Sweet Smell of Distress

I got a heck of a shock, this morning.

I suppose the whole thing started around 4 AM, when I stopped off at Ox's house for some krullers and space-java and three solid hours of violent, frothing-at-the-mouth sex. After showering, I noticed that Ox's musky scent was still lying heavily upon my person. Since I rather enjoy that singular odor, further ablutions were out of the question. So the smell of Ox isn't to everyone's liking! It's an "acquired taste." (And so is the way Ox's taste.) So what? It's really only noticeable to folks when they're within five or six feet of me.

I decided I'd have to nip my office-mates' objections in the bud. As soon as I strolled into the agency, I cleared my throat, and called everyone to attention.

Me: I'd just like to say something to you about the way I smell...

Frigid Queen (interjecting): OH THANK GOD. I thought you were never going to bring that up.

Me: Huh?

Nightmare Boy (grinning): It's no big deal, 'bro! We're pretty used to it, by now.

Dentata Damsel (barely audible): It's nice of you to finally acknowledge it, though.

Me: Wait, what are we talking about--?

Rainbow Girl: Your odor. Don't worry, I warned everybody about it when we first started working here.

Frigid Queen: Yeah! You know. Your odor. It's like a really old corned beef sandwich, heavily impregnated with rocket ship exhaust, and maybe a touch of sewer gas? That smell.

Me: I don't--! Wait a minute, you're saying that I've always smelled bad?

Tusker: Oh, no, no... it ain't bad, exactly; it's just that you don't expect a human being to smell that way.

Nightmare Boy: But hey! If you can't help it, then who are we to judge?

Me: Um. Thank you.

I stumbled over to my desk, past Storm Boy, who was laughing his ass off. He started to say something, but I growled "Shut up...!"under my breath, and he clammed back up. As I sat down in my chair, I could hear his muffled snickering.

I believe the way I feel right now can best be summed up by this panel from the Split-Man story in "Strange Adventures" #203 (August, 1967).

They Weren't Steaming Before He Got In

Whosoever knows fear burns at the audit of the Accountant-Thing!

That's the sign of a good detective, by the way: he's not afraid to get his socks all squishy. Of course, he's going to need about three hundred luxurious, sensual bubble baths with copious moaning and grunting and bossa nova music and candles everywhere and the windows open before he can get the swamp-stank off of him. But that's just a hazard of the job.

This panel is from the lead story in "Strange Adventures" #203, and it's loads better than the godawful "Split-Man" tale that snagged the cover. Not that it would take much. But still.

If I had to complain -- and I do, frequently -- it would be about the hero's overuse of scare-quotes (see above) and ellipses (see below).

That key's going right up his nose, isn't it?

D-List Monsters of Super-Hero Land: The Mole, Part Two

What I Hate About Roy Thomas' Writing, Exhibit A: a character saying out loud and to nobody at all, everything that is happening in a panel, including his own actions. Just think how much more suspenseful and interesting that first panel would be without any speech balloons. We can see a mound of earth following him from panel one to panel two, so there's no need for him to state that he's being followed by something underground. His clothing, location, and physical attitude indicate somebody who's running in a panic. All that wordiness contributes nothing to Gene Colan's fantastic artwork. Now, if this was drawn by somebody as incompetent as, say, Rob Liefeld, I could understand the need for descriptive speech -- and puh-lenty of it, given that Liefeld probably wouldn't even draw the guy's feet -- but with a master like Colan all those words just get in the way.

But enough of this. You all came to my cowtown sideshow to see the Mole, didn't you? Let's investigate, along with The Dad-Burned Batman!

Journey to the Center of Apache Chief's Sphincter!

Told ya so.

Careful, Bats -- he eats of lot of Moroccan food.

"Good God!"

Y'know what would have been better than Batman saying "Good God"? If he said "Eep!" or "Yowza!" or even "Oy gevalt!" I mean, why half-ass it?

But yeah, that's the Mole. Yes, I know. I'm just as disappointed as you are. From the boring, naked, Clayface-Lite body to the blandly unattractive face (practically swiped from a Sal Buscema human character) and the inexplicable slick-back hairdo (what is he, Alec Baldwin?), the Mole is one lame monster. Almost is bad is his habit of saying "Huh-huh" in every other panel. I can't read this comic nowadays without thinking he sounds like Butthead, of "Beavis and..." fame.

You might think the Mole was created especially for this issue, but you'd be wrong. Because this is a Roy Thomas story, and his hard-on for continuity is rivaled only by (the Marquis de) Geoff Johns.

Oh, its not good when you enter a jail cell and the other inmates are looking at you like that. (From what Storm Boy tells me, anyway.) Retreat, Mole! Retreat!

Next: More Mole! Including a panel where he terrifies a coffee cup.

You heard me.

Legion of Substitute Costumes: Phantom Lad

I'm off of work now, sitting nudely in my condo, with Cootie curled up on my lap, and a two-liter bottle of Sun Beam whiskey in my paw, so I can finally write about what happened yesterday morning.

*drains bottle in one swig*

Okay. So it turns out Frigid Queen was working overtime because she was avoiding going home to Phantom Lad. So of course, Phantom Lad has started hanging out at our office, pretty much all day, every day. What the hell? I know he says he has a job, but... ugh. I'd better start at the beginning.

It's 8:28 AM. Frigid Queen is at her desk, making notes from a reverse visi-phone directory. Nightmare Boy is zonked out at reception, with his long, raven hair tumbling onto the desk in an attractive fan pattern. There's a smug smile on his pallid face. Meanwhile, the com system is buzzing like mad. Then, Phantom Lad breezes in, like he owns the goddamn building. And I swear to the Luck Lords, the fucker looks skinnier and dustier and more washed-out every time I see him. And he smells all tangy and shit, like a mix of cinnamon and body odor, but at the same time he has this attitude that just makes me want to... gah! I'm getting ahead of myself again. You'll see.

So Phantom Lad sweeps past me in that dumb, tattered glow-in-the-dark cape he always wears (with matching boots!) and even though it's never done me a damn bit of good all the other times I've tried, I say "good morning" to him, and he doesn't even look at me. He plops his bony ass down on Frigid Queen's desk with his back to me, and the two of them start arguing about something. The gist of their spat is: he'd said something just hideously insulting to her while they were having sex the previous night, she'd kicked him out of their apartment, and now he was back with some cheap-ass "make-up" gift. (Her first words to him were "What's this crap?" if that gives you any idea.) But I can tell by her tone that they're headed for a messy, desk-clearing makeout session (they've always stopped at "third base"... so far) and so I mosey on over to the only other person in the office just then: Nightmare Boy.

The lazy Lothario's nap has kicked into high gear, and he's smacking his lips and mumbling things like "Oh, yeah, baby... you like that, baby? I think you do...!" And then his body starts making these humping motions, so I slap him upside the head to snap him out of it. With a snort, he jerks awake, yelping an obligatory "TERRIFYING VISIONS OF THE FUTURE!" as he does so. He rubs his eyes. "Man, that one was a doozy," he confides, his crimson eyes huge with feigned innocence. "Bad... stuff, happening... soon. So, what can I do ya for?"

I ask him if he has any messages for me. He just shrugs, and says "How should I know?"

So naturally, Phantom Lad takes this opportunity to rattle his bony frame over to the reception desk as well, and he starts bullshitting with Nightmare Boy about some hot dame Nightmare Boy had picked up that weekend. And he's still ignoring me. But I can't stop looking at him, because he's wearing my clothes! By which, I mean he was wearing pants and a top from my old menswear line, back before it tanked and forced me into a life of space piracy. But of course, he'd somehow managed to screw it up. It's simultaneously bleached all to hell and grimy. I'm pissed. The funny thing is, he still looks better than how he used to dress. Here's a before, from his "Legion of Super Rejects" phase:

Also, and I can't find a picture to back this up, but trust me, I'm pretty sure he wore his hair in one of those high-up samurai ponytails. Heh. But yeah, Phantom Lad kind-of, sort-of tried to do the "Legion of Substitute Heroes" thing, only his group was solely focused on trying to convince the Legion of Super-Heroes to admit them. (Bank being robbed? House on fire? Old Durlan needing help oozing across the street? Well, tough shit, because the Legion of Super Rejects is too busy with their letter-writing campaign.) And the group disbanded after a month, and then I never heard anything else about Phantom Lad, until I met Frigid Queen.

And here he is, now:

Don't ask me what happened to his eyebrows. They probably dried up and blew away. And boy-howdy, is his complexion scary. He looks like he's made out of wax. Which would be cool if was from Plant Lad's planet and not from Bgztl, where they all look like Earthmen. Anyway, Nightmare Boy says something douche-y like "Diggin' the threads! Vintage, am I right?"

And while I'm reeling from the idea that something I designed two years ago could be vintage, Phantom Lad proudly informs Nightmare Boy, "It's an original Blockade Boy." He glances over at me for the first time ever and adds, "Y'know, the Blockade Boy. The cool one."

Meanwhile, I'm still so horrified by the idea of this tool wearing my clothes -- albeit badly -- that all I can say is, "You're not supposed to wear those pants with that top; they match too closely, and it makes the whole ensemble look--"

And he just makes this raspy scoffing noise, without even turning his head.

And I lose it.

I grab his shoulder with one of my furry mitts and I say, "Are you brain-dead, ya dumb bony bastard? I said, you're wearing my clothes wrong!"

He goes intangible and flounces out of my grasp. "I don't talk to rats," he sneers at me. "I step on 'em."

Okay. So now I have this mammoth urge to kick his ass, but at the same time my better nature is telling me:

1. He weighs about as much as two kindergarteners, so it's not a fair fight (even with his phasing ability).
2. He's the boyfriend of a coworker.
3. I really can't afford to lose this job. Yeah, yeah, so I have a big pile of space-cheddah salted away somewhere. It's all tied up right now. In real estate... I don't wanna talk about it.

Instead of whaling on him, I just grit my teeth and demand to know what his snide remark was supposed to mean.

He says, "Everybody knows the only way you even got this job is by squealing on your brother. And whaddaya mean, 'your clothes', anyway?"

Reminding myself I'm masquerading as a fictional twin brother nowadays, I hurriedly grunt, "Phyl stole a lot of my ideas."

Phantom Lad gives Nightmare Boy a look, like "Can you believe this asshole?" and then he says to me, "That's what makes him a legend! He sees something he wants? He takes it! Naturally, he was the best space pirate ever, and when the U.P. tried to reign him in, he told them where they could put it! And he's still out there, doin' his own thing. I heard he's got a raygun-running operation goin' on with the Braalian Underground, and a couple of robo-brothels out by Colu. He's a freakin' counter-culture role model, man! But you? I never even heard of you before! So, what was your biggest accomplishment up 'til now? Finishing space-trucking school on your third try?" (His skinny ghost-hand phases tauntingly through my bushy goatee.)

How I keep from knocking his stupid block off, I'll never know. Instead, I stick to verbal sparring. I give him the withering once-over and say, "And you do... what, exactly? Play in a pod bay band? In between sash-shopping and not exercising?"

For the first time, he acts all defensive. "No! I'm a journalist."

"For what?" I smirk. "The Xanthu Shopper?" (And now Nightmare Boy is watching the two of us with bemused wonderment.)

"Screw that noise! I'm a gonzo journalist, on the political beat! You've probably read my stuff in Mother J'onzz or Rolling Asteroid."

"Ah, so you're one of those dim-bulbs who couldn't make it as a fiction writer, so you spot Marte Allon on a space-platform from twenty meters away and turn it into an 'arty' six-page piece about her doing shrooms on Jupiter." (And yes, I did the air-quotes when I said "arty." I despise myself for it.)

Phantom Lad is sputtering now. His jaundiced cheeks are desperately trying to blush, but all it's doing is making his head look like a dried-up nectarine. And Frigid Queen throws her two credits in with this fascinating comment: "Oh, that's not all he writes about! Tell him, honey!"

And she's laughing, and Nightmare Boy's laughing (although I can tell he doesn't even know what he's laughing about), and Phantom Lad darkly mutters that he has to leave. Frigid Queen still won't tell me what she was alluding to. It's driving me nuts not knowing. Huh. Well, I'll pry it out of her. Eventually. I'm charming that way.

But at least I shouldn't see Phantom Lad around the office again, anytime soon.

Right?

But this whole "fake twin" nonsense... it's gonna drive me bonkers! Look at me! I've turned into Mike Murdock, for Pete's sake! After all these years of railing against the stupidities of "secret identity" plotlines, I've stumbled right into one. The talons of Karma have got me by the balls.

...No, wait. That's just Cootie. Skedaddle, girl!

Your Memories Have Just Been Sold

Your corrupt, ramshackle 21st Century press machine has at last seen fit to publish an article on yours truly, in this month's issue of "Instinct." Go buy a copy, or I'll know, somehow. Go on. Right now! Git! I don't care if you're in Uruguay or whatever. Get your ass on a plane and fly someplace th' dang magazine is available! It's your blogtriotic duty.

Okay, fine. Here's a big image of the blurb.

Crybabies.

The writing's okay, I suppose, but I wish people would stop attributing my blog to Jeremy Rizza. Okay, so I crashed at his old pad for a year-and-a-half and he let me use his computer, and I'm still accessing it now, from my glorious future world that you filthy Neanderthals couldn't even begin to comprehend, but that doesn't make him the blog's "author." Why is that so hard for everybody to understand?

I don't really like that picture they used of me, either. That one's from a few months ago, when I was messing around with a re-design of one of my older costumes, just to see if I wanted to cover up my cyborg legs. I decided against it. And my eyes look crazy. Probably from staying up for a solid week working on the damn thing, with only coffee and Weight Wizard's travel-sized hotness to keep me going.

Also, no way, no how am I "bitchy." Storm Boy is bitchy. When you're as big and hairy and as reeking of testosterone (and certain other intoxicating aromas) as I am, you're "gruff" or "saturnine" or "a harsh taskmaster" and that's that.

"...even more bitchily than Mr. Blackwell." Damn it...

Gee, Your Corpse Smells Terrific

Thirty-three years ago today, the CIA's nerve-damaging chemical compound XBD-8 was first tested in the field. Today you people know it as "Axe Body Spray."