Legion of Substitute Costumes: Storm Boy (by special guest columnist Storm Boy)

BLOCKADE BOY IS A BEAUTIFUL PERSON. Fact. I'm sorry if you don't "get" that. That's your problem. Myself? I didn't really "get" Blockade Boy either. At first. He's... how can I describe him? He's beautiful, but like a beautiful monster, a beautiful gargantuan gilded goblin gargoyle golem that could kill you with a flick of its tail. You know? And you shouldn't look at him. Not directly. Weight Wizard looked. And look what happened to him. He's like a puppy, that guy. Which? Was cute when he was seventeen but now that he's twenty-two? Is beginning to look a lot like madness. And who could blame him? No, seriously. Shut up. Yeah. You heard me. SHUT UP.

You just don't know him like I know him. At first I was unconsciously uncomprehending, muddling middling maddening uncertain of what I saw. I hated Blockade Boy. What was revolutionary in him, I found revolting. But. There's -- oh, how do I make you understand? -- I'm sure there's a food you like now that maybe you didn't like once upon a time. Maybe you even hated it like I hated Blockade Boy. Stomach-turning. Churning. Sphincter burning. And now? You can't get enough of it. And it's good for you! Like Blockade Boy!

Blockade Boy's eyes? See the world as it should be, which is beautiful. And his missionary position is to make it that way. Beautiful. I just didn't get it before. But now I do. But now enough. About Blockade Boy. And more. About. Me.

My first fatal post-natal memory is seeing my face in a mirror. I was already wearing glasses. And I was one. Month? Year? Decade? No one knows. All I know? Is a round face deformed undefined nose bulb rubberband mouth floppy ears GLASSES. And I saw it was bad. And the others, the children, the teachers, the parents, they saw it was bad also. And they left the clouded stormy boy alone. And the boy in his terrible tumult tore the spectacles from his face and he broke them. The fear came then. The boy had to fix the glasses, the glaring glazing lazing lens. Before it was too. Later, the boy quivered cowering glowering under the steely stare of the Parental Unit but! Nothing happened. Nobody noticed. It was all right with the world at large. The boy plucked the glasses from his knob-nose, carefully this time, and inspected them. They looked good as new. Better even. And a swell of Feeling bubbled in his gut. It was LOVE.

The stormy boy was handy with his hands, he could make anything he might make, even new eyes and glasses goodbyes. But? That would be treason. He didn't not make glasses, no. He made more glasses, alas. Yes. He got good. He made more. Not just glasses. Machines. Dreams. He imagined God, ordering storms, swirling whirling winds with his finger and so he knew how to do it too. He shrunk God, severed his hands, and trapped him in a box. He knocked on the rocket, yellow, distended, upended, from there to join. Or purloin. No boxes! they cried, for we are one-hundred-percent genetically gallant with talent and you? So proud? Are not allowed. Ejected, rejected, dejected and the hate came again and he drank and he ate and his fate was fat. And he met? A threat. A fabulous wide-awake all-night-long nightmare knight in purple and orange. (BLOCKADE BOY.) How he hated the purple and the orange!

Blockade Boy's tongue was sharper than a serpent's ruthless tooth but in truth beneath the teeth there was LOVE. The stormy boy didn't couldn't wouldn't see the love. He could only see a strange hairy horrible thing he could hate more than he hated himself. Blockade Boy was mysterious (lascivious) mercurial inimical (but not meaning it) and so he vanished. Feeling an emerging urge the stormy boy followed after. Months (Years? Decades?) slipped through the stormy boy's fitful fat fingers and fickle celebrity cuddled and caressed him. For the genetically blessed changed their minds and? They deigned to wear his designs. He was high on the hog, heroic, heady with hedonism and unheeding of the headaches ahead. Dame fashion, bored, flippantly flipped him the bird, slid the lever, clever, and the floor slid open and the stormy boy slipped down as it all slipped away. Job/Home. Money/Honey. The stormy boy's boy stormed out. Honey loved money, none other. Nope. No hope. Everything was broken and the stormy boy couldn't fix it.

Time to go. Too slow, the stormy boy jimmied open the jettison tube at the space-port and squeezed inside. One last ride. Straight up up up into space, no mask on his face, no suit, no use, just skin on cold black nothing at all, chilling zero filling spilling into his lungs scraping digging hollowing him out and there would be. No. More. Me. But a hairy heroic hand yanked the stormy boy out at just the last moment. And the stormy boy dared to look at the burgeoning baroque behemoth beast-man, squinting, as at an eclipse. It was Blockade Boy. And the Feeling welled up again in his inner gizzard. LOVE.

[later] What the fuck?!! Goddamn. I must've been drunker than I thought last night. Maybe I should edit this thing? Naw. Screw it; you all get the gist of it, am I right? I was doing great, then my designs went out of style and I lost it all. Including my husband, Dynamo Kid. I guess a shared love of small, electricity-generating devices isn't the best thing to base a marriage on. And I apparently had signed a pre-nup (which I don't remember doing at all) because he got everything. The impecunious little turd. ...Are you reading this, Dynamo Kid? 'Cause I've got a revelation for you, Dynamo: if you've got such a hard-on for money, maybe you should have spent the last three years giving half-hearted handjobs to Gold Boy instead of to me. Also? Drop dead!

Fuck. My head is killing me. What the hell was I talking about? What? How shitty my life got? Oh. Yeah. It got bad, man. So bad I wound up in the really run-down part of Rimbor (i.e. the Western Hemisphere) begging at space-ports and holding a tattered cardboard sign that read "Will repair spectacles for Space Wine." (Mmm, Space Wine!) Finally I tried to kill myself but Blockade Boy was there to stop me. And he asked me to join his crew. It turned out he's actually a pretty decent guy once you get past the back hair and the temper tantrums. He's like one of my best buddies now!

What's left? The costume? Oh. Yeah. I think it's the best thing I've done. Way better than my early stuff. Hey, I'll be the first to admit that my "taste level" wasn't always where it shoulda been. But you know. A guy's aesthetic sense matures if he spends enough time around other artists. Eventually. So. Here goes.

Dig my fearsome fu-manchu! It's fierce! You can look but don't touch, ladies! (Gentlemen, the line forms on the right.) This is based on a concept sketch by me, and of course I designed all the weather-controlling gizmos. Then I handed the drawing to Blockade Boy, or he yanked it out of my hand, I forget which, and he put some finishing touches on it. As in, he filed down all the sharp edges. Also, he insisted on putting those stylized angular symbolic wing doodlybobbers on the helmet. I think he'd wanted to use something like them on another costume but his client wouldn't go for it. (No surprise there! Hee!) But what the hell. He's been a great pal to me; I have no problem with indulging the crazy fucker every now and then. I still miss all the pointiness, though. Yeah, so I like pointiness! So sue me! (Just kidding. Don't sue me. Please.) So I designed a super-pointy kick-ass costume for Timberwolf one time and he lacerated his face so badly during the fitting he had to be sent to a hospital satellite for major reconstructive surgery! SO WHAT.

Sorry. God, it's hot as a crotch in here. Does anybody else here think it's too hot? Guys? Rainbow Girl? ...They're ignoring me.

So anyway. I still have a yen for pretty-but-impractical costumes, kind of like that one guy from around your era. Erté. Sometimes I think I'd be better off designing for the space-burlesque, where all the hot guys just pose with their arms stretched straight out from their bodies and they don't have to fight each other. Unless you pay them extra, heh, heh. Anyway, enjoy! Or don't! No skin off my nose. Now if you'll excuse me, it's time for a little "hair of the dog." And I don't mean that godawful marching music my good pal Blockade Boy insists on blaring at full volume at six a.m. every Wednesday morning. *fumbles for flask* What? Oh, don't look at me like that. I can quit any time I want.

Once Again, You're Welcome

'Sup, daddios and dudettes? (Oh, I'm the unparalleled master of your ridiculous 21st Century slang!) It's me! Remember? No? C'mon! It's Storm Boy! Remember? I'm Blockade Boy's handsomer, more talented, infinitely less hairy rival! Oh, that's right. I changed up my look from last time. Before, I had brown hair and a fu-manchu with a soulpatch, and some way-out sunglasses. So now I have gorgeous red hair and some sweet-ass "S"-shaped muttonchops plus a bigger soulpatch. And goggles! I dreamed up the great idea to push them up on my forehead. Isn't it cool?

Anyway? I just wanted to let you all know about my latest costume redesign. It's for Star Sapphire! Let's take a look at the "before."

Ya-awn! Bor-ing! There is not nearly enough cleavage exposed. What is she, a nun? Yipes stripes! (21st century slang!) She needs my help!

Therrrrrrrre we go. My fabric choice? Sherwin-Williams "Orchid Fantasy" hi-gloss housepaint. Yup, this ensemble is quite literally "painted on." I skillfully blended the painted areas with a few accessories like the high-heeled sandals. Plus, the collar and the tiara? Is made from some rusted-out hunks of tin siding. Economical! Bottom line: I think this is much more flattering on her body. And? It features one of my signature motifs: pointiness!

*waves away your resounding applause* You're welcome.

Purple And Orange Make Lame: Blockade Boy

Hello, fashion lovers! Look who got himself a time bubble and a degree in computer hackery! That's absolutely correct... it's me, Storm Boy! You may remember me from Adventure Comics #301, when I tried out for the Legion of Super-Heroes. It, um, didn't go so well.



Oh. MY God. Would you look at my hair? What was I thinking? So yeah, I wasn't allowed entry into their little club, just because I have no natural super-powers. So? B.F.D., Cosmic Boy. (Prick.) I'd invented a machine that allows me to control the very elements themselves but NO, they keep me out and let Bouncing Boy waddle right in. Jerks. Not that I'm still holding a grudge or anything. Anyhow? The whole incident led me to two big decisions: ONE, to devote myself full-time to my first love: EYEGLASS FRAME design! And TWO: to stop bothering with exercise, which freed up more time for eating space donuts.

So then? Some jackass goes and invents anti-gravity lenses, making eyeglass frames obsolete. I'm at my wits end! UNTIL I happen to spot something totally fascinating in the historical archives of the super-hero exhibit in the Space Museum. The following is a panel from the illustrated biography of 20th century hero Mister Terrific, from volume 19 of "Sensation Comics" (July 1943), in the chapter titled "Party Crasher From The Year 3000."



Okay. Even with the primitive coloring techniques? I'd recognize that dye job ANYWHERE. See, this guy I know, a pompous hairball with rage issues, calling himself "Blockade Boy," had disappeared about a year ago and nobody knew where he'd gone. Or cared! Heh. Turns out he'd swiped a Legion time bubble and was traipsing around the multiverse. Well, anything he can design, I can design better. So I invented a device to make myself invisible to Legion security measures, snuck into their dopey clubhouse, slipped behind the controls of a time bubble and HERE I AM!

It turns out a lot of super-folk need my fashion advice, DESPERATELY. And nobody moreso than the guy who begged me for an honest critique of his deep-kissing technique, and then got all pissy and insulted my eyeglasses when I gave him an honest answer. That would be History's Greatest Monster: Blockade Boy. Here we go!

What's his deal:
Blockade Boy is a hulking, square-headed dickweed with gross curly hair on his shoulders and no fashion sense whatsoever. His super-power is nominally the ability to turn into a person-sized steel wall. But if you ask me, his real power is throwing temper tantrums and acting like he's better than everyone else.

Crimes against fashion:



Blockade Boy has a lot of costumes, all of them hideous, but this is his favorite and, coincidentally? The absolute WORST. There's the garish color scheme, the completely pointless "forearm pads" (although he DOES like to get down on all fours, if you know what I mean and I think you do) and the ear warmers. Really, the whole shebang is just a mess.

Our meeting:
The first time I met Blockade Boy was at a fashion show on Mars, sponsered by socialite whore Paris Spiffany. It was standing-room only and we were squeezed right next to each other. We wound up talking, making fun of all the haute couture abortions sashaying down the runway, and I honestly thought he was kind of funny, even if his breath was ripe. I bumped into him later at one of Element Lad's rave parties and Blockade Boy was wearing this kind of see-through tank top which did him no favors if you ask me. I mean, for the love of GOD, man, get yourself some electrolysis! But I was pretty drunk and so was he and the very next thing I know we're making out behind the abandoned android factory in the bad section of town and he gets all mushy and practically sobbing, saying shit like "I just want to please you! If there's anything I'm doing wrong, please tell me!" And like an idiot, I do tell him. In the nicest possible may, mind you, but I had to do something. It was like being french-kissed by a lamprey eel. Seriously. It was just.. ew. Ugh. I hate even thinking about it. And then he gets all indignant and says "Well, your glasses look stupid!" And I'm thinking, "What are you, five?" What the hell EVER, Blockade Boy.

I haven't met him since I got my time bubble, but I've prepared some great new costume designs for him, just in case. It's not for him so much as it is for the general public. Nobody should have to see the crap he likes to wear.

My presentation:
If we meet, I'll say something like this: Blockade Boy, we should let by-gones be by-gones. As a peace offering, here are some costume designs you should really think about wearing.



The first is a nice, simple, classic outfit. Nothing fancy. Not a lot of trim. It has the standard features: heavily insulated diapers, shoulder ruffles and a bubble helmet. Y'know. Business casual. I know how much you're attached to purple and orange, so I kept the color scheme but I muted it somewhat because it's frankly horrid the way it is now. No offense. There's your name right on the front and a little picture of a steel wall. And yes, I suppose it's very reminiscent of designers like Plastino, Papp, and Forte, but that's what makes it so timeless. The next look is very fashion-forward.



Now, this is the latest look where we come from. I saw designs like this at a runway show by Cockrum & Grell. It has a castle motif on the collar and the beltless buckle. (You'll be all set for your hot date with Grimbor the Chainsman!) I think the green will better complement your "natural" red hair *snicker* and it shows a lot of skin, so, y'know. Sex appeal. One thing, you'll have to shave that sheepskin rug you call your chest hair for the whole thing to really work. But it'll be worth it, believe me. Your current goatee is pretty sweet, but the new thing is to grow it longer, let the ends fork, and add a big handlebar moustache. It's quite simply luscious. Not as nice as my fearsome fu-manchu. But still.

Blockade Boy's response:
Who knows, but I can't wait to find out! Hmm. Maybe he'll notice I hacked onto his website and he'll post something. Here's hoping!