Bad Apple Boy

This muscle-headed goober is Si Las, codenamed "Bad Apple Boy." He's one of the new detectives at the Eyeful Ethel Detective Agency Featuring Blockade Boy, and I can't stand his phony ass. I hate his smooth, hairless body, which he likes to smear with baby lotion and potting soil. I hate his goofy Chia Pet soul patch. I hate his stupid sideways moopsball cap. I hate his two-tone footie-overalls, and his synth-rubber wristband that reads "LIVE WRONG", and how he wears the damn thing on the same arm as his dumb frowny-face apple tattoo, instead of wearing it on the opposite arm to provide visual balance, like any sensible person would. I hate how that whiskey-rough baritone voice he likes to use is a total put-on, as evidenced by the time I caught him talking to his brother on his Omnicom and he sounded like Mike Tyson. I hate how he goes on and one about how he's from Rimbor (the Toughest Planet in the Universe) but if you read his personnel file, it states quite clearly that his family moved away from there when he was like, two months old, and he spent most of his life on an agricultural satellite, and the only time he got into trouble with the law was when he threw a stink-bomb into a restaurant full of hyper-chicken farmers, on a dare. From his frat. GAH.

Okay, okay, so that's a lot of bile. I have to work with this tool, so I might as well remind myself of his good qualities! He, um, well...

...I got nothin'.

Marked Man-Candy: A Memoir (by special guest-columnist, Storm Boy)

It started with the "tattoos."

So. It's New Year's, just a few days after I designed Blockade Boy's new gauntlets, and then? I look at that bulky ol' suit I'd been schlepping around? And I get to thinking about how all the weather-controlling mechanisms in the lining weigh, like, a metric ton? And I decide, SCREW THAT NOISE. Because hey! They're doing wonders with miniaturized circuits these days! So why shouldn't I get in on the action?

And then I have one of my clinically-diagnosed "brainstorms".

So? I redesign all the machinery in a lightweight transdermal form that I can graft directly to my nerves. And the fierce part? Is they look like tattoos. Big, green lightning-bolt tattoos. They run from my fingernails all the way up to my shoulders! Plus? There's a way-cool lightning-bolt tattoo on my forehead!

From there? It kind of "snowballs", as they say on Tharr. I look at myself in the mirror... naked, which I haven't done in maybe five years? And I say to myself, "That's a lot of look."

So I take off my glasses.

Which? Is a big step for me, since I'd given them a totemic status in my own personal mythology. And I can see right away (if I squint) that I look way better without them. I mean, forehead tattoo? Plus glasses? Equals "trying too hard." I know, I know: unlike slathering both your arms in tattoos, heh-heh. Oh, cram it. But yes, if you must know? I go right out that very night and get my eyeballs fixed. I even have them dyed gold because why the hell not. And to those of you who are still freaking out over this news? Get over it. "Signature looks" have an expiration date, don't you know, and then? They turn you into a walking caricature of yourself. Like Charro, or Elvis, or Ghandi.

So anyway? I show up at work the next day, wearing a big hoodie with nothing underneath, and walking all slouched over, and my head all bent down, and the second I step through the door? I clear my throat, all dramatic-like? And I rear my head up proudly and I rip the hoodie off, and I say, "Behold, BITCHES!"

And then I see the only other person in the room is Blockade Boy.

(I felt so gross, you guys.)

But? I decide to "soldier on", as they say on the Khund homeworld. And with only a teensy crack in my voice, I say, "Guess what I did!"

And without missing a beat, he says, "You got your arms pickled."

And I say, "Suck one, Stanley's Monster," and then? I conjure up a dainty cloud and shoot a lightning bolt out of it, right at his big, clumsy feet! That shuts him up. But then he stalks over to me, and I can't read his expression, and he starts giving me the once-over. He even does that Vincent D'Onofrio thing, where he bends at the waist and looks at me all sideways, and I'm kind of freaking out, to be perfectly honest about it.

He straightens up and smiles at me, and with a basso profundo note of respect in his voice, he growls, "Weather-controlling tats. Nice."

And I gulp, and I smile a little, and then he puts his hands on my shoulders. And he says, "You know what you need, don't you?"

And I tell him, "Yeah, but I thought we'd both agreed it was best if we saw other people."

He punches me in the arm (which hurt like a bastard) and laughs that "deep booming laugh" that I grew tired of, like, five years ago. And he says, "Good one, pal! Naw, what you really need is a new costume! Somethin' with shorter sleeves. Show off those new tats!" And then his eyes go all crazy like they do sometimes? And his gaze goes wandering off into the stratosphere, like he's a Brobdingnagian Norville Barnes, and then he grabs me, and he shouts, "YOU HAVE TO LET ME DESIGN A NEW COSTUME FOR YOU! ALSO, YOU'LL HAVE TO SHAVE YOUR MUSTACHE AND DYE YOUR HAIR!"

I start to say, "But I don't want to shave my mustache," but he actually shakes me a little bit, and he yells, "DO IT!"

And then? He apologizes. Like he always does after one of his outbursts? But he walks me out of the office to the gourmet space-java place down the street. And we have a really nice talk where he lays out a makeover plan that he claims is guaranteed to net me some mad dingus. And you know what? I believe him!

So I dye my hair a honey-blond, to coordinate with my beautiful golden eyeballs, and also? I grow out the top and the sides a little. Finally, I adorn my glorious visage with some pointy (of course) muttonchops. And? I'll be darned if Blockade Boy's costume doesn't make me look like a whole wheel of space-cheddah. (Er, that's a good thing, by the way.)

Check me out, bitches!

I was worried that shaving off my glorious 'stache would ruin my space-bear cred, but Blockade Boy assured me that I never had that to begin with. So no harm done, I guess. This look really does suit me better, I have to admit. And my huskiness and my "tats" and my furry 'chops somehow combine with the twinktastic preppie finery of the costume to create some sort of aesthetic love-bait for space-bears. I'm not kidding! I can't pass a construction site anymore without getting cat-calls from all the burly, bearded laborers. (This is no idle boast. In fact, just to make sure they're actually referring to me, I make certain to walk past those places several times a day.) And space-ports? Forget about it!

As for that "blind date" Blockade Boy set me up on... er, yeah. It didn't work out exactly like I'd hoped. But more on that? Tomorrow.

Legion of Substitute Costumes Bonus: Weight Wizard

The crew of the H.M.S. Exquisite has the distinction of including five individuals who were rejected for membership by the Legion of Super-Heroes and one bad-ass Brigadier who could give a space-rat's ass about those stuck-up phonies. Although the Legionnaires have purchased costumes from me and as such are valued customers. What's that, you say? Weight Wizard and Plant Lad aren't on the official list of Legion rejects? Apparently their try-outs were so embarrassing that the Legion didn't even bother to record them! I wasn't there for Weight Wizard's. I found out about the whole deal one day when I came home to find him splayed out on the divan, crying his eyes out. He still refuses to divulge all the details. The more I think about it, the more I'm sure he didn't actually try out for the Legion, he came on to someone in the Legion and got "rejected." Timber Wolf, maybe. Huh. Now I'm kinda pissed.

As I explained in my very first post, Weight Wizard wasn't wearing his costume at the Super-Stalag of Space. That was just a nice t-shirt and cargo pant combo I'd found for him at Old Space Navy. My old 21st Century buddy Jeremy sketched Weight Wizard (and Plant Lad) in some older costumes I'd designed for them.

But that was years ago (my time) and I thought you all might like to see how I'm gussying up Weight Wizard's short, stumpy frame nowadays.

"Weight" + "Wizard" = THIS. I designed it all, including the hairstyle and the nifty scales tattoo. I wanted to make him look a little like a sorceror, ergo the "Doctor Strange" by way of "Iron Fist" feel of it. ("Karate Kid" who?!) The robe hugs his torso via the latest in Colorforms Technology. Cover up the nipples? Not on your life, buddy! I need 24-hour access to those babies! The sleeves are voluminous to support the wizard theme, but the rest of the costume is tight because what little there is of Weight Wizard's body is in fine shape, and also you can't put baggy clothes on a short dude without them looking like a Jawa. And although Weight Wizard is a natural blond, I thought he looked more "mystical" and grown-up with black hair... that had a huge spiked-up purple forelock smack-dab in the middle of it. And yes, although I loves me some hairy chest, it was worth it to get rid of Weight Wizard's chest hair to make room for that tattoo. And the rest of him is still kinda hairy, so, y'know. It's a win-win for me.

I'll get to the rest of the crew over the next week. And I'm allowing Storm Boy to write his own post, which should be... fun. *rubs temples, hoping to stave off incipient migraine*

I've added the "Legion of Substitute Costumes" tag to all my old posts in this category. So instead of having to click on each item in a list, you should be able to hit the tag and pull up every "Substitute" post, including this one. I'll be working on getting every post I've done tagged up, so the tags are actually useful. (A radical idea, I know.)

Rescue Me: Blue Streak

The Scourge of the Underworld: if there's a lame-ass villain, he'll lamely assassinate him! Blue Streak: an evil rollerskating spy who dresses alternately like Evel Knievel or an immunodeficient baseball umpire! Their paths pretty much had to cross one day, huh? And so they did (in "Captain America" #318) when Blue Streak was forced to hitch-hike. (Lame!) And who, disguised as a trucker, offered him a ride? No, not me! Have you been paying attention at all?! Criminy.

So that was the end of Blue Streak, exactly one-hundred-and-one issues of "Captain America" after he was introduced. But did Blue Streak deserve to die? That's a rhetorical question, natch. You already know my answer. Which is "No, he didn't. Because there are no lame characters; there are only lame writers." I think the idea of an evil rollerskating spy is just dandy in the proper context. And "Captain America" is not the proper context. "Rocky and Bullwinkle"? You bet! I think Blue Streak's basic concept just needed a little tweaking to make him a decent Captain America villain. Get rid of the roller skates and just concentrate on his being a super-fast evil spy and "wham-bam, thank you, Weight Wizard" you have a great start.

Blue Streak was a redheaded guy, real name unknown, who got his superpowers from technology. First it was just a pair of amped-up skates. Then he upgraded to better skates, a suit that protected him from friction burns (quiet, Scipio), a laser, and caltrops (spiked jacks). Which was fine, sort of, except he was still getting around on skates and the new suit didn't look any cooler. It just looked differently goofy. I say he could have upgraded again to the comic book science equivalent of "a wizard did it": nanites! Sure, why not? I think he could have used nano-robots to bestow super-speed upon himself, along with a fancy blue frictionless "skin." And since he was a redhead, maybe he had some Celts in his family history. So maybe his villainous look could have been based on the blue-painted Celtic warriors who fought the Romans! If I recall correctly, the Celts also did something to their hair to make it spikier and more horrifying. (And a lot of them had big mustaches, which isn't necessarily scary but I thought I'd better point it out before I showed you the picture.) So Blue Streak could have resembled a stylized Blue Celt.

The tattoos could glow, if you're into that sort of thing. And the facial tattoos symbolizing a mustache and eyebrows (y'know, like Little Richard has) are meant to be Kirbyesque. With the hair, it makes him look more than a little like Lobo. Which wasn't on purpose, since I honestly can't stand Lobo. Of course, I was well into this design before I realized that blue + spiky hair + really fast = Sonic the Hedgehog. So what, I say. SO WHAT! Er, anyway, his weapons could have been replicas of a Celtic spear and shield ('cause he was a Cap villain) that were made of energy. And for a power limitation, maybe he could only have manifested the spear and shield when he wasn't accessing his superspeed. Yeah, that's the ticket.

Previous "Rescue Me" challenges:

• Turner D. Century
• Shellshock
• Mirage
• The Vamp
• The Basilisk
• Megatak
• Hellrazor
• The Melter
• Cyclone
• The Hijacker
• The Fly
• The Cheetah
• Lionfang
• The Miracle Man
• Bird-Man 2
• Steeplejack 2
• Commander Kraken
• Titania
• Bonus: Annihilator and Son
• Red Skull 3
• Black Abbott
• The Wrench

Gender Reassignment Challenge: Enchantress to Enchanter, Part Three

Remember when I said that the Enchantress' Suicide Squad costume was a tough one to translate into a male version? I found her Shadowpact costume even tougher. That's because it's another bustier/tiara combo. (Criminy, people! Enough already! How 'bout a nice tailored pant suit and a Pucci scarf?) To top it off, the costume also has capri pants, slippers, and fingerless opera gloves! To top that off? It's really, really boring. Say what you will about the giant witch hat, at least it had some personality and it was actually symbolic of the Enchantress' powers. The sorry ensemble she sports in the "Shadowpact" era is a warmed-over regurgitation of Storm, the Scarlet Witch, Marvel's Enchantress, and the White Queen, with a little "Shelly Winters in 'Lolita'" for spice. It's "I Dream of Jeanie" meets the Pussycat Dolls. Blech. Hey, let's get our heroine's reaction to the first time she saw her new get-up in a full-length mirror.

You can't run from ugly, Enchantress. But enough about her! What about me? (Which is something I ask people, including random bystanders, at least ten times a day.) To put it mildly, I had quite the chore on my hands.

Here's what I finally came up with:

The last time I had to rework a tiara for a male character, I turned it into hair. This time, it's a tattoo. Or facepaint, if you're squeemish. I made it red, like the gem, instead of gold. Because it looks tougher that way! I think it lends a nice shamanistic feel to the character. I also added a smaller portion of tattoo/paint to the chin, to balance out the design. I changed the oval jewel to a rectangular one and moved it up to the neck. And I connected the cape to a tall, close-fitting collar. The lace-up bustier was turned into a Ren Faire/Barney Rubble lace-up vest. The fingerless opera gloves are now very long wrist bands (they go from the wrist to the elbow). The sash is a lot wider now -- kind of a swashbuckling, Arabian Nights type of thing. I kept the silhouette of the capri pants/slippers, but the negative space that used to be exposed skin is now the very stylized portion of the boots.

Whew! I think it holds together okay. That said, I really prefer the previous two costumes. They're a lot more fun!

At Last, A Santa Claus I Could Really Get Behind

As part of my continuing effort to make this blog your one-stop homoerotic Santa Claus headquarters, I'd like to present some panels from "Gumby's Winter Fun Special" #1 (Comico, December 1988). Author Steve Purcell and artist Art Adams tore the facade right off the Santa Claus mystique and revealed that the fat, jolly man is neither as fat nor as jolly as previously indicated.

Still, I think he'll do. He'll do just fine.

Turns out ol' Kris Kringle is more of a sailor-type. Check out the sweet anchor tattoo! Also his real name is "Ray Crabbe" but I'm choosing to ignore that part.

Better yet, Santa is a total bad-ass. He's not the morose whiner from "The Year Without A Santa Claus" or the irritating bumbler from all those godawful "Santa Clause" movies. Nope! He's an action hero, pure and simple.

Aw, yeah! So, Santa, you've escaped from hell itself and saved Christmas once again. What should we do now?

Aye aye, Santa. Aye, aye.

Marvel Super Hero Uncomfortable Cocktail Party Of Champions, Part Five

June, 1982! Before the days of the company-wide crossover series, the closest you could get to that kind of encyclopedic grandeur was "Marvel Super Hero Contest Of Champions." That's the one where every Marvel hero (and I!) was crammed into a floating, cosmic soccer stadium (or whatever) and... stood around, chatting. Yeah, they hadn't really gotten all the kinks worked out yet. Also, the Marvel heroes turned out to be stuck-up bitches who wouldn't pay me no nevermind, so my only option was to walk around by myself, gathering top-notch gossip material. For you!

Additional dialog by Dwight Schrute! "Somebody put us here! But who? And to what purpose?" Really, the dialog here is very Silver Age DC, where heroes would dutifully line up and take turns speaking aloud various segments of a single train of thought. (See also: Donald Duck's nephews.) The spoil sport here is Wolverine, but of course, who's just aching to go buckwild in the most Comics Code-straining manner imaginable. Cyclops laughably attempts to assert some authority, little realizing that back in their own comic he was soon to be written as the Daffy Duck to Wolverine's Bugs Bunny.

So, left-to-right, kind of, we start with Iron Fist. Fun fact: the thing on his chest is the gay cousin of the thing on Doctor Strange's tunic. They only see each other when their family gathers for pagan holidays. Things were a bit tense when Iron Fist's tattoo first "came out" but the thing on Doctor Strange's tunic has finally come around and it's just like old times!

As a great woman of your era once said, "Romper stomper bomper boo!" I see Iron Man, who could be flying around, doing recon, but is too wasted and ridden with STD's to keep from crashing into shit. I see Hawkeye, who smells like grape Robitussin twenty-four hours a day and whose costume I've always thought was stupid (and I always will). I see Power Man, who won a bar bet back in '72 by twisting a hunk of steel around his head and now he can't get the damn thing off but figures what the hell. I see the Black Panther, who is secretly plotting your downfall even as we speak and looks great doing it. I can only see the back of the Falcon's head, which makes him the Nichelle Nichols of Marvel. I see Talisman, who in later years would get sick of people asking if he was "Gateway" from the X-Men comic. I see Brother Voodoo, who was already sick of people helpfully pointing out that he "seems to have something on [his] forehead." I see Sunfire, who is indulging one of his weird Japanese fetishes by sniffing the Beast's underpants. I see Black Bolt the Boring, who has a kick-ass costume but a blah personality, and who is wondering how he can get in on some of that Beast's-underpants-sniffing action. I see Hercules, the ultimate drinking buddy, about to express his moral outrage over Sunfire's behavior, and who is also miffed at the severe dearth of scantily-clad young women and/or bare-chested, hairless young men in the arena. (Leaves me out!) I see Werewolf-By-Night, who -- I shit you not -- was once popular enough to star in forty-three issues of his own comic! I know, I can't believe it either. He's just so damned boring! Especially visually! I mean, get yourself some extensions or some highlights or sumpin'. ...Hang on. Jeremy's jabbing me in the ribs. What now, kid? Oh, Jeremy says that in the 80's, Werewolf-By-Night would sometimes get more wolf-like, with a big wolf-head and everything. Well, let's see it! Oh, he's scurried off to get some of his old "West Coast Avengers" comics. *hums selections from "Wonderful Town" while I'm waiting* Okay, he's back. Huh. I dunno, he still looks pretty dorky to me. He's no Man-Wolf, that's for sure. Okay, where were we? Oh, yes. I see Doc Samson, whose costume was pretty cool, except it didn't go with that lime green mop of his at all. Would it have killed you to change up the color scheme to something more pleasing? Like yellow, black, and green? Or failing that, to dye your hair? (Red's a good choice. I mean, just for an example.) I see Wolverine, looking oddly Munchkin-faced here. Heh. He's like the world's deadliest Campbell's Soup Kid. I see Nighthawk, whose costume I kind of liked, except for the big, stiff wings with the air nozzles or whatever on them. Carter Hall never would have settled for that nonsense. I see Cyclops, whose costume is so boring it defies all attempts at embellishment. Even when you slap a stupendously enormous wraparound "X" on it, it still looks boring. I think he needs to start over from square one. In fact, I think I ought to come up with some costume designs for him! Only not right now. Maybe in a week or two. Daddy's tired.

Shanna the She-Devil? Well, there's someone for Hercules to ogle! She's turned away from you right now because you're a gross nerd and she wants nothing to do with you, and also somebody from PETA has just sloshed red paint all over her. Let's see, I've covered everybody else in this panel before, except... Mockingbird! She was way cuter with the longer hair, wasn't she? And without the "rat tail." Fun fact: in your year of 2006, the Thoroughly Eighties "rat tail" can still be seen, on rednecks and lesbians. Another fun fact: it only looks good on actual rats. Mockingbird's costume hasn't aged well. Especially the huge, weapon-concealing sleeves. Although they do impart an avian flair to the ensemble. My biggest problem is the wide stripe of white, which ends just below her bosom. Mockingbird is tall and well-proportioned, but it makes her look like she has a stumpy torso and ridiculously long legs. Like Judy Garland. And MGM's costume designers struggled with ways to make Garland's waist look like it was sitting a good fifteen inches lower on her body -- y'know, like on a normal person. They finally found a solution, but it involved a quantum math that opened a portal to a nightmarish Lovecraftian dimension. Drove half the department stark raving bonkers. The other half vanished without a trace. There were reports of cannibalism. And you don't even want to know what Hair and Makeup went through!

Nothing much to say about that final panel, except... "What awesome power is this at work??" Jeebus, Doctor Strange, you're the freaking Sorceror Supreme! Why don't you tell us? Actually from what I hear, that's all he's good for, lately. Explaining things.

Next week: even more Contest of Champions crap!

Rescue Me: The Fly

Or "The Human Fly" as he was sometimes called. Which must have been confusing for that 70's stuntman guy with the same name and his own Marvel comic. His costume was kind of boring, that's for damn sure. But I don't agree with Marvel's decision to mutate him and make him even more insect-like, and give him a preference for eating garbage. (Like Tostitos and Ding Dongs.) I guess Marvel finally realized he was more disgusting and pathetic than menacing. And so down came the swatter.

Well, I call shenanigans. He was a powerful guy in his prime, with some pretty cool powers, like the ability to generate explosive force by "buzzing" his wings at a certain frequency. And he was strong, fast, and could stick to walls. I think he would have made a great enforcer-type character -- y'know, badass muscle hired by crime bosses to rub out their enemies. And I would have dressed him like so:



Forget the traditional costume -- with those big bug eyes and wings, he doesn't need anything else that could make him look campy. So we have green leather pants and boots and some tattoos that are based on the shape of flies' legs. I shaved his head and gave him a fu-manchu. Which is dyed black, since his natural haircolor is a strawberry blonde. It's more of a down-to-earth, rough-and-tumble look for the guy. He fought Moon Knight at one point; I think he would have been a good villain for other street-level heroes, like Daredevil or Power Man.

What do you guys think?

Gender Reassignment Challenge: Black Canary To Black Eagle

In the Gender Reassignment Challenge, I take a superheroine with a very feminine look, and I redesign the costume for a male hero. My goal is to use as many elements of the original costume as possible without the hero looking like a man in woman's clothing. With fashion, the lines between "masculine" and "feminine" can be whisper-thin -- remember George Costanza and his Gloria Vanderbilt eyeglasses?

I've gotten a lot of requests to do a male version of Black Canary. She's a tough one, alright. Probably because she looks like a cocktail waitress. The bustier, the tight little jacket, those darned fishnet stockings--! It's a real puzzler. A few months ago, I did some sketches of a Man-Canary (and no, Scipio, I'm not calling him that!) but I never could come up with anything I liked. The closest was this godawful baggy hip-hop outfit with a lot of mesh. It sucked. And it would be a total cop-out for me to just draw a guy in a tuxedo. But I think I came up with a decent -- and very modern -- solution.



Here's a guy I call the Black Eagle. 'Cause that sounds manlier than "Canary." He's dressed like a pro wrestler. The jacket, trunks, and boots are all leather. (Down, boys.) I figure Stone Cold Steve Austin could get away with wearing black leather trunks out in public, so why not this guy? I approximated the shape of the Canary's bustier with an eagle tattoo. I also used tattoos in place of the fishnet. It's criss-crossing lines of barbed wire. Badass, am I right? I even kept the long blonde hair from the female version, only now it completes the look of a big, strapping Nordic dude. Lotta Viking blood in there.

Next: a "Rescue Me" design for Hellrazor!

Moral Realignment Challenge: The Flash And Murmur

How might Wally "The Flash" West look if he was a villain? And how might Murmur look if he was a hero? Let's see!



Excerpt from "DC Nation" in the back of all DC comics with a cover date of August 2006, on Earth-Bajillion:

"With the Trickster's heroic sacrifice in the pages of CRITICAL INFINITY, his legacy is in the hands of his mute former sidekick, MURMUR. But the grim, daring acrobat is about to find out that for every legacy hero, there's a legacy villain! And there's none deadlier than the new Flash! Bigger -- and faster -- than his late namesake, this Flash is a brutal drug lord who's determined to rule Peripheral City. Is Murmur agile enough to defeat the fastest thug alive? Or will he end up as a stain on Flash's boots? Geoff Johns and Cully Hamner provide the answer in the pages of MURMUR.

...Fun fact: I almost gave Evil Flash a beer belly. Thank God I came to my senses.

I already knew I wanted to make Good Murmur a motley-clad hero, because Evil Murmur wears a jester outfit already (only it's black leather bondage *yawn* gear). I got rid of the stupid facemask because I've always freaking hated it. It just bugs the shit out of me. Simple as that. So instead I carried the clown motif through with a pale face and with dyed hair that is arranged to looks a bit like a jester's cap -- not completely, since I didn't want him to look like Sideshow Bob, but enough to convey the idea. When he's still, it would be lank and a few locks would hang over his face. I also figure that as part of his gimmick, Murmur would have a morose demeanor and never smile. Which makes total sense since he's a Geoff Johns character, and therefore has nothing to smile about.

I designed Evil Flash to be a stark visual contrast with Good Murmur. Good Murmur wears a costume, so Evil Flash wears street clothes. Good Murmur is kinda slim, so Evil Flash is brawny. And (although you can't really see it here) Good Murmur never smiles, so Evil Flash always smiles. Which is kinda creepy.

And again, no, that's not me as "Evil Flash."

Questions? Comments?

It Was Either This Or Try To Have A Baby

Nothing says "I'm trying to save our marriage" quite like Daimon Hellstrom's superhero costume.

For whatever reason, Marvel Comics has been the runaway leader in the category of ill-advised, bad idea, "what the fucking hell" marriages. Its like their comics are being edited by Britney Spears and Liza Minelli. Or maybe Marvel pairs up its characters using a LOTTO tumbler. I dunno. At any rate, comics fans may wax nostalgic about Ralph and Sue Dibny or even Ray Palmer and Jean Loring, but I don't recall any tears being shed over the convoluted breakup of Patsy Walker and the Son of Satan.

Daimon Hellstrom is the son of a mortal woman and a demon named "Marduk Kurios." (I think I shopped for knick-knacks there once!) He was introduced as a horror comic character in the 70's, and he typically goes about shirtless, the better to show off his sculpted, pentagram-decorated chest. He has pointy Vulcan ears and carries a huge, pitchfork-sized trident made of "Netheranium." He likes to wear his hair with two Quicksilver-style "horns" in the front but he can also rock a heavy metal-sized mane, as he did in his solo series, "Hellstorm: Prince of Lies." He has occult powers that come and go, along with a "Darksoul" that makes him even more demon-y and scream a lot and break things, so much so that you'd think he'd just watched A-Rod half-ass his way through yet another Yankees game. What he was doing with the morbidly perky Patsy Walker is utterly beyond me. He looks like an idiot in that costume. And there is absolutely no way you can convince me he designed it himself. No, I'm guessing things really shook down like this:

Patsy: Daimon! There you are! Got that cute nose of yours stuck in some ol' book again, huh?

Daimon: It's not just "some ol' book," Patsy, it's Der Vermis Mysterius and it's a very dangerous and powerful tome of--

Patsy (knocks the book out of his hand): Well, forget that because I have a surprise for you! Tah-dah! (holds up his new superhero costume)

Daimon: What in the name of all that's unholy is that?

Patsy: It's your new costume, silly! Now we can go out superheroing together and we'll totally match! See? My costume has a sash, your costume has a cummerbund! It's like we're twins!

Daimon: Darling, I--

Patsy (her smile trembling and her eyes glistening with tears): Yes?

Daimon: It's great. It's just great.

Patsy: I suppose it's not really your style, exactly, but I tried to add some touches that might appeal to you. See the little clasps for your cape? They're shaped like skulls! Isn't that positively wicked? (forced, barking laugh) Oh, and let me show you the trident!

Daimon: I already have a trident.

Patsy: But this one is so much better! I took your original trident and I shrunk it!

Daimon (under his breath): After practicing on my manhood first...

Patsy: What was that?

Daimon: Nothing. I think the costume is great. Just great. And you're great for designing it for me! What a wonderful gift! But I'm not sure I'd feel comfortable wearing this is public! Say, maybe I could just wear it at home... (strokes her hair with a long-nailed hand) on special occasions...

Patsy (shakes his hand off): But it's not just for you! It's for us! You know how my family felt when I married you. I'm a laughing stock in my own home town! But if they see you in this, they'll know that you're just one of the superhero gang! They'll say, "That Patsy, she's so lucky, she married a superhero!"

Daimon: You're embarrassed to be married to me?

Patsy: It's not that! It's not that! But sometimes I feel like you don't do anything to contribute to this marriage! I try so hard, and all you do is your dumb ol' research! I have to do everything! Don't you want me to be happy?!

Daimon: Of course! It's just--

Patsy: Then you'll wear the costume! Look, I designed the cowl so you can see that adorable red hair of yours but your scary pointy ears are totally covered! It's great! And you'll get used to it! Do you think I wanted to wear that orange scoop-neck cardigan that was designed for me by Mandy Becker of Hutchinson, Kansas? Or that pencil skirt with the huge embroidered daisy on it that was designed for me by Alice McCormick of Flint, Michigan? Do you think I wanted to wear any of the ugly, hackneyed crap those brain-dead idiots designed for me? Of course not! But Mommy said I had to! Because I'd be making somebody else happy! If you can't understand that, maybe I'll... I'll... I'll KILL MYSELF!!!

Daimon (in a flat, defeated tone): Hand it over.

Daimon and Patsy's marriage eventually fizzled (as most Marvel marriages do), with Daimon becoming very demonic for a while, Patsy killing herself, and Daimon resurrecting her but telling her what was later established as a big honking lie about being Dormammu's grandson(!) in order to keep from getting back together with her.

But I'm thinking the real low point in their marriage was Daimon's costume.

Full Motto Jacket: Mister Terrific

What's his deal:
Terry Sloane was a child genius who entered college at age twelve and graduated within a year. In addition to his intellectual acumen, he was a top athlete, specializing in the martial arts. By his twenties, he had parlayed his talents into the business world and become ridiculously wealthy. But success bored him. Yeah, that's the kind of problem you want to have. Spiriling into a deep depression, Terry decided that since he was so good at everything that there were no challenges left to overcome, and so he vowed to take his own life. Just then he saw a woman hurl herself off a bridge. He dove in after her and rescued her from drowning. The distraught lass told Terry that her kid brother had joined a gang -- and not the cute, beanie-wearing, wagon-pulling, opera-singing "Our Gang" type of a gang, either. No, this was an honest-to-goodness criminal enterprise that was recruiting disadvantaged kids and turning them to a life of crime. Terry's solution was to whip together an awfully square-looking super-hero costume and give the gang leaders what-for, so as to impress the little tykes. It worked, and the youngsters dubbed their tights-wearing savior, "Mister Terrific." Terry went on to create the Fair Play Club, a youth center along the lines of your contemporary Boys & Girls Club of America. He joined the Justice Society of America and also had a long-standing romance with the lady he saved from drowning. Doubtless her kid brother was thrilled about that. ("Wow, my own sister is getting boned by the Mister Terrific!")

Mister Terrific died a chump's death, unfortunately, at the hands of a D-list villain named the Spirit King, who had possessed one of Terry's super-hero friends. No fair! First appearance: Sensation Comics #1 (DC, January 1942.)


Crimes against fashion:
The color scheme, for one, which was apparently inspired by Mexican stoplight candy. There's the dainty pixie boots, which look oppressively precious even on actual pixies. But the worst part is the jacket. The "multi-colored leather jacket with crap drawn all over it" look wouldn't come into fashion until circa 1990 (even Chuck Woolery had one!) and even then it was only popular for about a week.

Our meeting:
I was visiting Gateway City in the summer of 1943. After a long day of searching for just the perfect homburg hat, my stomach was growling. The smell of chicken a la king led me to a banquet hall. I spied through one of the windows a massive charity dinner for the Fair Play Club. At the far end of the room was a long, elevated table with an assortment of super-heroes... and a few empty chairs. So naturally, I slipped into one of my super-hero outfits, busted into the joint through the service entrance, and sidled up to the table like I belonged there. Well, I had only gotten a few bites of food down my gullet when Mister Terrific showed up and asked just what the hell I was doing in his seat. (The biggest chair, by the way, and right in the center... I mean, which one would you have chosen?)

He was pretty upset, but I managed to calm him down with a big cash donation to the Fair Play Club and a suggestion I do some costume designs for him. "After all," I said, "you may be the Man of a Thousand Talents," but you're no fashion designer!" He agreed -- a bit sadly, I thought. We agreed to meet again a few days later.

My presentation:

For your first option, I tried as best I could to retain your current color scheme. But I just couldn't make it work. So, I replaced the green with a deep battleship gray. It makes the red and yellow really pop. Plus, the combination of all three colors is reminiscent of fighter planes and machinery -- it's really masculine. I kept the shape of your "Fair Play" logo but removed the words. Honestly, I don't think you need them.


The second option is specifically designed to make you look more like a lug -- a palooka, if you will. You're doing great right now but I figure you can lure even more kids onto the path of righteousness if you look like somebody from their neighborhood -- like one of those big, brawny types who delivers ice or who hauls around sides of beef. See, you can wow 'em with the biceps and the tough guy tattoo, and then bust out the old "don't be a fool; stay in school" speech by demonstrating your genius I.Q.

Terry's response:
Terry wasn't too keen on the tattoo (darn it!) but he really liked the first design. He gave me a hefty cash advance and told me to get to work. The next day I received a telegram from him, cancelling the order. I tried to get him on the phone. No luck. So that very same night I marched into his brownstone and asked him what the deal was. He was suprised I knew his secret identity, until I explained I was from the future, and also since he didn't wear gloves his fingerprints were all over the place.

Terry said I'd inspired him to try his hand at fashion design. He showed me piles of drawings, all of which -- and I'm loathe to admit this -- looked way better than anything I could do. I asked him if he was going to wear one of the great new costumes he'd designed for himself. He said no, because he'd decided his original costume was too closely associated with the Fair Play Club for him to change it at this point. And besides, he added, he wanted to concentrate more on women's wear. In fact, just a few hours previous, he had started his own clothing line, which was already turning a three hundred percent profit and was going to be cover-featured in the next month's "Mademoiselle." And, he said, he had me to thank for it!

I have to admit I didn't take this very well. I hurled as many invectives as I could think of at him, including 30th century ones like "sprocking." Terry calmly put his hand on my shoulder. Then he pressed down on a certain nerve cluster and I collapsed like a pile of rotten tomatoes. Terry snapped his fingers and two beefy footmen appeared. They carried my paralyzed body out the back door and into the back of a waiting taxi, which unceremoniously deposited me at the entrance to a garbage dump on the outskirts of town.

Ingrate.