into a rocket-bus. Then we'll have this little slice of heaven all to ourselves."

Animal Lad gazed at me with a blissful expression. "I'd like that...!" he murmured.

I sighed, contentedly. "This has been one hell of an adventure!, I'll tell ya that!"

"But one with a happy ending, right?"

I chuckled. "You bet your ass! The last two people in a tropical paradise, with the promise of sweet, sweet lovin' to come...? Not bad, baby. Not bad at all. Even if it's kind of a rip-off of the last issue of Rom: Spaceknight."

"'Rom: Spaceknight?!' What the heck is that?"

I playfully stroked his goatee, and grinned. "You know what? It really doesn't matter."

(Luciously big version available here).

Hey, pals! It's me... Jeremy! [Told you so. -- Blockade Boy] Behold my handsome face!

Look! LOOK AT IT! Okay, that's enough for now. Seriously, stop. You're creepin' me out.

...Huh. I really don't like the way I look when I smile. (Although I sure do it a lot.) I prefer "brooding" mode.

...Ahhhhh, that's better. I'm ready for my soliloquy now!

I'll get a little business out of the way, first. The commissions I'm doing for all you great folks, (like MaGnUs) will now appear in my illustration blog. If I ever get the yen to do any more comic book panel scans (don't hold your breath), they will appear in my LiveJournal. And the first regular installment of "Viking Zombie Boyfriend" appears this Monday.

Since I want to concentrate more on my artwork, my illustration blog should become more lively. And maybe I'll get rid of that depressing black background, and come up with an exciting new logo for it... I dunno.

But it's time for me to put Blockade Boy to bed (preferably with a sexy bearded dude).

Working on this blog helped me grow a lot as both a creator and as a person. Most importantly, it helped me come to terms with my homosexuality. I remember an old "Comics Scene" interview with Howard Cruse (from the 1980's!) where he said that he had a character in his comic strip "Barefootz" come out as a gay man before he did. Little did I know that I'd end up doing something similar. I decided Blockade Boy was gay for the sake of a joke -- so that I could link him romantically to Weight Wizard, and say that Weight Wizard had always talked about dying by being eaten by a giant flower (which happened). I never wanted to make Blockade Boy's homosexuality a joke, in and of itself -- and I hope I never did. So from the get-go, I tried to treat Blockade Boy's gayness with respect.

Before I'd started writing this blog, I'd already discovered "bear culture" via the glorious internet -- but at the same time, I hated myself for being attracted to bears. Mainly because I'm genetically incapable of being one. Not hairy enough, not bulky enough, etc. I suppose it was cathartic for me to take on the "voice" of an absurdly masculine man who was gay. Still, it took me years before I could even admit that Blockade Boy was a bear. My body image issues came to the surface when I brought back the pint-sized Weight Wizard, who hated himself for being attracted to Blockade Boy. Weight Wizard was ultimately a miserable, isolated soul. Thank goodness, both he and my self-hatred are gone for good. A few months after I came out, I had Blockade Boy advise Storm Boy to embrace the fact that he was a "bear chaser." That kind of thing is very important to me: honesty, with others and with oneself. (Although my personal aesthetic has expanded beyond bears; I'm currently dating an otter! Sue me, I like 'em hairy!)

I have a lot of practical reasons for ending this blog. Lack of time, a need to concentrate on my art and on making more money (ideally, from my art). And although I learned a lot about storytelling with this blog, I ultimately feel like I've spent enough creative energy developing characters that are owned by DC Comics, and from whom I cannot derive one penny. With Viking Zombie Boyfriend, I hope to eventually sell some comics with collections of the strips, and maybe some tie-in merchandise like t-shirts and coffee mugs. BECAUSE I NEED THE DOUGH.

Finally, I want to say "thanks" to Scipio Garling for posting about this blog years back and bringing me my first big boost in readership. And thanks also to all the great folks who took a minute out of their days to comment on my posts. Y'all were the best! With my free time, maybe I can do more commenting on your own blogs (instead of just lurking, like I do).

Farewell!

Lazy Thursday

I'm bored.

Which is why I'm live-blogging this.

Still no sign of the "specialist" that the Citadel of Doom's manager hired to catch me or kill me or what-the-hell-ever. Although I do see a new spacecraft on the Citadel of Doom's rocket pad. It's one of those "environmentally-friendly" foreign models. Y'know. All tiny and cramped and snub-nosed and boxy-lookin'? Runs on starlight and dreams and vaporized cat pee? Probably has a little compartment to store your balls in? Yeah. One of those. If my pursuer is driving that weeniemobile, I don't anticipate him/her putting up much of a fight.

Criminy, but it's quiet this morning. Usually, I wake up to the sounds of the Planetoid of Peril's assorted fauna ripping one another into bloody gobbets. Today? Nothin'.

A flock of venomwings is flying past the cave, providing some welcome screeching.

One of the creatures just gave me the stink-eye, but I just stared it down like I always do. Yeah. You'd better keep going. Heh.

It looks like the venomwings have zeroed in on something below my cave, under the canopy of trees. They're circling, like they always do, and

HOLY SHIT

they

out of the SKY

just

the hell

The venomwings, they just stopped flying and fell, all of them, all at once.

I don't like this.

I don't like this at all.

Well, now I suppose I have to go down there and see what all the hubbub is a

hang on

WOW

Not only can I not believe who they sent after me, but I can't believe what they're wearing.

I gotta go have a "talk" with the "specialist."

*cracks knuckles*

Seeya.

Prank You Very Much

Yesterday morning, the usual gang of idiots over at the Citadel of Doom had their "brunchtime premiere" for "Space Movie."

It didn't exactly go like they'd planned. (Haw!)

Everything went down around 9:00 in the morning. Most of the actors and guests had partied all night, so they were already tuckered-out and totally plowed. Hours before, I had infiltrated the Citadel, to make my preparations. I lurked up in the catwalk and the ventilation system. Like the Phantom of the Opera. Only cooler. (For instance, I don't think the Phantom of the Opera ever sucker-punched bulky, floating security droids.) The whole operation was surprisingly easy, what with all the chaotic reveling going on. And the only person who sensed that something was amiss was one buxom gal who mused, "What's that smell--?"

The crowd of drowsy drunks shambled into the Chemical King Memorial Ballroom, pausing only to take the gift bags proffered by the Citadel's bright-eyed staff. Some of the guests lurched over towards the buffet tables, while others greedily pawed through their gift bags. It was this latter group who first felt my hairy wrath, as their fingers were assaulted by (formerly sleeping) leechbeetles. By this point, the folks over at the buffet had discovered that the enormous mound of kono fruit-flavored yogurt was actually a cave-protean. (They're like regular proteans, only larger, less-evolved, meaner, and randier!) This seemed like as good a time as any for me to release the crater vipers. And once everyone was herded into the center of the room, I dropped the enormous stink-wasp nest on top of them.

Keeping to the shadows, I made my way up to the Citadel's roof. I watched the angry mob of guests and hotel staff surge out the doors and onto the rocket pad (which is where I'd laid all the flesh-tearing cones from the local razorpines). Let me tell you... those guys were pissed. The guests were angry at the hotel manager, and they threatened lawsuits galore, while the hotel manager (quite rightly) blamed me. Not that he had any idea yet about who I was or even my real reasons for doing all of this. He claimed he had called in a "specialist" who would, and I quote, "put the kibosh on this caveman once and for all." (And yes, we still use the word "kibosh" 1,000 years from your time. It just sounds a lot prettier in Interlac.) This "specialist person" is supposed to show up some time today.

What the hell ever, manager guy.

BRING IT!

Conversations With Dud People, Part Two

Another mystery solved! YEAH, space-boyee!

Okay, okay... I'll back up.

Yesterday, the Citadel of Doom started filling up with folks who -- and I can hardly believe this myself -- actually want to see the undoubtedly-execrable "Space Movie." Hell, not only do they want to see the wretched thing, but they want to be the first to see it! For "bragging rights", I guess. Honestly, what passes for culture in this day and space-age...! Give me Rimborian speed-opera (all-male and all-naked, if you please), any ol' day.

So. I was up in my cave, spying on all the stupid, hapless dolts who were milling around the Citadel, when suddenly I saw this one insignificant dot leave the mob and strike out into the jungle! I figured I'd track him. And once I found him? I dunno. Give him a good scare, at least.

I scrambled down the cliff and I plunged into the foliage. My handsome nose scented the air, searching for any human-type smells. I eventually latched onto something that was vaguely familiar. Like mothballs, soaked in rum.

After maybe forty minutes, I had gotten close enough to see my prey. He was a scruffy, gangly, dandy of a man, wearing a porkpie hat with a floating holo-card projected over the polka-dotted band. The man undid the little kerchief that was about his neck, and dabbed the sweat from his face. Slapping at the monstrous leaves that brushed against his arms, he minced into a clearing. There, he started to pluck mushrooms from the sward, stuffing them into a fanny pack.

By now, I had picked up another scent that wafted off of the man.

Patchouli.

Holy shit. It was Phantom Lad.

I sneaked up behind him and I cleared my throat -- which sounds like the roar of a Parakat, by the way (the car, not the animal) -- and he jumped a good five feet up in the air. He landed about as gracefully as Ray Bolger.

When he spotted me, his eyes goggled. He hastily removed his hat, and all his long, greasy hair came spilling down over his shoulders.

"Blockade Boy--!" he gasped. A smile tried to find purchase on his face, and failed. Holding the hat behind him, he added, "Check it! Sometimes I land me a square job, y'know, for kicks, and then I take off my hat and I say, "Imagine that: me, workin' for you!"

"No, you don't," I said, flatly.

He looked down at his feet. "You're right," he admitted. "I don't."

"Let's see that hat!" I said. "A floating holo-card, huh? That's kinda cool."

"Oh, it's really not," he demurred, and he began to back away from me.

"Fork it over," I said.

With great reluctance, he did, but his finger "slipped" and deactivated the card before I could see it.

"Oh, c'mon--!" I spat. I quickly found the little on/off button in the brim, and the holo-card hissed back into view.

I know it was wrong, but I laughed my ass off. I'm sorry; I couldn't help it. Because it was a press card, naming him as one "Tod Hamplan", movie reviewer for "The Lallorwood Minute." And I was familiar with "Hamplan's" work. After all, I'd seen it on nearly every holo-film poster for the last three years.

I could barely talk, I was guffawing so hard. "DUDE--! This is that other writing job that Frigid Queen was always hinting at...? You're one of those guys? The guys who give glowing reviews to every movie that ever gets made, no matter how shitty it is? Aw, man! Seriously--! That is so weak!"

Phantom Lad attempted to blush, but the waxiness of his complexion rendered the color a sickly beige.

"I gotta make money somehow," he muttered. "And they give you free sandwiches. But yeah. I kinda hate myself for it."

"C'mere," I said, warmly.

He stared at me, warily.

"C'mon," I coaxed. "Hug time."

As he toddled forward, I grabbed him in a tight "bear hug." He began to blubber into my chest, occasionally stealing glances at where my thick, hairy dingus was pressing into his waist. I grabbed his head and made him look back up at my face.

"Listen," I told him, "You're better than this. I know I give you a lot of grief. But one thing I know is, you're better than this. Anybody is better than this. So nobody wants to buy your serious writing? Screw 'em! Find something else they want! You don't have to prostitute your art. Because your art is sacred. Trust me. I'm an artist; I know what you're going through. Keep writing. Keep writing and don't ever stop. But don't let somebody else turn your writing into a joke. They don't have the authority. Only you do."

He sniffled. "Yeah, I guess I oughta quit. The money's good, and the sandwiches are fucking heavenly, man, but you're right. It ain't worth it."

I led him over to a low boulder and we just sat there for a while, with my arm around him, while he softly cried.

Finally, I patted him on the back, and I stood up. "So, are you feeling better?" I asked him. Casually, I pulled my own long hair into a samurai-style pony tail (or "Patrick Swayze in 'Road House'-style pony tail" if there's something horribly wrong with you).

Phantom Lad stared at me, but didn't say a word.

"What--?" I prompted him, feeling mildly irritated.

"That's hot," he gulped.

"And that is a whole 'nother talk," I laughed. "Now get out of here, you bum!" With a slap to his ass, I nudged him out of the clearing and back into the jungle.

"Oh, and one other thing!" I called after him. "You might want to be well away from the Citadel of Doom around 9 AM tomorrow morning."

Blockade Boy, Robot Fighter

My weekend was okay. Until I had to fight the giant robot.

On Saturday, I moved into this sweet cave way up in the side of a cliff. It's high up enough that I'm afforded a wonderful view of the Citadel of Doom. And yet, it's not so high up that it makes me tired to climb up to it while holding a bunch of "liberated" hotel swag, bound up in the hide of a Lesser Gurn (as is my wont).

And oh, what swag they got over at the Citadel of Doom! In my charming, care-free, breaking-and-entering style, I've "acquired" something like eighty assorted monogrammed towels (made of the finest, fluffiest Winathian cotton); a way-cool chef's hat; some silk drapes that I think I could make into a kick-ass waistcoat or smoking jacket; thirty-two bottles of Chateau Femnaz Sauvignon; and an ice sculpture in the shape of a hot naked dude (and I licked that fucker down to a nub.)

Saturday night, I almost swiped one of those complimentary Orandoan mints that they leave on everybody's pillows -- y'know those mints, the ones that are the size of an armoire? Yeah. Those things are the best. Well, I'd just about made it through the window with that thing on my back, when suddenly I heard a small sound, like the coo of a dove. I turned around, and there was a little Xennian girl. Her round, lidless eyes were wet with tears, and she wailed, "Sasquatch, why? Why are you taking my complimentary mint, why?"

"I ain't Sasquatch, honey," I sighed, and I hoisted the damn thing back onto her bed. Then, with my best coyote yelp, I jumped out the window.

The Citadel of Doom's manager sent the giant robot after me the very next morning.

Not that he knew exactly who I was or where I was, but he'd equipped the thing with some kind of vague, hominid-sensing tracking system. I remember watching the robot leave the hotel, while I thought, "Huh, I wonder where that thing's going," and then as it got closer and closer to me, I was like, "Aw, shit."

I let the robot chase me for a while, until I could lure it into a narrow canyon. Then I scampered up the side and started a rockslide, trapping it. From there, it was a simple matter to jump down towards it, turn myself into a steel wall in mid air, and repeatedly clobber the holy bejeebus out of it. The only bad part? I had to do it about six hundred times before the robot was destroyed. I could have spent Sunday napping and eating and planning how I was going to swipe more stuff from the Citadel of Doom, but no. And now my muscles feel like they're being flame-roasted, from all the climbing.

I'm looking out at the Citadel of Doom, now. That big holo-projector they have in the roof is showing an advertisement for something called "Space Movie." Poppin' planets! It looks like it's another one of those stupid Lallorwood holo-films that pretty much just duplicate scenes from other movies (with added fart jokes). And apparently, the "galactic premiere" is happening at the Citadel of Doom!

Oh, it is fucking on, motherfuckers.

Conversations With Dud People, Part One

(Somewhere on the Planetoid of Peril, August 8, 3008, 10:29 AM...)

*interbloggamunicator lights up, plays tinny version of "Flirtin' With Disaster" by Molly Hatchet*

Blockade Boy: Aw, hell.

*activates visi-phone function on interbloggamunicator*

Blockade Boy (into the device): Hey, Storm Boy.

Storm Boy: Ola, buddy! ...Yikes. You look like shit! Er, but you wear it well.

Blockade Boy: Just tell me what the problem is, so I can save all y'all's asses again and get back to my vacation.

Storm Boy: Sure, because it's obviously doing wonders for your attitude!

Blockade Boy: ...

Storm Boy: Relax, space-ape. There's no "problem." In fact, everything's been aces since you left!

Blockade Boy: Uh-huh. I ain't buyin' it. None of you clods could wipe your own asses without me around!

Storm Boy: If you'd bothered to tell anybody where the hell you were going, I could ship you an industrial levitator. So you could get over yourself.

Blockade Boy: Fine. So why are you pestering me right now?

Storm Boy: Mainly I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay, but you know what? You can go screw yourself.

Blockade Boy: Okay, okay... you're right. I'm sorry. I'm acting like a real bear. I mean, more so than usual.

Storm Boy: We really are doing great, by the way. I'm not shitting you.

Blockade Boy: If you say so.

Storm Boy: It's just -- oh, how can I put this without it sounding all catty? ...It's like, you were kind of the problem.

Blockade Boy: I WAS--?!

Storm Boy: Well, you know... you're kind of... overbearing? And a control freak? And you kind of make everybody just defer to you, even without you doing it on purpose or consciously or whatever? I think that's why all of us were just hanging out at your pod all the time, waiting for you to tell us what to do.

Blockade Boy: Which, of course, I never was. Since most of you annoy the crap out of me.

Storm Boy: Heh. Yeah, exactly.

Blockade Boy: So...?

Storm Boy: So, once you left, it was like a big, hairy blanket had been lifted off of us, and we could finally breathe and move our limbs. The rest of them are really good guys, once you get past their little quirks, and I figured out a cool new direction for us! By whom I mean, "me and Bad Apple Boy and Posture Queen." Not you.

Blockade Boy: What about Phantom Lad?

Storm Boy: Oh, he took off. He said he had a hot lead about rioting on Imsk. Really tiny rioting. He wants to sell the story to U.P. News and Worlds Report.

Blockade Boy: Are you remembering to feed Cootie?

Storm Boy: Rainbow Girl is taking care of her! It makes more sense, if you think about it. They've really bonded. You might have a fight on your hands when you come back! ...By the way, when are you coming back?

Blockade Boy: I dunno. I feel like I can be more like "myself" out here. Sometimes I think I'm not cut out for Polite Society.

Storm Boy: Heh. I think you're right. Oh! I just figured it out! You're on the Planetoid of Peril!

Blockade Boy: What th'--?! You deduced that from what I just said?

Storm Boy: Nope. I just caught a glimpse of the Citadel of Doom over your left shoulder. Well?

Blockade Boy: "Well" what, smart guy?

Storm Boy: Don't you want to know about our exciting new direction? It's the other reason why I called you.

Blockade Boy: Yeah, sure. Astound me.

Storm Boy: We're the All-New Jagged Edge Explosion Balloon! Featuring Storm Boy!

Blockade Boy: You want to lead my old garage band. Really.

Storm Boy: I've reworked our "sound" to really spotlight the Electric Sousasaxotimpanibone. It's astro-ska! Posture Queen is choreographing all our dance moves, and she plays a mean nuclear-powered zither, and we have Bad Apple Boy on glockenspiel, plus of course he raps.

Blockade Boy: Of course.

Storm Boy: And now that Tusker and Dentata Damsel are out of the nervous hospital, I've snagged them for banjo and didgeridoo, respectively.

Blockade Boy: Holy cats! You're serious about this.

Storm Boy: We've played some nightclubs already, and we're auditioning for a scout from Computoblanca Records. Oh! And Element Lad and Invisible Kid want us to play at their wedding!

Blockade Boy: ...

Storm Boy: Blockade Boy...?

Blockade Boy: Um. Wow.

Storm Boy: Yeah, so since you never were all that into the band, I was wondering if I could get the copyright to the name from you. I'll pay you whatever you want for it.

Blockade Boy: You can have it. No charge. I'll have my lawyer visi-phone you.

Storm Boy: Sweet! So you're doing okay? You're having fun?

Blockade Boy: ...Yeah. I'm great! I gotta go, though. I have a whole big day planned.

Storm Boy: Oh! That's cool. Well...! Keep in touch, okay?

Blockade Boy: Sure. Have a good one, fat-ass!

Storm Boy: Right back at ya, fat-ass! Seeya.

*Blockade Boy deactivates visi-phone function, then hurls interbloggamunicator against a boulder. It bounces off, unharmed. He picks it up again, and stalks off into the jungle.*

He-Mannequin

Y'know, it's nice having this resort nearby. For instance, when I get tired of eating 100% organic food -- by which I mean, "anything that can't outrun me" -- I can always wait until everybody is asleep; scale the outside of the building like it's a big, craggy rock; smash my way through the plasti-glass windows; and raid their honor bars. And then I might follow that up with some skinnydippin' in the resort pool. And sure, the next morning everybody's all pissed-off about how their food is missing, and all the rich people's bodyguards are fighting with the hotel manager's bodyguards, and there's an unaccountable mass of honey-brown "back hair" keeping all the swimmers at bay, but I just peer at their dumb clothes-wearing bodies through the foliage and I laugh my fucking head off!

Well, I'd better search through my pre-loaded comics panels on my hand-held interbloggamunicator, to find something suitable for blogging... hmm... nope. Nope. Maybe. Nope. Oh, that's filthy! I'll look at that one again, later. Nope. Ah! Here we go!

Please, don't touch the lesbians without permission, darling. Or else they'll cut you.

Or maybe I'm mistaken, and it's actually that one kid from "Million Dollar Listing." (Or as I like to call it, "Million Dollar Bowlcut.")

This Can't Possibly End Well

Especially when Junior realizes he's not getting those cha-cha heels he'd asked for.

(Nice matching robes, by the way. I wonder if all of Pop's wives and kids have to wear those, over at the compound? I hope not, 'cause it'll sure make it hard for the FBI to sort through all the bodies!)

"This Is Mad, Mad, Mad!"

My one-man corporate retreat is really helping me to relax! I decided to "kick it" (as Karate Kid likes to say) on the Planetoid of Peril. It features a five-star luxury hotel (the Citadel of Doom) but other than that shocking pink abomination? No other buildings. Anywhere. No, sir... it's nothin' but trees and deadly predators, as far as the eye can see!

Although I treasure my elaborate grooming rituals, it's been a pleasant break to live aw-hells-yeah-naturale out under the high blue sky, man. Just relaxing my mind and letting my beard and my pelt grow as wild as they darn well please; gorging my belly on berries and cacti juice and tubers and mushrooms and deadly predators; walkin' around all naked and nude (with no clothes on!); communicating only in grunts and howls; leaving my (big) footprints in the soft clay...! Occasionally, some venturesome tourist will snap my picture with their visi-phone -- usually while I'm in mid-shamble and my head is turned towards them -- but I do this trick where I shake my body a little at the last possible second, so the image is all out of focus. And then when my scent hits 'em, they topple over backwards in a faint, and I go over there and SMASH ALL THEIR STUFF! And then I might pee on 'em a little leave them a strongly-worded note. (Heh.)

So anyway, I'm living off the land right now, as simple as a Luddite. Except for my hand-held interbloggamunicator. I mean, I'm not an animal. So that's how I can relate the news from my friend at the Time Institute that your very favorite super-hero dimension -- the one where all the villains are psychotic mass-murderers; all the heroes are vicious, sniping, self-pitying crybabies; and half the population is lacking one or more of their limbs or eyeballs -- is about to absorb the Mighty (or "Archie") Comics dimension. It's a rare and beautiful timeological event!

(Gloriously huge version found here.)

I'm guessing that means you all can look forward to a painfully-mutilated Shield, a sex-addicted Fly Girl, and a Comet who wets the bed. ("Kee-rect!") ENJOY!

But How Does He Smell? (Terrible!)

I hated to keep you in suspense -- since I already knew what would happen (me being from the future and all) -- but it's now safe to tell you that Jeremy's septum-correcting surgery was a smashing success! He didn't feel any pain. Not that he'd admit it, since he's a total bad-ass, or at least, that's what he tells people. And after a couple of nights at his sister's house and some bowls of homemade chicken noodle soup, he's doing pretty darned well! He just isn't allowed to blow his nose for a week. Or else the fool thing just falls right off, I guess. Also, he can't lift anything heavier than twenty pounds for two weeks. Or is it two weeks on the nose-blowing and one week on the heavy lifting?

Uh-oh.

Let's see some photos of him, before and after the surgery!

BEFORE:

AFTER:

Yipes stripes. I hope he has a good lawyer!

"Be Sure to Drink Your Ovaltine" (A Crummy Commercial)

Let's all congratulate Spazmo, shall we, for being the first to guess the title of Jeremy's webcomic!

Now, let's all gasp in admiration at a proper advertisement for it.

If I recall correctly -- and my memory's a bit fuzzy on this, since it happened 1,000 years ago and in another dimension -- the "saucy frolicking" wasn't in every strip. But I guess Jeremy wanted readers to prepare themselves for a Sexiest Case Scenario. It's the same thing I do on my dates! Sometimes, Storm Boy appears from under the bistro table, wearing a stewardess uniform and a life jacket, and he elaborately mimes what my date should do in a Sexy Emergency.

Which is weird, since I certainly never told him he could do that.

As for me, I'm going on a one-man "corporate retreat" -- if I can ever dodge this gang of losers which has attached itself to me like a space-barnacle on a really cool space-yacht. I'm gonna fly out to some forest-covered planet and just "hang". Y'know, try to get my head together and stuff. Maybe bang the occasional lumberjack. I dunno. So I won't be blogging for a little bit. Look for me early next week, probably.

On a completely unrelated note, Jeremy is having surgery "today" (as in 7/31/08) to correct that annoying deviated septum of his. Let's just hope he doesn't wind up looking like that Kristen Chenoweth-faced dude who's a judge on "Shear Genius."

But THEN He'll Only Be Able to Count to EIGHTEEN

I think I've spotted the source of the outbreak, and it's all over the torso of that brunette gal. Listen up, missy: that fungal infection of yours may look kind of like a paisley pattern, but there's no need to flaunt the damn thing. Also, button up your damn shirt! (Kids these days...!)

Shameless Advertising, Part Three

Shameless Advertising, Part Two

How Do You Solve a Problem Like My Bikini Area?

In France, nuns are much sexier!

They just can't see a damn thing, is all.

Shameless Advertising, Part One

And Now, a Heart-Warming Tableau

Alien Super-Villain One: Indeed! Our people shall rejoice when they behold-- wait. You're being sarcastic again, aren't you?

Alien Super-Villain Two: NO, Dad, I'm seriously pumped about spending "quality time" with you. This is way better than hangin' out at the Olympus Mons Galleria with my friends.

A S-V 1: Still thy tongue, stripling!

A S-V 2: Yeah? How's about you suck it, old man? 'Cause I could honestly give a shit about helping you kill this alien dough-ball here.

Shield: I'm not doughy! I'm barrel-chested.

A S-V 1: Have you no sense of history, boy? For millennia, have our proud ancestors imposed our singular will upon trembling galaxies, and...

A S-V 2: Screw that shit! What about my dreams?

A S-V 1: What "dreams" would those be? I don't see you working towards anything! Unless you're in training for the "Napping and Acting Sullen Olympics."

A S-V 2: They don't even hold that event anymore and you know it, Dad! By the Emerald Void of K'thglz, you're so fucking lame!

A S-V 1: HEY! YOU DON'T TALK TO ME LIKE THAT! You know what? That's it. You're grounded. No hover-biking for seventeen solar-cycles.

A S-V 2: But--!

A S-V 1: Nope! This is final! And don't even think about whining to your mother about it. I'm not changing my mind.

A S-V 2: You--! I HATE YOU! I SO FUCKING HATE YOU RIGHT NOW!

Shield: Look, can I just go, or...

A S-V 1 and A S-V 2: Quiet, you!

Do You Think the Punisher Would Pull This Crap?

Because I'm thinking not.

Oh, but the Black Hood pulls this crap. All the time. Because he's a petty, miserable little fucker.

Oh, and by the way? Nice ears, asshole.

The Crimson Fist

So, it turns out that your boring dimension has its own super-hero after all...! And unlike that "Superboy-Prime" goober? He's cool.

His codename is "The Crimson Fist" and here's how balls-punchingly cool he is: he contacted yours truly about designing a costume for him! (For money!) It doesn't get much cooler than that, people.

Designing a costume for your dimension presented some unique challenges. For instance, I had to go easy on any parts that could be grabbed onto during a scrap (like capes and hoods and such). Why? Because you fuckers fight dirty! It sure ain't that way where I live! In my dimension, if I'm wrestling with some (other) burly dude, and he touches grabs my glorious beard? I know exactly what he's asking for, and it ain't a sock to the jaw. Er, but I digress.

This design features body armor, based on the kind used by dirtbike enthusiasts and, I dunno, cops or sumpin'. Note the protective collar, which comes in handy when some jerk tries to stab you in the back of the neck. Which, I guess, happens where you shmoes live. The cowl has integrated lenses. The buckled boots are combined with kneepads. As a design element, I left the forearms bare. So I guess it's not 100% practical, but hey! I'm an artist.

This next one would be suitable for riding a motorcycle. Just add helmet! I surrounded the fist logo with stylized wings for additional bad-assery. I mirrored the wing pattern on the boots. I went a little Anime in the hair, for fun.

I actually doodled around with a full-on Japanese hero look for the Crimson Fist: armored pants, metal girdle, bare nipples, fun little vest. It made him look like he was one of those twee Final Fantasy characters (not that there's anything wrong with that), and it didn't exactly scream "tough". But I guess I had to go that far, in order to dial it back down to this design. It's my personal favorite!

But the Crimson Fist prefers this third one, and I can't say as I blame him:

This design is clean and classic, with a good balance of color and silhouette. It looks the most like a 21st century super-hero from my own dimension, but it was still designed with practicality in mind. For instance, there is a definite top layer and bottom layer. The tunic is bordered with red at the hem, and it's pulled over the leggings. The boots and the gloves are both pull-ons; you'll note that they are drawn as fitting more loosely than the buckled versions in the other two designs. I'll be producing an illustration -- using this design -- for the Crimson Fist!

Awesome!

Pale Rider

Oh, Eastern Cowgirl Fern, you saucy, spangled temptress...!

Luring wine-soaked businessmen to their dooms as you writhe onstage to ZZ Top; stretching your lanky legs into configurations few thought possible; ruthlessly abrading the metal pole with the scales on your stretchpants; insouciantly tossing your collar tips to select "rough-riders" whom you'll meet later, and secretly; dazzling the crowds with the strobe-light concealed within the ludicrously-tall crown of your cowgirl hat; smiling only seldom, because of your embarrassing overbite; ignoring the numbness in your feet after cinching your "ankle bandana" too tightly; doggedly removing all alcohol and bodily fluids from your tiny daughter's pageant vest before placing it back in her closet right before she awakens (for she must never know how the two of you can afford to live in this respectable brownstone -- that is your solemn vow)...!

Oh, Eastern Cowgirl Fern... why do you fascinate me so?

UPDATE: Holy shit. She's an actual person. Real Eastern Cowgirl Fern, I offer you my sincerest apologies.

I Want a New Rug

Big Max has chosen the "Mamie Eisenhower" model, apparently.

...Since he's splurged on new fake hair for himself, do you think Big Max went in for a fresh merkin as well? I've heard that some of the more leonine body hairs that I shed eventually wind up in those things. I don't even mind! I call it "sharing the wealth." Wear 'em in good health, boys!

And I Think We Can All Agree That He Had It Coming

Remember that night? The night Batman was killed? And everybody was laughing; and slapping one another on the back; and giving out free beer, even to the kids; and putting on impromptu accordion concerts; and making sloppy, care-free love right on the streets of Gotham, in amongst the looting; and also this one guy said that his friend said that his girlfriend's brother told him he had seen some fat stoner take a whiz right on the bat-signal and it electrocuted the bastard, and everybody went "HELL YEAH MOTHERFUCKER!" and started shooting their illegal machine guns into the air?

Remember that?

And okay, so the next day freakin' Hawkman moves in and turns the whole damn town into an alien gulag, but it was so worth it because Batman the Practical Joking, Solid Gold Table Having, Hamburger Devouring Son of a Bitch was DEAD.

Excuse Me. Are Those Bugle Boy Jeans You're Wearing?

"Ah, I see that they are! *sniff, sniff* And the crotch has been expertly laundered! Good work! ...Why, no, I'm not planning on putting you down anytime soon. Just... you be quiet! Shut your... NO! Just shut it! Shut your dirty, whorish mouth! ...Fuck. I was going to carry you all the way to the Batmobile like this, but then I wouldn't be able to reach my keys. What? Aw, HELLS NAW it don't got no 'voice activation', wiseass. This is 1977! How come you're so dumb? You from space or something? ...I SAID SHUT IT! *sniff, sniff*"

Good Luck With That

Nemonok is trying to train Chunkstyle, but it ain't goin' too well.

On the plus side, lazy li'l Chunkstyle hasn't batted Nemonok's brain-jar off of any shelves.

Yet.

Wait, What Kind of "Convention" IS This?

In your era, She-Lah is dating Jake Gyllenhaal! Or maybe she's married to Keith Urban. I forget.

So, how do you solve a problem like She-Lah?

You dare her to fellate a live wire.

The next panel: the Shield tells She-Lah to "go make [him] a sammitch."

I'm not quite sure what to make of She-Lah's robo-togs, here. I mean, she's got the imperious headdress thing goin' on, like the evil queen in "Snow White", but then she pairs it with a drably wholesome ice-skating outfit. It gives off mixed signals. (It's the Mike Piazza of supervillainess costumes!) One gets the feeling that She-Lah would smirkingly order you to get down on your knees, and then proceed to remove the pilled-up lint from the shoulders of your sport coat with one of those sticky little roller things. And then she'd chirp, "There! Isn't that better?"

And you'd wind up cheating on her with the ball-cutting robot next door.

Briefs' Interlude

Vince Briefs over at the Saiyan King's Blog is now providing an appropriately raucous home environment for feisty Fizzle! The best part is, there are plenty of other "unique" pets for Fizzle to play with. Let's just hope they don't all destroy the world with their tomfoolery.

I'd also like to give a shout-out to Johnathan of Paul and John fame, for giving Chunkstyle a comfy spot on their sidebar. They haven't posted about him yet, but they did make Chunkstyle a link to this blog! Just like Bill S. has done! And that's good enough for me!

Another Day, Another Ass-Pounding

It looks like Jon is still trying to convince people that GWF (Gay Wall that Falls) is a wildly popular fetish. It's sad, really. There's nothing wrong with having an obscure interest, Jon. Go ahead and fly your freak flag!

Besides, everybody knows that all the cool people are into GBPBGG (Gay Boulders Pummeling Big Gay Giant). And Colossal Boy is into it as well.

Now, everybody help themselves to some boiled prawns. There's a big heap of 'em, on the right side of the panel.

Borgsko

Bloggers Dr. Kate Basil and TX have swept dear little Bosko into their eternal battle for supremacy. And the Borg Collective now has its cutest drone yet!

Maybe it's just me, but Borg Bosko is somehow even cuter than Regular Bosko! Look at the little hat! Or brain-controlling helmet. Or whatever. Borgsko is perfectly adorable! Forget "Locutus"... the Borg should have made Borgsko their public relations rep!

Or Maybe It's John Byrne's Fault

Yes, "Blockade Boy": the destination for dated, irrelevant, and factually dodgy insular fanboy humor.

It's Not Lost; It Just Got Stuck Between the Sofa Cushions

Fizzle, the cutest, mind-controllingest kitty of them all, has found a home over at Lost Hemisphere! (I'm sure that Fizzle will be running the whole show in no time.)

Thrill Ride

Wow, Cootie's kittens are just flying off the shelves! Usually with one of my priceless knick-knacks in their mouths, which they then drop on my head, like little bombs.

Thank the Luck Lords, people are actually wanting to take the critters off my hands!

In other news? I'm still jobless. I've had countless strategy sessions with the other Eyeful Rejects (as I've taken to calling them) but we can't reach consensus on anything. And the stress must be getting to me, because Posture Queen pulled me aside and said:

"BLOCKADE BOY. You're a BEAUTIFUL SUPER-HERO with a UNIQUE BEARD. When you first invited us over for snacks we were BLOWN AWAY by your SMILE (on the rare occasions we could glimpse it beneath that ginormous mustache of yours) but NOW? You seem to be FADING. Storm Boy said you SNAPPED at him during BRUNCH this morning. And that makes you LESS PRETTY to me. WHERE is that Blockade Boy who DAZZLED US at the BEGINNING? You need to DIG DEEP and FIND THAT WITHIN YOURSELF, because we're starting to question WHY YOU'RE HERE."

And I hollered, "I'm here because it's my goddamn house! Why the hell are you always here?!"

So then she started yelling at me ("I BELIEVED IN YOU! WE ALL BELIEVED IN YOU!"); and Phantom Lad yelled at her for yelling at me; and Bad Apple Boy started stomping around and making all these crazy hand gestures and saying "YO, this shit is WHACK"; and Cootie and several duplicates of her kittens were all yowling because they didn't know what was going on; and Storm Boy was laughing so hard he choked on his protein bar. (But if you've observed the obscene manner in which he eats the damn things, that's not unusual.)

So I hollered for everybody to SHUT THE HELL UP. And like normal, they did. (Even the cats!) And I apologized for being snippy, even though I'm pretty sure I hadn't but I have to use diplomacy, I guess. (And I suppose I have been on edge, lately, since I broke up with most of my boyfriends because they looked exactly like me and it was freaking boring, man, so I hadn't "gotten me some" in at least fifty-two hours.)

And on the spot, in a grand gesture that is typical for me, I told everyone I was treating them to a day at Lallor's famed "Paper Dollar City" amusement park, namely at its newest section, New Jersey Country.

Well, we had a heck of a fun time, until the roller coaster got stuck. The park sent up a technician with a jet pack, to take a gander at it. He was a beautiful freakin' dream, man. Brawny fireplug type, shaved head, handlebar 'stache, and a tattoo of a dark beast skull on his neck. And I couldn't help flirting with him, and Storm Boy was flirting too, only he peppered his dialog with techno-centric engineering talk. So I won, because I speak the language of SEX, brother, and my voice is like fine-grit sandpaper against your nipples.

And sure, okay, maybe it was "bad form" for me to make love to him right in that stalled roller coaster car. But at least I gave everyone a few seconds of warning.

Mind Over Litter

Nemonok has found a place in his heart cerebral cortex for li'l Chunkstyle! And I'm sure he'll provide a stable, loving environment that will -- *sighs, shakes head*

OKAY ALREADY, so he's going to use Chunkstyle to destroy his arch-enemy, some dude named "Jon the Intergalactic Gladiator." Wow, that's the same name as one of my most loyal commenters!

What a funny coincidence!

We'll Always Have Sturgis

So, are there any websites out there with slashfic about characters from the 1971 Gold Key series, "Mod Wheels"?

Because there totally should be. (Haw, haw!)

Sweetening the Pot

The kind-hearted individuals who choose to adopt one of Cootie's kittens NOW have the option of displaying one of these handsome images on their sidebar!

JEALOUS...?

(Just right-click and download it to your computer or, y'know, whatever. And if they're too big, still, I can probably shrink 'em, some. Just let me know what a good general size is. Or maybe you can access 'em on my Flickr photostream, where I post as "blockadeboy5440." Heck, I dunno how your dopey steam-powered 21st century technology is supposed to work!)

Cabbage Patch Cooties

FREE KITTIES!

Please, won't you give these adorable super-powered kitties a home? Each kitten is a four-in-one value, since they'll split into four even cuter kitties at random intervals! They're sweet and precious and fun and they totally won't destroy all your valuable collectibles with their out-of-control otherworldly powers. Scout's honor.*

All you have to do is claim the kitty in the comments section of this post, and write about it on your own blog. Let me know when you do, and I'll link to it! Just don't be mean to the kitties, because then I will POUND YOUR ASS, and not in the fun way. Also, I'm totally fine with duplicate claims, although I seriously can't imagine that even happening. But I have a duplicator ray on hand, just in case.

Let's take a look at the merchandise irrepressible li'l munchkins, shall we?

Here's Bosko! Bosko Black can tap into a weird "shadow dimension" to project huge blobs of inky terrifying ectoplasm! Bosko Yellow has a nifty "paralysis" ray that can stop anybody in their tracks with only minor side-effects! Bosko Orange spews acid from various orifices at a range of up to eleven meters! And Bosko Red can shrink down to microscopic size and give you a stroke by gnawing on your brain add the perfect touch to any knick-knack shelf.

Say "hi" to Fizzle! Fizzle Aqua has mind-control powers, so you don't even have to bother with buying food or changing the litter box. That's what the zombie hobos are for. Fizzle Yellow shoots lighting! (Surge protector sold separately.) Fizzle Pink can walk through walls and fall through floors! And not onto your table in the middle of important meetings with your press agent! Nope! Fizzle Purple has super-speed! Try putting Fizzle Purple on a treadmill hooked up to a generator, and watch your power bills plummet!

Look out! It's Chunkstyle! Chunkstyle Bronze can expand into a Harryhausenesque giant monster whose looks will stop traffic... literally! Chunkstyle Gold can transform into a Colossus-style armored juggernaut, which is kinda cool until it's time to "knead bread" on your lap. (Might I recommend wearing a cup?) Chunkstyle Copper can teleport to any location, and positively won't embroil you in an intergalactic scandal by fetching valuable jewels from foreign embassies! Chunkstyle Silver's "freeze breath" is handy for chilling soda pop, beer, or the privates of certain friends who have taken to hanging out at your sweet-ass bachelor pod and are totally jacking with my game, Storm Boy. Er, but I digress.

Adopt one today! It's the latest thing (I've decided)!

*This is not a legally binding guarantee.

Kaboodled

I'd love to write a post for you all today. But as you can see, I'm kind of busy...

Not pictured: the proud mother. Also not pictured: the no-good sumbitch whose cat knocked her up. Razzin' frazzin' frickin' frackin'... *grumbles inaudibly*

Choose My Own Adventure

(If you haven't read last Friday's post, you might wanna go ahead and do that. I'm just sayin'.)

Okay.

So, Eyeful Ethel gave me a more formal firing, later that day.

She thanked me for my "months of service" and gave me a hefty wedge of severance-cheddah. On a more personal level, she pointed out that I would never be comfortable with having a boss. Which is true. She said I should look into getting a job where I can "run the show." That sounds good to me.

But what should I do? My band, Jagged Edge Explosion Balloon, has had some luck playing at small venues, like hover-biker bars and space-mitzvahs. Or I could train as an "ultimate brawler" and battle my way up into the Beat the Living Crap Out of You League. But that would take forever. I want glorious success RIGHT GODDAMN NOW, goddamn it! Is that so much to ask? Maybe I could become a bounty hunter? That'd be easy. And fun! You get to slap folks around... with impunity! Or with whatever else that happens to be lying around.

I invited my fellow firees back to my pod this morning, for a strategy session. And also because I feel kinda responsible for getting them into this mess. Have I mentioned that Bad Apple Boy, that pseudo-gangsta lunk-head, quit? As "a gesture of solidarity (yo)"? So he's here, too. The only ones who stayed with Ethel were Compass Kid (who I don't really know), Frigid Queen (because she's trying to avoid her sort-of-boyfriend, Phantom Lad), and Rainbow Girl (because she actually has an ounce of freaking sense.) I also secretly reasoned that by holding the strategy session at my place, maybe all these other super-heroes could help keep Cootie in check. Yeah, it ain't workin'. I've had to save Storm Boy from getting pummeled to death by mind-controlled hobos, like, four times already!

And Posture Queen--! Don't get me started. Okay, so I'll start. She's driving me bonkers. She wears wigs all the time, and never travels without at least two or three spares. She talks like a crazy person, going in and out of this effed-up cutesy "baby voice" and some kind of sultry whisper which she wrongly assumes is sexy. And she's always posing and telling everybody else how they should be posing, and I'll decide how everybody should pose, thank you very much. And she apparently thinks she's hilarious, but she's not, trust me. (But Storm Boy does think she's hilarious, and he and she are new BFF's, apparently. GUH.) And she has to infuse every mundane moment with High Drama. For example? She volunteered to make a run to the Infernal House of Pancakes to grab breakfast sandwiches for everybody. Only she screwed up the order. So we heard the front door slide open, and we bustled into the sunken living room to find Posture Queen standing in the foyer, looking down on everybody with her "serious face" (which makes her look like a frightened robot) and she intoned, "I see four beautiful super-heroes in front of me. But I only hold three sandwiches in my hand."

We were all kind of taken aback for a few seconds. But then I broke the silence by hollering, "WHO THE FUCK TALKS LIKE THAT?!"

It's going to be a long day.

But while I try to pull my shit together, why don't you guys partake of this nice costume I designed for fellow blogger (and evil genius) Captain Koma? It uses his signature motifs: the blue/black color scheme, and the hood. I also glommed onto a snake theme, based on the time he was turned into a half-snake creature (and because snakes are evil, which was scientifically proven by Lithuanian researchers in the year 2466). So the padding is meant to suggest a snake's belly, and I crafted Ouroboros symbols for the cloak clasps and for the belt. The clasps are joined by a yoke, based on Celtic jewelry. Now Captain Koma can conquer the universe in style!

(Gee, I hope that doesn't make me an "accessory." Er, oops.)

Nothing Left To Do But Parade

Personally? I hold Phantom Lad responsible for this mess.

Okay, so that's not really fair. Big deal. BIG FREAKIN' DEAL! I'm in no mood to be "fair" right now.

And besides... as annoying as that phony hipster was back when I was pretending to be a "straight arrow" imaginary twin brother to my legendarily bad-ass self, and he looked on me with total disdain... well, he's only gotten more irritating now that everybody knows who I really am. Because now Phantom Lad is my biggest fan. He's always hanging around my desk, asking me if I need more space-java, or a new pad of holo-notes, or even *shudder* a foot-rub. GAH. Anything I say, he immediately agrees with, aggressively. Even combatively. And I'm pretty sure he's stalking me. He tried to rummage through my garbage the other night, but luckily Storm Boy was already there, searching for used undershirts. And I've tried screaming at him and threatening his very life having a rational discussion with him, but all he does is nod real intensely and say, "Yes, Blockade Boy, of course, you're absolutely right, Blockade Boy" and then the next thing I know he's hanging over my shoulder again. Balls. And he's gotten even scruffier, which I normally would enjoy, but all that extra hair and beard is just making look even more like the Rob Zombie rip-off he is. And just like one of Rob Zombie's movie characters, his first love is the sound of his own voice, and he just won't shut the fuck up! Granted, he's mostly talking about how incredibly awesome I am, but that actually gets tiresome after awhile. Oh, and he smells. At least he lost that tattered glow-in-the-dark cape. Presumably because the damn thing finally rotted away.

Okay.

So what happened was this:

Phantom Lad, Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and I all had to come into work today, even though it's it's "Co-Dependence Day" on Lallor, and most everything is closed. Except liquor stores, and armories. Over at Eyeful Ethel's Detective Agency (Featuring Blockade Boy) we were the "skeleton crew", I guess. I had to be there because I'm the assistant manager or somethin', and Storm Boy had to be there because Lallor's customary radioactive heat waves tend to cause brown-outs and he's the only guy who can restart the computers. And Phantom Lad and Posture Queen both had to be there even though they're both receptionists, because Eyeful Ethel is making them train as "junior detectives" to increase efficiency. So yeah, the four of us were the only ones in the office, and we were already kind of pissed-off about being there. And I was also pissed off because of some recent personal troubles:

• I tried this new Lallorian tanning method that involves submitting one's body to a barrage of intense cosmic radiation, since that's the only way I can get UV rays to penetrate my dense pelt of sexy, sexy body hair. (And no, I'm not going to shave the hair off and then get a tan and then let the hair grow back! What kind of sick idea is that?!) So anyway, I now have a handsome -- one might even call it "glowing" -- tan, but my DNA has been damaged to the extent that I've lost most of my shape-shifting powers. It's back to just plain ol' steel walls for me! Dang it.
• Meanwhile, my sixteen-legged cat, Cootie, is exhibiting even more powers! This started a few months ago, when she displayed a "paralysis ray" power, kind of like Rainbow Girl has. Now, Cootie has something like sixteen different super-powers. That's one for each leg! And she's gotten hyper as hell, running all over the place, destroying my (manly) knick-knacks with freeze-breath, blobs of inky ectoplasm, and mind-controlled hobos. Also, she's peeing all over everything.
• My press-agent has stopped returning my calls, probably because I've started losing endorsement deals left and right, probably because my signature style has become so popular, a good 70% of all brawny, hairy guys now look just like me. If you refine that sampling to include only the brawny, hairy guys who are my boyfriends, the number jumps to around 92%. Which is at least three-hundred people!

So yeah, I was in a foul mood to begin with, and when I showed up at work, the place was like a dimly-lit oven, because, y'know, no power. And both Phantom Lad and Posture Queen were crammed behind the reception desk, arguing about who cares what, and then Phantom Lad spotted me and about killed himself scrambling over the desk like some kind of broken-legged spider, and one of his big dumb feet knocked the computer terminal flying and it busted into a thousand pieces, and then Posture Queen was pissed at Phantom Lad for breaking it, and Storm Boy was pissed at Phantom Lad because now he had to fix it, and I was pissed at Phantom Lad because... well, because he was goddman Phantom Lad, and that was good enough for me. (Have I mentioned that for all his unwavering devotion, he still won't divulge the nature of this mysterious "extra job" that Frigid Queen once alluded to? He said, "Naw, man, I can't tell you that! You'd lose all respect for me!" And I said, "I assure you, that's impossible." But he still won't breathe a word about it. Which, of course, just makes me want to know about it even more.) So anyway, about an hour passed in total silence, because nobody called, because it's a freakin' holiday, and nobody said a word, because they were all seriously bitter about even being there, and apparently Phantom Lad couldn't stand the tension anymore because he suddenly yelped, "YOU KNOW WHAT WE NEED?! SOME MARCHING!"

Storm Boy and Posture Queen looked at him like he had lost his space-marbles, but I was intrigued. I mean, you all know how much I love marching! And Phantom Lad started doing this crazy high-stepping march, with his gangly, withered limbs flying all over the place. "C'MON, PEOPLE!" he barked, with forced gaiety. "LET'S HAVE OURSELVES A GOOD OL' AMADAN-STYLE MARCH, LIKE BRIGADIER BLOCKADE DID ON THE DECK OF THE H.M.S. EXQUISITE!" He started humming "Cum On Feel the Noize" -- which is my homeworld's planetary anthem -- and maybe it was my patriotism, or maybe I was just moved by the sight of Phantom Lad's flop-sweat, but I hopped up from my desk and started marching around, behind Phantom Lad! He beamed grungily at me and said, "Oh, no, after you! Of course!" And I grinned and said, "Don't mind if I do!" and I took my place at the head of the parade. The two of us did a couple of turns around the office. On our second pass, I heard Storm Boy mutter, "That does kinda look like fun," and then he inserted himself in line between Phantom Lad and me. Posture Queen gaped at us as we marched past the reception desk, and I didn't think she was going to join in. But I guess she gets turned on by the sight of erect spines, because she wound up shoving Phantom Lad out of the way and getting in line behind Storm Boy. I could feel myself really getting into it -- being a natural leader, I guess -- and after a final circle of the office, I booted the door open and led everyone down the frozen escalator and out into the streets!

"Wait, where are we even going?" laughed Storm Boy.

Without even a trace of mirth in my voice, I bellowed, "TO THE MUSIC STORE!"

When we got close to the local music shop, I used my force gauntlets to pry the door open, so we could march inside without even pausing. Stomping about the empty store, we grabbed instruments off the shelves. I nabbed a bass guitar, Storm Boy took the most phallic clarinet he could lay his mouth on, Posture Queen grandly commandeered a "marching harp" (which is like a regular harp but with wheels on it), and Phantom "Maynard G. Krebs" Lad helped himself to a set of bongos. I slapped a big wedge of space-cheddah on the counter, pinwheeled my arm to strum the first chord of "Ace of Spades", and led my impromptu band out the door.

YEAH, boy-ee, it was one kick-ass parade! I could tell that Lallor's usual milling half-wits and vagrants had never seen such a sight before. I marched us to the center of town and right down Beast Boy Memorial Boulevard. People were practically tumbling out of their hovels (or maybe they were pushed) to join us! Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and Phantom Lad wordlessly formed themselves into a single rank, three people across, and the newcomers followed suit. I was still in front, moving with the measured, unstoppable ferocity of a Khundian mail carrier. I entered a kind of fugue state, where my only thought was "MARCH MARCH MARCH" and from what the other three have told me, they were kind of swept up into my mania, as well. I pushed us relentlessly onward, never looking back. I could hear the swelling sounds of the parade as it developed behind us. People sang along with us as we performed numerous inspirational marches, like "Cat Scratch Fever" and "Back in Black" and "Tush." After a while, there were so many voices that it all blended into an articulate roar. The road ahead reflected brilliant flashes of colored light, and the scent of gunpowder teased my nostrils. My mind dimly registered this as "fireworks."

And then the blazing husk of a hover-bike whizzed over my head and slammed into the pavement, not eight feet away from me.

I looked back.

And so, presumably for the first time, did Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and Phantom Lad.

We were speechless. Well, except for Storm Boy, who made a pathetic little gurgling sound.

What we had thought was a harmless (if lively) parade, was -- in reality -- a full-scale riot. It turned out that the native marchers were all drunk off their asses and armed to the teeth, and quite disgruntled. They looted luxury boutiques, overturned hover-cars (which takes a lot of work, believe me, on account of the internal gyroscopes) and generally set fire to everything they could. In the distance, Lallor's brutish police force was tussling with a group of people who were hollering "Revolution! Revolution!" Another, smaller group shouted "Anarchy! Anarchy!" and toddled about in random patterns.

Simultaneously, all four of our Omnicoms buzzed.

It was Eyeful Ethel.

"Congratulations, numb-nuts," she said. "You're all fired."

Get Away With It (Part Four)

Only in the world of super-heroes can you...

4. Hide giant wings or a cape under your shirt without looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame or -- gasp! -- a shoplifter. For some reason, this rule doesn't apply to super-villains.