Oh, There's No Place Like a Hover-Biker Bar for the Holidays

Yeah, I'm writing this post drunk. SO WHAT?

Sorry. I'm a little testy right now. Lemme explain.

I got my final paycheck from my Undercover Santa gig at the Mall of Lallor. That was fine. They even threw in a bonus for all the extra business I was able to drum up; it seems that I was their most unforgiving, brutal Santa Claus ever, and it brought in the Solstice fanatics by the rocket-load! And those nuts, they'll spend space-cheddah on Solstice merchandise with such abandon, you'd think Gold Boy himself was crapping his gilded turds directly into their purses. I interrogated respectfully asked one of my Santa job clients about this phenomenon. Apparently, they believe their odds of achieving (wholly imaginary) salvation increase with every new piece of tie-in junk they purchase.

However. I can't deposit (or, to be perfectly honest, cash) the damn paycheck because the freakin' banks are all shut down. So that's Sucky Thing Number One.

Sucky Thing Number Two is how Eyeful Ethel was going to throw her employees a lavish Solstice Eve party at work today, but had to cancel at the last minute due to civil unrest. It would have been a fun bash, too, I bet. Everybody was there, save for Gadfly Lad, of course, and Storm Boy, who had visi-phoned in sick with something unpronounceable and contagious. (I bet he's canoodling with that "Ox" guy right now. ...Huh. Apparently, I believe in "Ox" after all! It's a Solstice miracle!)

We had just finished decorating the office and were wondering why the caterers were late, when that blimp I saw last week drifted by our windows. Which was a bad sign, considering we're only on the third floor. We all rushed over to "ooh" and "ah" at it. (Okay, so maybe it was more "AAAAA!!!" than "ah" but still.) The last "N" in its lighted slogan flickered out with a burst of sparks, changing its dire prophecy to "THE END IS EAR." Abruptly, the blimp banked upward and soared into a radioactive cloud. Mere moments later, it emerged, heading in the opposite direction and sinking rapidly. Several sky mutants clung to it. Its tail burst into flame. It planted itself nose-down into the public square a few blocks from us, and exploded. It was a sight to behold -- the conflagration featured an impressive, multi-stage display, with fountains of sparks; whizzing, boomeranging debris that shot gaily into the sky; and a stunning Roman candle sort of sustained burst. It was way better than most fireworks shows I've attended -- and I've attended a lot! About halfway through the blimp's lengthy demise, the lights blinked out in the nearby buildings. As if by some secret signal, hoards of rioters flooded into the streets, and started beating the shit out of one another. Then our own building went dark.

Ethel swore, loudly. Then she sighed, "Sorry, folks. Solstice is canceled. I'd advise you to all get home as soon as possible. You know, before things get out of hand."

I tried to visi-phone Klup, but I couldn't get a signal. Nobody could. The reason for this became apparent once the blazing communications satellites came pouring out of the heavens. One smacked squarely into Nightmare Boy's gloss-black Lallorghini XE rocket-car. "Oh, come on--!" he moaned.

"Didn't see that one coming, did you?" I quipped. He laughed, albeit ruefully.

As we hustled our asses out of there, I gallantly offered to walk somebody home. The only taker was Nightmare Boy.

I only had to clobber a handful of rioters at first (while Nightmare Boy cowered behind overturned baby carriages and other bits of detritus) but after six blocks or so, the crowds started getting thicker and meaner. Nightmare Boy's eyes looked positively wild, as he nervously checked street signs and his wristwatch. At one point, we had to retreat into an alley.

"Where are we?" demanded Nightmare Boy.

"Around Tcheru and 59th," I replied. "And don't take that tone with me."

He glanced at his watch again. "Duck."

"What?"

"Down on the ground! NOW!" As I blinked at him, utterly confused at this change in his demeanor, Nightmare Boy tackled me. I was about to smack him in his beautiful face when the engine block from an exploding zoom-lorry sailed overhead, right where my head had been.

Nightmare Boy rolled himself off of me, and smiled. "I saw that one coming! Oh, and you're welcome." He burst into the universe's suavest-sounding giggle fit. (It was very George Takei-like.) He hopped to his feet and extended his hand to me.

Flushed with embarrassment, I allowed him to help me up. "Thanks, dude," I said. "And I'm sorry I've doubted you. I guess you're not a big phony after all!"

"Not all the time, anyway," he grinned.

I scouted the other end of the alley. The chaos was less-pronounced on the adjoining street. I motioned for Nightmare Boy to join me. I explained to him that the crowds were getting too thick and too violent for us to safely make it all the way to his home, and that we were better off finding some place where we could hole up until the next morning.

I noticed that a hover-biker bar across the street still had its lights on, and suggested it to Nightmare Boy as a suitable spot. Two muscle-bound patrons tumbled out the establishment's front door, trading punches. Then they started to make out.

Nightmare Boy's pallid complexion blanched to lily-whiteness. "I think I see a dance club a few blocks down," he gulped. "That would be good, too."

I squinted, trying to make out anything beyond the veil of smoke he was pointing at. "What, behind that overturned acid tanker and the Burning Effigy Parade? Good luck with that."

In front of the hover-biker bar, the two men had interrupted their make-out session to resume belaboring each other about the head and groin.

"I'll take my chances," replied Nightmare Boy. Convulsively, he darted out of the alley, and disappeared into the haze.

So here I am, by myself on Solstice Eve, in a hover-biker bar. I'd be tempted to brave the riots again, except the owner has had to activate the inertron shutters. No one enters; no one leaves! The Solstice carol videos belched out by the holo-box are bracingly gory affairs, but around their twelfth repetition they've lost their luster. The floors have filmed over with a combination of dirt, melted radioactive snow, and various bodily fluids. There's nothing to eat except soylent snacks. The heater is stuck on "blast furnace" level, which means I'm currently swimming in my own perspiration. I've been in three fist-fights already. None of them have ended in a make-out session, goddamn it. My vision is blurry. (Whether it's from the alcohol, the chokingly thick clouds of cigar smoke, or the pool cue chalk that nailed me in the eye when I first entered, I'm not sure.) An hour ago, somebody vomited into the complimentary bowl of rum punch. And to top it all off, the owner just came around with a box of those tacky dark beast ears (on headbands) for everybody to wear. I put some on. Because I don't care, anymore. "The end is ear," indeed.

...Hold the visi-phone! There's a hot, beefy dude "making eyes" at me, and he's got the brawniest arms and the lushest salt-and-pepper beard I've ever laid eyes on! I'm gonna walk over there and see if he wants to "wrestle." It looks like this day won't be a total loss, after all!

Happy Solstice, everybody!

Space-Cheddah Diggers of 2987

I had kind of a "freak-out" at work, yesterday.

Y'see, I kinda spent most of the money I'd saved up... on those tickets for "Sweet Chariot." I'm poor again! I've had to buy all my beard-grooming products and back-hair styling tools on credit! (And that shit ain't cheap--!) Anyway, I was doin' the Santa thing, and this one client, he made the mistake of telling me he'd just embezzled several wheels of space-cheddah from his bank. So I asked him how recently it had happened, and he told me it was just before he came to the mall to get absolved of it. And he still had the stolen loot on his person!

I think you all can guess what happened then.

Yup. I "confiscated" it. (For his own good.)

Then I went a little nuts. From that point onward, every punishment I dished out involved me taking people's space-cheddah away from them. I could see the mall's event coordinator getting nervous. How were people going to pay for crap they didn't need if I was taking all of their funds? I gave her the "relax" gesture -- the one where you cup your hands and kind of pat them downward, like you're building a sand castle or warming your mitts on some guy's ass cheeks. The less-orthodox Santa worshipers in line began to slink away when they realized what was going on. Fortunately, the hardcore types got so into it that they started visi-phoning their friends, and then the line was twice as long as ever! And it was packed with folks who insisted that I take all of their space-cheddah! I had a mammoth pile of the stuff goin' by the end of my shift. I finally had to fashion my cape into The Universe's Largest Bindle and just dump it all in there. When I made my triumphal walk down the stairs, all of the mall's executives were at the bottom, with their arms folded and sour expressions on their pusses. But before they could say a word to me, I undid the knot in my cape, swung it around like the hammer toss competition at the Space Olympics, and whipped all that space cheddah directly into a crowd of orphaned, feral toddlers who were getting escorted out of the mall by gun-toting security officers. I shouted, "CHARITY, motherfuckers!" and bolted for my dressing room.

I phoned Klup, to check on how the gigantic sculpture (or whatever) of me was going. He said he was finishing it up, that very night! I'm going to gather everybody from the agency for a "field trip" to go see it today, at lunch. I'm pumped!

On my walk home, I realized I still had a little crumble of space-cheddah in my pocket. Seriously, how did that get there? I guess I'll never know. *looks around, nervously* Anyway, I saw one of those pushy Solstice Season charity workers on the corner, collecting for the post-Solstice reconstruction efforts. They're a little bit like your own "bell ringers", except for the civil defense helmet, and the megaphone, and the "bloody red barrel" with the bio-hazard symbol on it. And this lady, she was on all four corners of the intersection, simultaneously. Which is when I realized it was Rainbow Girl! Rainbow Girl Yellow was closest, so I sauntered up to her, nonchalantly tossed the space-cheddah into the barrel, and with my plummiest, most elegant baritone, purred, "A mere trifle, my dear woman. But one must think of the little people."

For about a half-second, she was annoyed. But then she saw it was me. "Bite me, Sasquatch," she shot back, with a grin.

Before I could go on my way, she grabbed my arm. "Wait up! I gotta tell you what happened today at work: Tusker punched Phantom Lad!"

Of course, I had to stay and hear all the details.

It turns out that Phantom Lad had started loitering around the office again, since I wasn't there. And Tusker was having a bad day, with nothing going right. Some time after lunch, Tusker dropped a huge stack of files, right in front of Frigid Queen's desk. He swore like a star-sailor. And Phantom Lad took a break from macking on Frigid Queen to say to him, "Looks like somebody needs to get laid!"

And here's the beauty part: Tusker immediately put his fist into Phantom Lad's face, before he even had a chance to turn all immaterial like he always does. And while that douche-nozzle was laid out on the floor, blood streaming from his busted nose, Tusker leaned over him with his fists cocked, and said "Maybe I should just keep hitting you in the face! Maybe that would be a good stress-reducer for me!" (Attaboy! I'm so proud of him right now!)

So Phantom Lad scrammed out of there, with Frigid Queen following close behind and shooting a few mysterious smiles at Tusker. And then Nightmare Boy picked his lazy ass up from behind the reception desk, rushed over to Tusker, and shook his hand. "Dude!" gushed Nightmare Boy. "You're cool!" And then he invited Tusker to go out clubbing with him this weekend, so he could show Tusker how to be a "playa."

For the rest of the walk home, I swear Lallor's radioactive haze looked a little rosier than usual.

Fa La Lallor La

Blockade Boy explains all about the Solstice Season on Lallor.

Marianne's Bedtime Prayer

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

Spiritually Uplifted (and Separated)

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

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

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

Fresh From the Coven

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

Medal Detector

In "Doctor Strange" #46 (April 1981) even Doc's supreme sorcery can't get him through airport security without a hitch.

Where's your Hoggoth now?! Myah!

Quick, get the Department of Home Dimension Security on the line! And the Federal Levitation Administration!

And he didn't just teleport to his destination because...? It's implied in the story that this whole trip was Clea's idea, and she remarks that she finds the airport fascinating, but it's never made clear if Clea specifically wanted to travel on an airplane. And I know she's not from Strange's dimension so all sorts of mind-numbing, horrible activities would be new and exciting for her. But the airport--?! Hell, why not send her to renew a driver's license? Or to get a root canal? How about a romantic, intimate weekend on a garbage barge? Maybe Strange could transform her into a Demodex mite and make her live in J. Jonah Jameson's mustache for a week, where she'd suffocate in cigar smoke and occasionally be drenched in vermouth. That'd be more fun than the airport.

But I can see you're growing impatient. You want to know how Strange got himself out of this mess. Well, here ya go!

That's right. It's not a gaudy trinket supposedly invested with supernatural powers. It's a Saint Christopher medal.