My recommendation for the day: 'Evil Dead: The Musical'. The soundtrack is available from Time/Life, you can pick it up through Amazon or at a number of retail outlets, and it's a hilarious amalgamation of the first two movies with the spirit of the third, and some extremely catchy songs (like "All of the Men In My Life Keep Getting Killed By Candarian Demons"). If you liked the movies, you'll probably also like the musical--Bruce Campbell did, and if it's got his personal seal of approval, you know it's good.
It's not worksafe, though. Just to warn you now. There is much swearing, innuendo, and descriptions of violence including, but not limited to chainsaw dismemberments, shootings, and the biting of one's hand by a dead moose. (Which would make a great MPAA ratings box. "Includes graphic violence, language, sexual situations, and attacks by dead moose.")
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Friday, May 25, 2007
Doctor Who's Wacky Funtime Playhouse, Part Three
A day late, but this is the third and final part in the short story in which I attempted to create something completely new and different, similar only in the title and the use of "time travel" to the classic TV series 'Doctor Who'. As you'll soon see, this is also the point at which I realized I'd spectacularly failed...
Dale looked at him incredulously. “I’ll tell you what caused the end of it—I died! Or, I mean, I will die. As soon as you leave. Which I want you to do, because I just want to get this over with…I want to die. I can’t keep going anymore, and I can’t stop.”
“Why do you wish to die?” Gogos seemed puzzled.
“Because I’ve been doing this show, this albatross, this anchor, this…thing…for twenty years! It’s ruined me for any other acting work; can you imagine the host of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ doing Shakespeare, or ‘Death of a Salesman’? I can’t even go out and get drunk over it, because I’m supposed to be a role-model for kids! The show doesn’t pay enough for me to retire, I’ll never do any of the roles I got into acting to do…” The words poured out of him, twenty years of bile finally unleashed in a single flowing rant. “All my life, I wanted to touch people, and instead I wound up doing a local kid’s show for twenty years. It’s worthless.”
Gogos shook his head. “Perhaps you did not hear me,” he said. “You have touched all of us. The empires of my sector of space span a thousand worlds, with a thousand billion inhabitants. Each of us has our own religion, our own culture, our own taboos, our own emotions. There is no common ground, no touchstone for us. Every day, we each encounter perspectives so alien to our own that there seems no possible outcome but violence.
“Your show changed all that. Every week, we saw something that we could all understand and appreciate. Yes, it was silly. Yes, it was intended for children. Yes, the values it espoused were simple, sometimes unworkable in the real and complex world we live in. And yes, the production values were low. But it provided us with a sense of wonder, a simple pleasure and enjoyment that transcended our cultural barriers. Through you, Doctor Who, we gained a common ground that different cultures could all appreciate. Love, luck, and laughter. They are not such bad values to build upon.”
There was a long silence. At the end of it, Dale said, “Thank you,” very quietly.
“You are welcome,” Gogos said. “Now, please, continue with your suicide.”
Dale raised an eyebrow. “Um…it really doesn’t seem…I mean, I think I can go on now, because like you said, um…”
Gogos shook his head. “I am afraid there is nothing I can do here. The series ceased transmission on this date. It is a historical fact, and there is nothing I can do about it. A shame, but that is the laws of causality for you.” He paused, obviously pretending to be lost in thought and not quite managing to conceal a hint of smugness. “Unless…”
Dale said, “Spare me the acting. Unless what?”
Gogos said, “It occurs to me that I could use the time-belt to bring you with me back to my home on Vinoma in the future. From there, we could then bring you on a good-will tour of the planets of the empire, performing before all the different worlds and uniting the fractured races in a new order of peace and harmony. It will be difficult, of course. After seven years of fighting, some no longer wish for peace. You may have to perform to hostile crowds. Your life may even be in danger at times.” Gogos looked meaningfully at the drawer. “Then again, I am not certain how much more dangerous it could be than putting a loaded fire-arm in your mouth and pulling the trigger.”
Dale smiled ruefully. “I see your point. Sure, I’ll go.” He stood up. “I think my work is done here on Earth anyway.”
Gogos stood up as well. “Excellent,” he said. “Please, take my hand now, and we will transmit ourselves to the future.”
Dale clasped his hand with Gogos, and as he felt a strange, distant tingling sensation overwhelm him, he said the only words he could possibly think of as appropriate.
“Doctor Who prescribes love, luck, and laughter for the rest of the day!”
Dale looked at him incredulously. “I’ll tell you what caused the end of it—I died! Or, I mean, I will die. As soon as you leave. Which I want you to do, because I just want to get this over with…I want to die. I can’t keep going anymore, and I can’t stop.”
“Why do you wish to die?” Gogos seemed puzzled.
“Because I’ve been doing this show, this albatross, this anchor, this…thing…for twenty years! It’s ruined me for any other acting work; can you imagine the host of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ doing Shakespeare, or ‘Death of a Salesman’? I can’t even go out and get drunk over it, because I’m supposed to be a role-model for kids! The show doesn’t pay enough for me to retire, I’ll never do any of the roles I got into acting to do…” The words poured out of him, twenty years of bile finally unleashed in a single flowing rant. “All my life, I wanted to touch people, and instead I wound up doing a local kid’s show for twenty years. It’s worthless.”
Gogos shook his head. “Perhaps you did not hear me,” he said. “You have touched all of us. The empires of my sector of space span a thousand worlds, with a thousand billion inhabitants. Each of us has our own religion, our own culture, our own taboos, our own emotions. There is no common ground, no touchstone for us. Every day, we each encounter perspectives so alien to our own that there seems no possible outcome but violence.
“Your show changed all that. Every week, we saw something that we could all understand and appreciate. Yes, it was silly. Yes, it was intended for children. Yes, the values it espoused were simple, sometimes unworkable in the real and complex world we live in. And yes, the production values were low. But it provided us with a sense of wonder, a simple pleasure and enjoyment that transcended our cultural barriers. Through you, Doctor Who, we gained a common ground that different cultures could all appreciate. Love, luck, and laughter. They are not such bad values to build upon.”
There was a long silence. At the end of it, Dale said, “Thank you,” very quietly.
“You are welcome,” Gogos said. “Now, please, continue with your suicide.”
Dale raised an eyebrow. “Um…it really doesn’t seem…I mean, I think I can go on now, because like you said, um…”
Gogos shook his head. “I am afraid there is nothing I can do here. The series ceased transmission on this date. It is a historical fact, and there is nothing I can do about it. A shame, but that is the laws of causality for you.” He paused, obviously pretending to be lost in thought and not quite managing to conceal a hint of smugness. “Unless…”
Dale said, “Spare me the acting. Unless what?”
Gogos said, “It occurs to me that I could use the time-belt to bring you with me back to my home on Vinoma in the future. From there, we could then bring you on a good-will tour of the planets of the empire, performing before all the different worlds and uniting the fractured races in a new order of peace and harmony. It will be difficult, of course. After seven years of fighting, some no longer wish for peace. You may have to perform to hostile crowds. Your life may even be in danger at times.” Gogos looked meaningfully at the drawer. “Then again, I am not certain how much more dangerous it could be than putting a loaded fire-arm in your mouth and pulling the trigger.”
Dale smiled ruefully. “I see your point. Sure, I’ll go.” He stood up. “I think my work is done here on Earth anyway.”
Gogos stood up as well. “Excellent,” he said. “Please, take my hand now, and we will transmit ourselves to the future.”
Dale clasped his hand with Gogos, and as he felt a strange, distant tingling sensation overwhelm him, he said the only words he could possibly think of as appropriate.
“Doctor Who prescribes love, luck, and laughter for the rest of the day!”
Thursday, May 17, 2007
'Doctor Who's Wacky Funtime Playhouse', Part Two
A continuation of last week's story, which was written to the brief "Reinvent Doctor Who, keeping nothing but the name and the concept of time travel..."
Dale went into his dressing room, shut the door gently, and then carefully wedged one of the two spare chairs in the room underneath the doorknob. He could have just locked it, of course, or even just left it closed—people didn’t really walk in on him in his dressing room. But that seemed so un-melodramatic for what was, essentially, a huge cry for attention.
He sat down in his own chair, in front of the mirrored dresser where he did his own make-up, and reached into a drawer. He pulled out a piece of paper on which he’d already composed a note (sealing it carefully in a waterproof envelope), and a .22 caliber revolver. He held the gun nervously, turning it over in his hands with the wary air of someone new to the world of firearms. He was, in fact, new to the world of firearms; this was the first gun he’d ever owned in his life. He’d never felt any great need to possess one before, and had always worried about something going wrong with it—imaginary headlines like ‘CHILDREN’S TV STAR KILLS YOUNG BOY’ kept him from ever seriously contemplating having a gun. But he figured that by this point, he was through worrying about newspaper headlines. In fact, for the past year or so, he’d even taken a morbid pleasure in imagining them. Surely, he thought, everyone would understand. Many probably expected it. After all, if you were recognized anywhere you went as a man who dressed up in a goofy fake doctor’s outfit to entertain small children, wouldn’t you eat a bullet sooner or later?
His mind made up, he reached back into the drawer and pulled out a box of ammunition. He carefully loaded each chamber of the gun, one bullet at a time. He was aware that he’d probably only use one bullet, but decided that it was better to be safe than sorry. Then, snapping the chamber back into position, he put the barrel of the gun into his mouth, grimacing slightly at the taste of oiled metal. He cocked back the hammer. He closed his eyes tightly, and prepared for the release of oblivion.
“Excuse me,” someone said behind him, “but what are you doing?”
His finger tightened reflexively on the trigger in shock, and he suddenly realized three things in very short order. One, he’d forgotten to take the gun’s safety off. Two, the person watching him had just seen him humiliate himself further by trying to shoot himself in the face and failing. Three, there was someone watching him. Four, which came to him as a surprise bonus, that meant that there was someone in the room with him.
He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. Behind him, a…a…a come-back-to-that-later had seated him…her…itself down in his other spare chair, and was looking at him with an expression of what looked like it might be polite interest. Dale wasn’t sure, because now that he did come back to it, the…person?...didn’t look human.
Oh, it looked human-ish. It had two arms, two legs, and a head. But it had two sets of ears, one right on top of the other, and its nose was just a flattish bump with two tiny slits that fluttered as it breathed. Its skin was a whitish-gray, the color of a four-week old corpse, and it had black, shark-like eyes. It stared at him, its fingers (seven on each hand) steepled together in a pose of patient interest. It opened its mouth and spoke again.
“I am sorry,” it said, “but again I must ask what it is that you are doing.”
Dale was so unnerved, he forgot he had a gun in his mouth. “Oo he huck ar oo?”
The creature blinked. Its eyelids were on the sides of its eyes, he noticed. “I am sorry, Doctor. I do not understand.”
Doctor? He took the gun out of his mouth and said, a bit more calmly, “I asked who you were.”
It smiled. Its teeth were all flat and rounded, like a horse’s teeth. “I am Gogos, High Researcher of the Vinomian Archives. Please, Doctor Who, forgive this intrusion. I do not wish to interrupt such an important moment in history, but we simply had to know for ourselves what happened to you.”
Dale slammed the gun down onto the drawer, suddenly irate at the intruder. “As it happens, I’m trying to kill myself. I was hoping to do so in privacy, and with perhaps a little dignity, but I guess that’s just a little too much to ask! Jeez!” He sighed. He paused as he actually started thinking about what the being had said. “What are you talking about?”
Gogos gestured towards him. “I am from a planet called Vinoma, five thousand light-years away from your world of Earth. We are an advanced species, capable of many technological feats that your planet has not yet developed even in our own time. For our signal-catchers, it is child’s play to capture and replay the transmissions of your Earth ‘television’. We have been watching your broadcasts for twenty years now, and the entertainment that ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ has provided has helped unite the warring factions of our vast empire.
“Seven years ago by our time-scale, the transmissions ceased. Our records show that no episodes of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ were broadcast after this date in relative history. Without your show, tensions have once more built up among our different races. No other program has succeeded in uniting us in mirth and happiness the way yours has—not even the legendary ‘Howdy Doody’ broadcasts that brought about the cease-fire in the Horghal-Iridus War. I decided to use our time-belt to travel back to the date of the final broadcast, over five thousand years ago, and determine for myself what caused the end of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’.”
Dale went into his dressing room, shut the door gently, and then carefully wedged one of the two spare chairs in the room underneath the doorknob. He could have just locked it, of course, or even just left it closed—people didn’t really walk in on him in his dressing room. But that seemed so un-melodramatic for what was, essentially, a huge cry for attention.
He sat down in his own chair, in front of the mirrored dresser where he did his own make-up, and reached into a drawer. He pulled out a piece of paper on which he’d already composed a note (sealing it carefully in a waterproof envelope), and a .22 caliber revolver. He held the gun nervously, turning it over in his hands with the wary air of someone new to the world of firearms. He was, in fact, new to the world of firearms; this was the first gun he’d ever owned in his life. He’d never felt any great need to possess one before, and had always worried about something going wrong with it—imaginary headlines like ‘CHILDREN’S TV STAR KILLS YOUNG BOY’ kept him from ever seriously contemplating having a gun. But he figured that by this point, he was through worrying about newspaper headlines. In fact, for the past year or so, he’d even taken a morbid pleasure in imagining them. Surely, he thought, everyone would understand. Many probably expected it. After all, if you were recognized anywhere you went as a man who dressed up in a goofy fake doctor’s outfit to entertain small children, wouldn’t you eat a bullet sooner or later?
His mind made up, he reached back into the drawer and pulled out a box of ammunition. He carefully loaded each chamber of the gun, one bullet at a time. He was aware that he’d probably only use one bullet, but decided that it was better to be safe than sorry. Then, snapping the chamber back into position, he put the barrel of the gun into his mouth, grimacing slightly at the taste of oiled metal. He cocked back the hammer. He closed his eyes tightly, and prepared for the release of oblivion.
“Excuse me,” someone said behind him, “but what are you doing?”
His finger tightened reflexively on the trigger in shock, and he suddenly realized three things in very short order. One, he’d forgotten to take the gun’s safety off. Two, the person watching him had just seen him humiliate himself further by trying to shoot himself in the face and failing. Three, there was someone watching him. Four, which came to him as a surprise bonus, that meant that there was someone in the room with him.
He opened his eyes and looked in the mirror. Behind him, a…a…a come-back-to-that-later had seated him…her…itself down in his other spare chair, and was looking at him with an expression of what looked like it might be polite interest. Dale wasn’t sure, because now that he did come back to it, the…person?...didn’t look human.
Oh, it looked human-ish. It had two arms, two legs, and a head. But it had two sets of ears, one right on top of the other, and its nose was just a flattish bump with two tiny slits that fluttered as it breathed. Its skin was a whitish-gray, the color of a four-week old corpse, and it had black, shark-like eyes. It stared at him, its fingers (seven on each hand) steepled together in a pose of patient interest. It opened its mouth and spoke again.
“I am sorry,” it said, “but again I must ask what it is that you are doing.”
Dale was so unnerved, he forgot he had a gun in his mouth. “Oo he huck ar oo?”
The creature blinked. Its eyelids were on the sides of its eyes, he noticed. “I am sorry, Doctor. I do not understand.”
Doctor? He took the gun out of his mouth and said, a bit more calmly, “I asked who you were.”
It smiled. Its teeth were all flat and rounded, like a horse’s teeth. “I am Gogos, High Researcher of the Vinomian Archives. Please, Doctor Who, forgive this intrusion. I do not wish to interrupt such an important moment in history, but we simply had to know for ourselves what happened to you.”
Dale slammed the gun down onto the drawer, suddenly irate at the intruder. “As it happens, I’m trying to kill myself. I was hoping to do so in privacy, and with perhaps a little dignity, but I guess that’s just a little too much to ask! Jeez!” He sighed. He paused as he actually started thinking about what the being had said. “What are you talking about?”
Gogos gestured towards him. “I am from a planet called Vinoma, five thousand light-years away from your world of Earth. We are an advanced species, capable of many technological feats that your planet has not yet developed even in our own time. For our signal-catchers, it is child’s play to capture and replay the transmissions of your Earth ‘television’. We have been watching your broadcasts for twenty years now, and the entertainment that ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ has provided has helped unite the warring factions of our vast empire.
“Seven years ago by our time-scale, the transmissions ceased. Our records show that no episodes of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ were broadcast after this date in relative history. Without your show, tensions have once more built up among our different races. No other program has succeeded in uniting us in mirth and happiness the way yours has—not even the legendary ‘Howdy Doody’ broadcasts that brought about the cease-fire in the Horghal-Iridus War. I decided to use our time-belt to travel back to the date of the final broadcast, over five thousand years ago, and determine for myself what caused the end of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’.”
Friday, May 11, 2007
Breaking News Extra!
From the Associated Press:
"Yankees' Wang hit hard by Rangers"
No, seriously.
It actually said that.
"Yankees' Wang hit hard by Rangers"
No, seriously.
It actually said that.
'Doctor Who's Wacky Funtime Playhouse', Part One
A little something different, this week...I'm going to recycle old material!
Directly, that is, instead of writing new stuff about my old ideas. This is a short story I wrote for a Doctor Who charity anthology (Doctor Who fans have a history of producing short-story anthologies with the proceeds going to various charities. Obviously, it violates copyright, but the BBC has traditionally looked the other way so long as the money really does go to a worthy cause. Some of them, like the classic 'Perfect Timing', got some fairly well known professional authors to contribute alongside the fan writers.) The anthology in question, 'Atypical History', was supposed to come out in 2003 to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the series. I think it's pretty unlikely that it'll make it in time.
The brief for all writers was as follows: Write an original short story using the name 'Doctor Who' and the concept of time travel that could serve as the springboard for a series of further stories. In short, we were to imagine another way that Doctor Who could have gone back in 1963, using as little of the original as possible. So here was what I did with it...
‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’
by John Seavey
The energy of the crowd felt almost like a physical force as it washed over Dale Townsend, and for a brief moment he forgot everything and just basked in the cheers of adoring children. He couldn’t see them—right now, the spotlight he stood in kept him from seeing any of the audience—but he didn’t need to know what they looked like. All that mattered, for now at least, was their excitement, their applause. They had been infused with the excitement of the mob, each child feeding off the energy of the others and getting more and more enthused, thrilled, and energetic, and now it poured off them in waves as he stood there in his white coat, big shoes, and mint-green surgical outfit waiting for them to finally cool down enough for him to speak. It was a tiny moment. It wasn’t enough. But he’d remember it, he was sure, for the rest of his life.
Finally, the applause died down, and he spoke. “Well, kids,” he said, his voice filled with forced warmth, “the 1000th episode of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ is just about done!” He ended the sentence in an acclamative shout, the same way he ended all of his sentences when speaking in character. It was another thing he wouldn’t miss. “And I’m grateful to all of you for helping make it the best episode ever!” Not true, he thought as the crowd roared again—the 500th episode was much better. He’d gotten a few celebrities to do guest appearances, big stars who’d grown up in the area and had watched the show with fond memories. Nobody cared anymore. The show was still on because it was cheap to produce, mostly old cartoons that didn’t cost much and just one emcee to keep the live audience occupied.
He waved at the crowd, and they quieted down once more. “So thank you all once again, and here’s to a thousand more!” Another roaring crowd, but this time, he heard the beginnings of the theme song playing and knew that he didn’t have long. Quickly, using the same voice projection talents he’d once hoped would take him far in Shakespearean theatre, he uttered his trademark closing line: “And remember, kids, Doctor Who prescribes love, luck, and laughter for the rest of the day!”
The spotlight darkened and Dale Townsend, known for the past twenty years in the major Chicago markets as “Doctor Who”, let himself relax. Another episode, another paycheck, and that was just the way life worked. He didn’t see any reason to get emotional about it anymore.
He headed back towards his dressing room, only to have Tom, his producer, run up next to him and put his arm around him in what was probably meant to be a gesture of good-natured camaraderie. Tom probably had a last name, but Dale never bothered to remember the names of his producers anymore. He just noted whether they were the young kind on their way up, doing the show as a way to build credits for their resumé before moving into bigger and better things, or the kind on their way down, broken-down and weary and scraping the last few dollars out of their career by doing a local kiddie show in Chicago.
“That was great!” Tom said, in much the same tone of voice that Dale used on-camera. Tom was one of the young producers. Frankly, Dale preferred the old ones. They might drink, they might shout at the kids, and they might occasionally lapse into weepy tirades about how they used to direct Gwyneth Paltrow, but at least they had the good grace not to be enthusiastic about a show that forced people to dress up in mock surgical gear and entertain small children. “Really, Dale, I think that was truly super. Your best performance yet. You were…” He acted for a moment as though he was lost for words, which Dale privately suspected wasn’t hard. If you removed the words “great” and “super” from Tom’s vocabulary, he’d probably be mute.
Dale smiled wanly and said, “Thanks,” in a weary voice. He made a feeble effort to get out of his producer’s friendly grasp, but Tom wasn’t having any of it.
“So,” Tom said, “about next week’s show—I see us as leading off with some of the older black-and-white stuff, a sort of retrospective if you will—it’ll be a great way to start building our reputation again as the bleeding edge of children’s television.”
Inwardly, Dale sighed. ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ never had a reputation as any kind of edge, except perhaps blunt and dull. It made ‘Mister Rogers Neighborhood’ seem “bleeding edge”, and Mister Rogers had been dead for six months. Speaking of which… “Say, Tom, could we take this up in twenty minutes or so? I’m feeling a bit drained, just want to rest in my dressing room for a bit. You know how it is.”
Tom let go of him, then gave him a solid, bone-jarring last handshake. “Sure thing. I’m sorry, Dale, I should have thought—you must be overwhelmed. One thousand episodes…it’s amazing, it really is. Super, absolutely great. Tell you what—you take a half-hour, then you and I can go out to the bars and celebrate.”
Dale nodded awkwardly, and headed towards his dressing room. Great, he grumbled mentally. Now when they report the news, they’ll talk about how I “seemed happy”, how I was “already planning the next show”.
They probably won’t even read my note.
Directly, that is, instead of writing new stuff about my old ideas. This is a short story I wrote for a Doctor Who charity anthology (Doctor Who fans have a history of producing short-story anthologies with the proceeds going to various charities. Obviously, it violates copyright, but the BBC has traditionally looked the other way so long as the money really does go to a worthy cause. Some of them, like the classic 'Perfect Timing', got some fairly well known professional authors to contribute alongside the fan writers.) The anthology in question, 'Atypical History', was supposed to come out in 2003 to celebrate the 40th anniversary of the series. I think it's pretty unlikely that it'll make it in time.
The brief for all writers was as follows: Write an original short story using the name 'Doctor Who' and the concept of time travel that could serve as the springboard for a series of further stories. In short, we were to imagine another way that Doctor Who could have gone back in 1963, using as little of the original as possible. So here was what I did with it...
‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’
by John Seavey
The energy of the crowd felt almost like a physical force as it washed over Dale Townsend, and for a brief moment he forgot everything and just basked in the cheers of adoring children. He couldn’t see them—right now, the spotlight he stood in kept him from seeing any of the audience—but he didn’t need to know what they looked like. All that mattered, for now at least, was their excitement, their applause. They had been infused with the excitement of the mob, each child feeding off the energy of the others and getting more and more enthused, thrilled, and energetic, and now it poured off them in waves as he stood there in his white coat, big shoes, and mint-green surgical outfit waiting for them to finally cool down enough for him to speak. It was a tiny moment. It wasn’t enough. But he’d remember it, he was sure, for the rest of his life.
Finally, the applause died down, and he spoke. “Well, kids,” he said, his voice filled with forced warmth, “the 1000th episode of ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ is just about done!” He ended the sentence in an acclamative shout, the same way he ended all of his sentences when speaking in character. It was another thing he wouldn’t miss. “And I’m grateful to all of you for helping make it the best episode ever!” Not true, he thought as the crowd roared again—the 500th episode was much better. He’d gotten a few celebrities to do guest appearances, big stars who’d grown up in the area and had watched the show with fond memories. Nobody cared anymore. The show was still on because it was cheap to produce, mostly old cartoons that didn’t cost much and just one emcee to keep the live audience occupied.
He waved at the crowd, and they quieted down once more. “So thank you all once again, and here’s to a thousand more!” Another roaring crowd, but this time, he heard the beginnings of the theme song playing and knew that he didn’t have long. Quickly, using the same voice projection talents he’d once hoped would take him far in Shakespearean theatre, he uttered his trademark closing line: “And remember, kids, Doctor Who prescribes love, luck, and laughter for the rest of the day!”
The spotlight darkened and Dale Townsend, known for the past twenty years in the major Chicago markets as “Doctor Who”, let himself relax. Another episode, another paycheck, and that was just the way life worked. He didn’t see any reason to get emotional about it anymore.
He headed back towards his dressing room, only to have Tom, his producer, run up next to him and put his arm around him in what was probably meant to be a gesture of good-natured camaraderie. Tom probably had a last name, but Dale never bothered to remember the names of his producers anymore. He just noted whether they were the young kind on their way up, doing the show as a way to build credits for their resumé before moving into bigger and better things, or the kind on their way down, broken-down and weary and scraping the last few dollars out of their career by doing a local kiddie show in Chicago.
“That was great!” Tom said, in much the same tone of voice that Dale used on-camera. Tom was one of the young producers. Frankly, Dale preferred the old ones. They might drink, they might shout at the kids, and they might occasionally lapse into weepy tirades about how they used to direct Gwyneth Paltrow, but at least they had the good grace not to be enthusiastic about a show that forced people to dress up in mock surgical gear and entertain small children. “Really, Dale, I think that was truly super. Your best performance yet. You were…” He acted for a moment as though he was lost for words, which Dale privately suspected wasn’t hard. If you removed the words “great” and “super” from Tom’s vocabulary, he’d probably be mute.
Dale smiled wanly and said, “Thanks,” in a weary voice. He made a feeble effort to get out of his producer’s friendly grasp, but Tom wasn’t having any of it.
“So,” Tom said, “about next week’s show—I see us as leading off with some of the older black-and-white stuff, a sort of retrospective if you will—it’ll be a great way to start building our reputation again as the bleeding edge of children’s television.”
Inwardly, Dale sighed. ‘Doctor Who’s Wacky Funtime Playhouse’ never had a reputation as any kind of edge, except perhaps blunt and dull. It made ‘Mister Rogers Neighborhood’ seem “bleeding edge”, and Mister Rogers had been dead for six months. Speaking of which… “Say, Tom, could we take this up in twenty minutes or so? I’m feeling a bit drained, just want to rest in my dressing room for a bit. You know how it is.”
Tom let go of him, then gave him a solid, bone-jarring last handshake. “Sure thing. I’m sorry, Dale, I should have thought—you must be overwhelmed. One thousand episodes…it’s amazing, it really is. Super, absolutely great. Tell you what—you take a half-hour, then you and I can go out to the bars and celebrate.”
Dale nodded awkwardly, and headed towards his dressing room. Great, he grumbled mentally. Now when they report the news, they’ll talk about how I “seemed happy”, how I was “already planning the next show”.
They probably won’t even read my note.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Contentious Statement of the Day
Now that Captain America and Iron Man have gone, the team currently being featured in 'New Avengers' is not actually the Avengers at all. It's the Defenders. In fact, it's a more authentically 'Defenders-esque' Defenders team than many actual Defenders line-ups over the years. The book's title should be changed to reflect this fact, and the upcoming battle between the 'New' and 'Mighty' Avengers should, in fact, be billed as "The Second Avengers/Defenders War".
Discuss.
Discuss.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Meet N Greet #3
(Ironically, this entry was delayed by a day because I was checking out the new patch for 'City of Heroes'...)
Colonel Meyer Hagen walked into the dimly-lit lab, already mentally biting his nails. Doctor David Flagg wasn't the worst scientist he'd ever had to deal with in his five years as liason with the civilian technical personnel on Alpha Base, but there was just something so irritatingly...childish about the man. No, not childish. Childlike. Flagg just needed to grow up, that was the problem. Put away childish things. He--
"Colonel Hagen! Good to see you down here again!" Flagg enthusiastically slapped the colonel on the back, receiving a tight-lipped smile in return.
"Doctor Flagg. I believe you said you had a breakthrough for me?"
"Oh, better than that. I've got a completed prototype, ready for field-testing." He flipped a switch, and banks of lights illuminated a corner of the laboratory. "Allow me to present the ultimate in human-operated exoskeletal technology...the Human-Occupied Law-enforcement Computer, version 1.0!"
Colonel Hagen looked at the seven-foot tall metal form for a long moment. Finally, he said what had been in his mind since the second the lights went on. "It's...green."
"Yes. Now the breakthrough came when I realized that instead of attempting to integrate a weapons system, you could simply focus on increasing the strength and durability of the HOLC system to levels that make it effective in combat without needing--"
"I'm sorry, the what?"
"HOLC. Human-Occupied Law-enforcement Computer."
"So you want us to test a giant green robot...called the HOLC. Which is super-strong and indestructible."
Doctor Flagg nodded enthusiastically.
"You've got issues, Flagg."
"Every single one since 'Tales to Astonish' #67. Now, I've increased the leg strength, so it should be able to jump great distances. The arm strength allows it to clap its hands to create giant sonic booms..."
Colonel Meyer Hagen walked into the dimly-lit lab, already mentally biting his nails. Doctor David Flagg wasn't the worst scientist he'd ever had to deal with in his five years as liason with the civilian technical personnel on Alpha Base, but there was just something so irritatingly...childish about the man. No, not childish. Childlike. Flagg just needed to grow up, that was the problem. Put away childish things. He--
"Colonel Hagen! Good to see you down here again!" Flagg enthusiastically slapped the colonel on the back, receiving a tight-lipped smile in return.
"Doctor Flagg. I believe you said you had a breakthrough for me?"
"Oh, better than that. I've got a completed prototype, ready for field-testing." He flipped a switch, and banks of lights illuminated a corner of the laboratory. "Allow me to present the ultimate in human-operated exoskeletal technology...the Human-Occupied Law-enforcement Computer, version 1.0!"
Colonel Hagen looked at the seven-foot tall metal form for a long moment. Finally, he said what had been in his mind since the second the lights went on. "It's...green."
"Yes. Now the breakthrough came when I realized that instead of attempting to integrate a weapons system, you could simply focus on increasing the strength and durability of the HOLC system to levels that make it effective in combat without needing--"
"I'm sorry, the what?"
"HOLC. Human-Occupied Law-enforcement Computer."
"So you want us to test a giant green robot...called the HOLC. Which is super-strong and indestructible."
Doctor Flagg nodded enthusiastically.
"You've got issues, Flagg."
"Every single one since 'Tales to Astonish' #67. Now, I've increased the leg strength, so it should be able to jump great distances. The arm strength allows it to clap its hands to create giant sonic booms..."
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Not Actually An Idea
This isn't the "official" post for this week, because:
a) it's probably not funny enough (but when has that stopped me?)
b) it would really require Photoshop to work, and probably toys based on H.P. Lovecraft, and I'm not actually sure if there are any (but of course, there are...there are action figures of everything nowadays...)
c) it requires a lot of explanation to people who don't read 'Toyfare', and I don't feel like doing that
d) it's way out of date, because they call it "Twisted Toyfare Theater" now
e) I don't actually have anything more than the premise
f) someone else has probably already done it, and done it better.
So, with all those caveats, I decided to make it a special early bonus entry. I now present:
Twisted Mi-Go Theater! Wacky hi-jinks ensue, as all your favorite characters from the hellish imagination of H.P. Lovecraft are posed, photographed, and then photoshopped with word balloons involving jokes about poop, sex, and obscure fan-jokes!
I warned you it wasn't good enough to be a real entry...
a) it's probably not funny enough (but when has that stopped me?)
b) it would really require Photoshop to work, and probably toys based on H.P. Lovecraft, and I'm not actually sure if there are any (but of course, there are...there are action figures of everything nowadays...)
c) it requires a lot of explanation to people who don't read 'Toyfare', and I don't feel like doing that
d) it's way out of date, because they call it "Twisted Toyfare Theater" now
e) I don't actually have anything more than the premise
f) someone else has probably already done it, and done it better.
So, with all those caveats, I decided to make it a special early bonus entry. I now present:
Twisted Mi-Go Theater! Wacky hi-jinks ensue, as all your favorite characters from the hellish imagination of H.P. Lovecraft are posed, photographed, and then photoshopped with word balloons involving jokes about poop, sex, and obscure fan-jokes!
I warned you it wasn't good enough to be a real entry...
Thursday, April 26, 2007
ConBestiary #6
Intellect Devourer: I don't actually know what this is, but it's whatever causes people to walk up to guests at cons and ask them where the bathrooms are. I mean, come on, people, he's Marv Wolfman! He wrote 'Crisis on Infinite Earths'! He's not the freaking information booth! Peter David does not know where the dealer's room is, and he probably doesn't care, either! Ask a volunteer, not the man who helped create MAD Magazine! Pretty much every guest is way too nice to tell you this, but it really irritates them, and you can tell if you're paying attention.
I'm just saying, is all.
I'm just saying, is all.
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Gotta Disagree
Despite what the old saw says, I actually think "of all sad words of tongue or pen, the saddest are, 'Oh, no! That bus full of puppies just crashed into that maternity ward!'"
...but I suppose that wouldn't scan very well.
...but I suppose that wouldn't scan very well.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Finn's Limit
I was feeling a little torn on what to write about today, because it seemed like an appropriate time to discuss the Tarantino/Lucas Index...but on reading some discussion about the Don Imus controversy, I felt like it was a better time to discuss Finn's Limit.
Finn's Limit, which is named after the amazing and spectacular Finn Clark (who is hopefully honored and not irritated by my naming this after him) is the point at which any message-board discussion between two or more people with fundamentally opposing points of view ceases to be an exchange of information and opinions and transforms into people repeating themselves in an effort to get in the last word. Finn himself set Finn's Limit at about three posts per person; I named it after him because he never bothered posting more than three times on a topic, figuring if he hadn't convinced the other person by then, he never would.
Internet debates beyond Finn's Limit have interesting sets of behaviors you can almost invariably find if you look for them; for example, a post-Finn's Limit tactic is the Judo Last Word, wherein the person posts that this will be their last post on the subject and that the other person can, if they want, have the last word, because they're no longer worthy of attention. Of course, as soon as the other party responds, they become worthy of attention again.
One question that has yet to be settled is whether or not multiple parties grouped into two camps increases or decreases Finn's Limit; it does, however, undeniably increase the length of discussion beyond Finn's Limit. This "zombie thread" effect occurs when a subset of posters on either side continues the discussion beyond the interest levels of the majority of the posters. People drop out of the discussion, frustrated at their inability to convey their point of view; however, since the discussion continues, they can find themselves dropping back in when a particularly interesting or infuriating point comes up. This, in turn, prompts other people to jump back in, and the discussion continues.
Some long-standing discussion topics permanently pass Finn's Limit; that is to say, even if they die down completely, the next time they're brought up, the exchange will begin beyond Finn's Limit and stay there. A partial list of these topics would have to include "UNIT Dating", "Lives Before Hartnell", and "It's Season Twenty-Seven, Not Season One." (If you're not a Doctor Who fan, you might not understand these references. Count your blessings. If you are a Doctor Who fan, please don't fill the comments section with your personal views on these topics. They're past Finn's Limit.)
Finally, I'll point out the useful aspect of Finn's Limit (because this isn't just a snarky post about message-board forums.) I use Finn's Limit myself, in everyday life--when I've posted three times about something, and I see that the same person who's responded to my post the first three times is disagreeing with it again...I just let it go there. Life's too short to keep talking just to get in the last word. It's frustrating for a minute or two...and then I forget about it.
Finn's Limit, which is named after the amazing and spectacular Finn Clark (who is hopefully honored and not irritated by my naming this after him) is the point at which any message-board discussion between two or more people with fundamentally opposing points of view ceases to be an exchange of information and opinions and transforms into people repeating themselves in an effort to get in the last word. Finn himself set Finn's Limit at about three posts per person; I named it after him because he never bothered posting more than three times on a topic, figuring if he hadn't convinced the other person by then, he never would.
Internet debates beyond Finn's Limit have interesting sets of behaviors you can almost invariably find if you look for them; for example, a post-Finn's Limit tactic is the Judo Last Word, wherein the person posts that this will be their last post on the subject and that the other person can, if they want, have the last word, because they're no longer worthy of attention. Of course, as soon as the other party responds, they become worthy of attention again.
One question that has yet to be settled is whether or not multiple parties grouped into two camps increases or decreases Finn's Limit; it does, however, undeniably increase the length of discussion beyond Finn's Limit. This "zombie thread" effect occurs when a subset of posters on either side continues the discussion beyond the interest levels of the majority of the posters. People drop out of the discussion, frustrated at their inability to convey their point of view; however, since the discussion continues, they can find themselves dropping back in when a particularly interesting or infuriating point comes up. This, in turn, prompts other people to jump back in, and the discussion continues.
Some long-standing discussion topics permanently pass Finn's Limit; that is to say, even if they die down completely, the next time they're brought up, the exchange will begin beyond Finn's Limit and stay there. A partial list of these topics would have to include "UNIT Dating", "Lives Before Hartnell", and "It's Season Twenty-Seven, Not Season One." (If you're not a Doctor Who fan, you might not understand these references. Count your blessings. If you are a Doctor Who fan, please don't fill the comments section with your personal views on these topics. They're past Finn's Limit.)
Finally, I'll point out the useful aspect of Finn's Limit (because this isn't just a snarky post about message-board forums.) I use Finn's Limit myself, in everyday life--when I've posted three times about something, and I see that the same person who's responded to my post the first three times is disagreeing with it again...I just let it go there. Life's too short to keep talking just to get in the last word. It's frustrating for a minute or two...and then I forget about it.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
Meet 'N Greet #2
It's, um, still Thursday, right? (Seriously, yes, I know this is late. Had some stuff to deal with that couldn't wait and took up a good chunk of time. But it's not every day one gets a free car.) So, only two days after it was supposed to be up, the origin of another fabulous super-hero/villain!
Karin Colbert was out jogging in Paragon City one bright spring morning when she had the seeming misfortune to turn down the wrong street at the wrong time. As she rounded the corner, she heard the sounds of chanting, and spotted an eerie green light--all of which stopped as she practically bumped into a group of three men in dark robes, their eyes glowing under the hood.
"So," one of them said, "the prophecy is true! Our ritual has, indeed, been interrupted by the legendary Champion of Light!" He raised his sacrificial dagger. "Speak, mighty Champion! Tell us the name of the hero we are slaying this morning!"
"...eep."
"Very well, Eep, prepare to die!"
Karin flung out a hand, attempting to block the dagger...and was stunned when a mass of whirling cinders flew out from it into the face of the cultist. He collapsed, choking, and the other two cultists quickly fled. The would-be victim stood up, and walked over to her.
"Congratulations, Champion," he said. "From this day forth, your karmic destiny is set. You shall battle evil. You shall fight the darkness. You shall be our Champion of Light. You shall be...EEP!"
"But I don't want to!"
"Too bad. Sucks to be you." And he vanished.
And ever since that fateful day, Karin Colbert has accidentally run into evil wherever she has gone, unwillingly fighting it with magical powers that she doesn't know how to use and doesn't want to, as...EEP!
Karin Colbert was out jogging in Paragon City one bright spring morning when she had the seeming misfortune to turn down the wrong street at the wrong time. As she rounded the corner, she heard the sounds of chanting, and spotted an eerie green light--all of which stopped as she practically bumped into a group of three men in dark robes, their eyes glowing under the hood.
"So," one of them said, "the prophecy is true! Our ritual has, indeed, been interrupted by the legendary Champion of Light!" He raised his sacrificial dagger. "Speak, mighty Champion! Tell us the name of the hero we are slaying this morning!"
"...eep."
"Very well, Eep, prepare to die!"
Karin flung out a hand, attempting to block the dagger...and was stunned when a mass of whirling cinders flew out from it into the face of the cultist. He collapsed, choking, and the other two cultists quickly fled. The would-be victim stood up, and walked over to her.
"Congratulations, Champion," he said. "From this day forth, your karmic destiny is set. You shall battle evil. You shall fight the darkness. You shall be our Champion of Light. You shall be...EEP!"
"But I don't want to!"
"Too bad. Sucks to be you." And he vanished.
And ever since that fateful day, Karin Colbert has accidentally run into evil wherever she has gone, unwillingly fighting it with magical powers that she doesn't know how to use and doesn't want to, as...EEP!
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Support Staff of the Magi
A treat for D&D fans, today: I worked this up as part of a book I did for a game company, but the line it was written for crashed and burned, so I've got two sourcebooks on my hard drive. (If anyone wants to publish them, I do own the rights free and clear, and the books are designed to be stand-alone. And they're, y'know, already done.) In any event, this was one of the magical items in the book, designed to be an artifact for a slightly tongue-in-cheek game...
Support Staff of the Magi: One of the strangest, yet most sought-after items in the Gardener, the support staff of the magi resembles its near-namesake physically. However, in terms of its power, it is very different. Once a character capable of using magic items grasps an inert support staff of the magi (“inert” meaning one whose wielder is dead), the five people with spellcasting abilities nearest to him must immediately make a Willpower saving throw with a DC of 20 or be placed under the thrall of the holder of the staff. If any of these five people succeed at their saving throw, the effect continues to radiate outward until it has ensnared five magic-users.
Once the staff has been activated, the holder can command the mages to cast any spell they are capable of casting. Each spell uses up a number of charges in the staff equal to the level of the spell cast. (Hence, a ninth-level spell uses up nine charges.) The holder commands the mage mentally, meaning that they can use the staff even if they cannot speak. They must maintain a hold on the staff, however, in order to cast spells. (If the wielder lets go of the staff, the mages are not freed—they instead enter a default state, remaining motionless until the staff’s wielder picks it back up.) The staff’s wielder cannot command the mages to do anything other than cast spells; however, they will perform any tasks they are capable of that can help the wielder of the staff, so long as it does not endanger them. This function does not use any charges on the staff.
Wielding the support staff of the magi gives characters a spell resistance of 20; they can, however, voluntarily lower the spell resistance of the staff in order to have it absorb spell levels as per a rod of absorption. This is the only way to recharge the staff. If, however, the number of charges exceeds the maximum the staff can hold (50), the enslaved mages go on a retributive strike, awakening from their trance with a compulsion to kill the person who has held them in thrall. Recharging the staff can be risky, since there’s no way of knowing how many charges it already has or how many levels a spell being cast at the holder will be, but since it is the only way to build charges in the staff, it can sometimes be necessary.
If the staff ever runs out of charges, it loses all its abilities save the ability to absorb spell levels. Any mages held under its thrall return to normal, without any memory of their entrancement or any sort of enmity against the wielder of the staff. As soon as the staff absorbs any spell levels, it will enslave new mages as though it had just been grasped.
If someone tries to take a support staff of the magi away from its holder, they must make a Willpower check with a DC of 25 in addition to their Strength check. Success means that they are now considered to be the wielder of the staff, and the original wielder joins the enslaved mages. Failure means that the would-be thief falls under the spell of the staff, and is subject to its effects. (This is the only way that a holder of a support staff of the magi can increase their following—by hostile takeover.)
Nobody knows who created the few support staffs of the magi in existence, but it’s suspected that a wizard with a fondness for very bad puns is responsible.
Caster Level: 20th; Prerequisites: minor artifact, cannot be duplicated; Weight: 5 lbs.
Support Staff of the Magi: One of the strangest, yet most sought-after items in the Gardener, the support staff of the magi resembles its near-namesake physically. However, in terms of its power, it is very different. Once a character capable of using magic items grasps an inert support staff of the magi (“inert” meaning one whose wielder is dead), the five people with spellcasting abilities nearest to him must immediately make a Willpower saving throw with a DC of 20 or be placed under the thrall of the holder of the staff. If any of these five people succeed at their saving throw, the effect continues to radiate outward until it has ensnared five magic-users.
Once the staff has been activated, the holder can command the mages to cast any spell they are capable of casting. Each spell uses up a number of charges in the staff equal to the level of the spell cast. (Hence, a ninth-level spell uses up nine charges.) The holder commands the mage mentally, meaning that they can use the staff even if they cannot speak. They must maintain a hold on the staff, however, in order to cast spells. (If the wielder lets go of the staff, the mages are not freed—they instead enter a default state, remaining motionless until the staff’s wielder picks it back up.) The staff’s wielder cannot command the mages to do anything other than cast spells; however, they will perform any tasks they are capable of that can help the wielder of the staff, so long as it does not endanger them. This function does not use any charges on the staff.
Wielding the support staff of the magi gives characters a spell resistance of 20; they can, however, voluntarily lower the spell resistance of the staff in order to have it absorb spell levels as per a rod of absorption. This is the only way to recharge the staff. If, however, the number of charges exceeds the maximum the staff can hold (50), the enslaved mages go on a retributive strike, awakening from their trance with a compulsion to kill the person who has held them in thrall. Recharging the staff can be risky, since there’s no way of knowing how many charges it already has or how many levels a spell being cast at the holder will be, but since it is the only way to build charges in the staff, it can sometimes be necessary.
If the staff ever runs out of charges, it loses all its abilities save the ability to absorb spell levels. Any mages held under its thrall return to normal, without any memory of their entrancement or any sort of enmity against the wielder of the staff. As soon as the staff absorbs any spell levels, it will enslave new mages as though it had just been grasped.
If someone tries to take a support staff of the magi away from its holder, they must make a Willpower check with a DC of 25 in addition to their Strength check. Success means that they are now considered to be the wielder of the staff, and the original wielder joins the enslaved mages. Failure means that the would-be thief falls under the spell of the staff, and is subject to its effects. (This is the only way that a holder of a support staff of the magi can increase their following—by hostile takeover.)
Nobody knows who created the few support staffs of the magi in existence, but it’s suspected that a wizard with a fondness for very bad puns is responsible.
Caster Level: 20th; Prerequisites: minor artifact, cannot be duplicated; Weight: 5 lbs.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Iron Man Vs. Dracula
I've been saturating my brain with 'Tomb of Dracula' lately (guess what next week's 'Storytelling Engines' entry is going to be about?) and it occurred to me that it'd be a lot of fun to see Dracula's reaction to the SHRA madness currently running its course in the Marvel Universe. Then it occurred to me that no, really, it would be a lot of fun...and my brain sort of worked out how it would go as a one-shot special. Namely:
The series opens at an abandoned mansion in Boston at dusk, with Iron Man descending on boot-jets outside. He is greeted by a servant, who ushers him into the presence of a slightly gaunt, but very much alive Dracula, Prince of Evil, Ruler of Vampires. "Up until recently," Iron Man says, "I was under the impression you were truly dead. Blade blew up the SHIELD helicarrier where your body was stored, but--"
"Blade did not have time to finish the job," Dracula sneers, "and the cemeteries are filled with men who have thought Dracula truly dead. How did you find me here? The eyes of technology cannot see the vampire."
We cut to the view through Iron Man's eyes, as Dracula appears as a silhouette in his viewscreen. "We tracked reports of vampire activity to this vicinity, and our psy-ops division pinpointed this house as a site of paranormal activity. As to how I'm perceiving you now, my armor is mapping disturbances in the air currents and using them to extrapolate your mass. I'm here to inform you that you, Vlad Dracula, also known as Vlad Tepes, Vlad Tepesch, and Vladimir Drake, that you are in violation of the Super-Human Registration Act, which requires all beings of post-human capabilities to register said abilities with the appropriate governmental body and--"
He's cut off by a hard backhand that sends him sprawling. "You dare make demands of Dracula? I, who have stalked the earth at my pleasure for more than five hundred years? I, who have buried all those who came to slay me?" As he talks, he's slapping a surprised Iron Man around. "I am Dracula. You are mere cattle in my eyes, meat for the slaughter. Do not seek to presume upon me."
After a moment of this, Iron Man recovers and starts fighting back. He's more than Dracula's equal in physical strength, but Dracula is fast, has centuries of battle-savvy, and has shape-shifting abilities. Finally, just when Iron Man seems to be gaining the upper hand, Dracula vanishes altogether. He hears the vampire's voice around him, though. "You see where I am through the movement of the air, my modern-day knight. But how shall you see Dracula...when he becomes insubstantial mist?"
Drac seeps in through Iron Man's atmospheric filters, gathering in his mouth and nose, choking him with the stench of death and worse than death. Barely able to breathe, Iron Man smashes his way out of the mansion and flies west at top speed. Blinded, out of control, he nonetheless chases the embers of the fading sun to the point where they are too bright for Dracula's taste, and the Lord of Vampires retreats. Nonetheless, his mocking laughter resounds in Tony Stark's ears...
Cut to the SHIELD helicarrier, where Iron Man is addressing a team of agents--and Blade, who is a registered super-hero and thus a logical guest-star. "This is who we're dealing with," Iron Man says, delivering a potted history of Dracula for the benefit of people who haven't read 'Essential Tomb of Dracula'. "He's no horror movie--this is the real thing, an honest-to-God vampire with everything that comes with it. Both in terms of strengths...and in terms of weaknesses."
We pan out to a long shot of the helicarrier, which is floating over Dracula's mansion. Dracula comes out to look at the commotion, and even the lord of the undead is shocked at the sheer mass of the floating fortress...and more shocked to see dozens of SHIELD agents, Iron Man, and Blade descend from the skies. He moves to run, but the helicarrier projects a spotlight onto him with a cross dead in its center. The holy symbol saps his strength, forces him to stay in his human shape, and as SHIELD agents surround him armed with stake-guns, he spits impotent curses at them all.
"Last chance," Iron Man says. "You can either register, sign up as a deputized SHIELD agent, and work with us to root out and destroy the vampires you've helped create...or I can give you to Blade here, who's really hoping you choose Option B."
"Never!" shouts Dracula. "Never shall I bow and scrape to a mortal who is nothing more to me than a walking feast!" He looks up to the night skies, using one of the lesser-known vampiric powers...the ability to control the weather. A strong gust shifts the helicarrier just a few feet before its pilot compensates, but that few feet is enough to move the spotlight off of him. Shifting his form into a bat, he flies away, dodging stakes and silver bullets.
Later, in a dark cave, he nurses his wounds and rails at the injustice of having to flee the field of battle. But, he swears, he will not flee again! For he is Dracula, and he has prepared many snares and traps for his enemies over the years...some overt, but some most subtle indeed...
Cut to a few nights later, and a young woman walks through the darkened streets of Boston. She hears a noise, and her footsteps quicken. Then quicken more in dread, as she feels a dread presence behind her. She looks around, sees nothing, but her instincts tell her to run ever quicker. Another glance behind her reveals nothing...
And she runs headlong into Dracula, who waits for her with fangs bared. He leans in for the kill, only to be startled when the woman (one Ms. Carol Danvers) gives him a hard right cross that sends him flying. Infuriated, he charges towards her to give battle.
But just then, one--then many--then dozens of crosses expand out of the very air all around him. Dracula recoils, recoils again, realizing in horror that there is no place to recoil to. At bay, he snarls and bares his fangs...
And Iron Man descends on his boot-jets again. "Miniaturized holographic projectors," he says to the helpless lord of vampires. "They can follow you wherever you go, and if need be, I can deploy over a hundred more. There's no escape for you this time."
Just then, a balding man in a suit approaches. "Mister Tony Stark? AKA Iron Man, Director of SHIELD?" Tony pauses, uncertain, then nods. "Mister Stark, I have here an injunction ordering you to cease and desist all harassment of my client, Mister Tepes, and to immediately and forthwith vacate the whereabouts of his person pending a full and complete investigation of your conduct in this circumstance. The Super-Human Registration Act clearly applies to living beings, of terrestrial and non-terrestrial origin, while my client is equally clearly deceased. As a result, he is not subject to SHIELD jurisdiction as either a citizen or a foreign national." The lawyer hands Iron Man a sheaf of papers. "I think you'll find these are in order."
Iron Man looks them over, then looks up at the lawyer...and through his viewscreen, we see him as we saw Dracula, a silhouette of air currents. "You're a vampire too," Tony Stark snarls. "How do I know you didn't hypnotize the judge into granting you this injunction?"
The lawyer sneers. "An interesting argument, which you can save for your appeal. Rest assured, I have enough grounds for counter-suits to keep this tied up in court until your descendants are ancient."
Iron Man's fists clench. "But he's a mass murderer!"
"Not SHIELD's jurisdiction. Your job is to enforce the SHRA...and since that doesn't apply to my client, unless you want to trample over the laws you killed men to enact, I'd suggest you let it drop."
The holographic crosses fade. Dracula straightens up, dusts off his outfit, and smiles. "It pleased me, Anthony Stark, to best you in the field of battle you chose--the field of rules, and laws. Society's battleground. But I will never forget the insult you dealt to me. Do not sleep easy, man of iron. For one night, I shall come calling on thee..." Dracula fades into mist, and is gone. And even in his insulated armor, Iron Man feels the chill of the grave...
The series opens at an abandoned mansion in Boston at dusk, with Iron Man descending on boot-jets outside. He is greeted by a servant, who ushers him into the presence of a slightly gaunt, but very much alive Dracula, Prince of Evil, Ruler of Vampires. "Up until recently," Iron Man says, "I was under the impression you were truly dead. Blade blew up the SHIELD helicarrier where your body was stored, but--"
"Blade did not have time to finish the job," Dracula sneers, "and the cemeteries are filled with men who have thought Dracula truly dead. How did you find me here? The eyes of technology cannot see the vampire."
We cut to the view through Iron Man's eyes, as Dracula appears as a silhouette in his viewscreen. "We tracked reports of vampire activity to this vicinity, and our psy-ops division pinpointed this house as a site of paranormal activity. As to how I'm perceiving you now, my armor is mapping disturbances in the air currents and using them to extrapolate your mass. I'm here to inform you that you, Vlad Dracula, also known as Vlad Tepes, Vlad Tepesch, and Vladimir Drake, that you are in violation of the Super-Human Registration Act, which requires all beings of post-human capabilities to register said abilities with the appropriate governmental body and--"
He's cut off by a hard backhand that sends him sprawling. "You dare make demands of Dracula? I, who have stalked the earth at my pleasure for more than five hundred years? I, who have buried all those who came to slay me?" As he talks, he's slapping a surprised Iron Man around. "I am Dracula. You are mere cattle in my eyes, meat for the slaughter. Do not seek to presume upon me."
After a moment of this, Iron Man recovers and starts fighting back. He's more than Dracula's equal in physical strength, but Dracula is fast, has centuries of battle-savvy, and has shape-shifting abilities. Finally, just when Iron Man seems to be gaining the upper hand, Dracula vanishes altogether. He hears the vampire's voice around him, though. "You see where I am through the movement of the air, my modern-day knight. But how shall you see Dracula...when he becomes insubstantial mist?"
Drac seeps in through Iron Man's atmospheric filters, gathering in his mouth and nose, choking him with the stench of death and worse than death. Barely able to breathe, Iron Man smashes his way out of the mansion and flies west at top speed. Blinded, out of control, he nonetheless chases the embers of the fading sun to the point where they are too bright for Dracula's taste, and the Lord of Vampires retreats. Nonetheless, his mocking laughter resounds in Tony Stark's ears...
Cut to the SHIELD helicarrier, where Iron Man is addressing a team of agents--and Blade, who is a registered super-hero and thus a logical guest-star. "This is who we're dealing with," Iron Man says, delivering a potted history of Dracula for the benefit of people who haven't read 'Essential Tomb of Dracula'. "He's no horror movie--this is the real thing, an honest-to-God vampire with everything that comes with it. Both in terms of strengths...and in terms of weaknesses."
We pan out to a long shot of the helicarrier, which is floating over Dracula's mansion. Dracula comes out to look at the commotion, and even the lord of the undead is shocked at the sheer mass of the floating fortress...and more shocked to see dozens of SHIELD agents, Iron Man, and Blade descend from the skies. He moves to run, but the helicarrier projects a spotlight onto him with a cross dead in its center. The holy symbol saps his strength, forces him to stay in his human shape, and as SHIELD agents surround him armed with stake-guns, he spits impotent curses at them all.
"Last chance," Iron Man says. "You can either register, sign up as a deputized SHIELD agent, and work with us to root out and destroy the vampires you've helped create...or I can give you to Blade here, who's really hoping you choose Option B."
"Never!" shouts Dracula. "Never shall I bow and scrape to a mortal who is nothing more to me than a walking feast!" He looks up to the night skies, using one of the lesser-known vampiric powers...the ability to control the weather. A strong gust shifts the helicarrier just a few feet before its pilot compensates, but that few feet is enough to move the spotlight off of him. Shifting his form into a bat, he flies away, dodging stakes and silver bullets.
Later, in a dark cave, he nurses his wounds and rails at the injustice of having to flee the field of battle. But, he swears, he will not flee again! For he is Dracula, and he has prepared many snares and traps for his enemies over the years...some overt, but some most subtle indeed...
Cut to a few nights later, and a young woman walks through the darkened streets of Boston. She hears a noise, and her footsteps quicken. Then quicken more in dread, as she feels a dread presence behind her. She looks around, sees nothing, but her instincts tell her to run ever quicker. Another glance behind her reveals nothing...
And she runs headlong into Dracula, who waits for her with fangs bared. He leans in for the kill, only to be startled when the woman (one Ms. Carol Danvers) gives him a hard right cross that sends him flying. Infuriated, he charges towards her to give battle.
But just then, one--then many--then dozens of crosses expand out of the very air all around him. Dracula recoils, recoils again, realizing in horror that there is no place to recoil to. At bay, he snarls and bares his fangs...
And Iron Man descends on his boot-jets again. "Miniaturized holographic projectors," he says to the helpless lord of vampires. "They can follow you wherever you go, and if need be, I can deploy over a hundred more. There's no escape for you this time."
Just then, a balding man in a suit approaches. "Mister Tony Stark? AKA Iron Man, Director of SHIELD?" Tony pauses, uncertain, then nods. "Mister Stark, I have here an injunction ordering you to cease and desist all harassment of my client, Mister Tepes, and to immediately and forthwith vacate the whereabouts of his person pending a full and complete investigation of your conduct in this circumstance. The Super-Human Registration Act clearly applies to living beings, of terrestrial and non-terrestrial origin, while my client is equally clearly deceased. As a result, he is not subject to SHIELD jurisdiction as either a citizen or a foreign national." The lawyer hands Iron Man a sheaf of papers. "I think you'll find these are in order."
Iron Man looks them over, then looks up at the lawyer...and through his viewscreen, we see him as we saw Dracula, a silhouette of air currents. "You're a vampire too," Tony Stark snarls. "How do I know you didn't hypnotize the judge into granting you this injunction?"
The lawyer sneers. "An interesting argument, which you can save for your appeal. Rest assured, I have enough grounds for counter-suits to keep this tied up in court until your descendants are ancient."
Iron Man's fists clench. "But he's a mass murderer!"
"Not SHIELD's jurisdiction. Your job is to enforce the SHRA...and since that doesn't apply to my client, unless you want to trample over the laws you killed men to enact, I'd suggest you let it drop."
The holographic crosses fade. Dracula straightens up, dusts off his outfit, and smiles. "It pleased me, Anthony Stark, to best you in the field of battle you chose--the field of rules, and laws. Society's battleground. But I will never forget the insult you dealt to me. Do not sleep easy, man of iron. For one night, I shall come calling on thee..." Dracula fades into mist, and is gone. And even in his insulated armor, Iron Man feels the chill of the grave...
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Special Guest Bloggers
Katherine Grace Henry and Cordelia Faith Henry, Official Youngest Nieces to Fraggmented!
They don't say much, but if a picture was ever worth a thousand words...
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Torso Cut In Half (7)
As you may or may not have noticed, I recently went through the archives of this blog and labeled everything. I've got "crazy ideas", "depressing geek thoughts", "muppets", "zombies", et cetera et cetera et cetera. This is a relatively new technology, but it's proliferating at an alarming rate.
How alarming? When I went to do this entry (it was originally going to be a "bad movie lines" entry, but I couldn't find the quote), I looked on imdb.com for the relevant bad movie line. I didn't find it, but I did find that the movie in question had the plot keywords, among others, "shot in the stomach", "bitten in the throat", "exploding building", and bizarrely enough, "unisex bathroom". Clicking on "bitten in the throat", I find that there are dozens of related keywords, including "brain eating", "kicked in the face", "sister sister relationship", and, of course, "torso cut in half".
And I thought it was hard work coming up with labels for my posts. Who has the job of deciding whether a movie features "throat slitting" or "stabbed in the throat", and how many anti-depressants do they take each day?
How alarming? When I went to do this entry (it was originally going to be a "bad movie lines" entry, but I couldn't find the quote), I looked on imdb.com for the relevant bad movie line. I didn't find it, but I did find that the movie in question had the plot keywords, among others, "shot in the stomach", "bitten in the throat", "exploding building", and bizarrely enough, "unisex bathroom". Clicking on "bitten in the throat", I find that there are dozens of related keywords, including "brain eating", "kicked in the face", "sister sister relationship", and, of course, "torso cut in half".
And I thought it was hard work coming up with labels for my posts. Who has the job of deciding whether a movie features "throat slitting" or "stabbed in the throat", and how many anti-depressants do they take each day?
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Review: 300
Hunh. So that's what it'd be like if 'Fox News' taught Ancient History.
Or, to be less facetious, I understand that Hollywood distorts historical accounts to make for a more interesting story. I did not walk into the film '300' expecting an accurate account of the early days of the war between Greece and Persia, and of the Battle of Thermopylae. But there are distortions and there are distortions, and I did not walk into that movie expecting to see an account whose distortions were systematically performed to make the history conform to a right-wing political agenda.
'300' turns the war into a culture clash between the decadent, liberal Persians (Xerxes looks like he stepped off the float at a Pride march, has a harem of bisexual women, and in one scene stands behind the butch Leonidas, puts his hands on his shoulders, and tells him, "Kneel before me and I will give you everything.") and the moral, upright, tough and conservative Spartans (the historical record of Spartan culture isn't just brushed under the rug, it's nailed under the carpet. Spartans in this film mock and condemn "adulterers" and "boy-lovers", two practices which historians believe were common-place and accepted in Sparta, and they frequently talk about how they're "free men", equating Persia with slavery and slavery with evil. Nobody ever seems to ask who tends the crops in Sparta.) Through the film's imagery, the Persians are equated with deformity, deformity is equated with decadence, and decadence is subtly equated with liberalism.
The contributions of the other city-states of Greece are downplayed into non-existence; in '300', Leonidas is a king who alone among his people has the foresight to spot the need for a war, and when the cowardly and decadent Senate refuses to fund his troops, he's forced to go off alone without the men and equipment he needs, dooming him to failure. (This is, of course, not so much a distortion of history as a cut-and-paste replacement of it with the current conservative view of the present day.) The pre-eminent anti-war Senator turns out to be a traitor in the pay of the Persians, and is stabbed on the floor of the Senate by Laura Bu--errr, Queen Gorgo.
And, of course, we get the conservative refrain that the military culture is "better" than the civilian culture; the volunteer forces that accompany the Spartans are shown as less worthy, less courageous, and ultimately cut and run when the going gets tough--the historical records say differently, but who needs history when you've got an agenda? And, in the end, we're shown how Leonidas' heroism inspired the Spartans to amass a huge army to finally destroy the evil Persians and end the threat they posed to America. (Sparta, sorry. I'm so bad at this.) The fact that Persia is, in essence, modern-day Iran should perhaps worry anyone who wants to read into the symbology of all this. We don't see the final battle, but of course, we know how it has to end...after all, the Persians lost, right?
They did, in fact. In a decisive naval battle. To the Athenian navy. (You know, the "philosophers and boy-lovers" the Spartans made fun of at the beginning.) But apart from that, it fits the right-wing philosophy perfectly.
Or, to be less facetious, I understand that Hollywood distorts historical accounts to make for a more interesting story. I did not walk into the film '300' expecting an accurate account of the early days of the war between Greece and Persia, and of the Battle of Thermopylae. But there are distortions and there are distortions, and I did not walk into that movie expecting to see an account whose distortions were systematically performed to make the history conform to a right-wing political agenda.
'300' turns the war into a culture clash between the decadent, liberal Persians (Xerxes looks like he stepped off the float at a Pride march, has a harem of bisexual women, and in one scene stands behind the butch Leonidas, puts his hands on his shoulders, and tells him, "Kneel before me and I will give you everything.") and the moral, upright, tough and conservative Spartans (the historical record of Spartan culture isn't just brushed under the rug, it's nailed under the carpet. Spartans in this film mock and condemn "adulterers" and "boy-lovers", two practices which historians believe were common-place and accepted in Sparta, and they frequently talk about how they're "free men", equating Persia with slavery and slavery with evil. Nobody ever seems to ask who tends the crops in Sparta.) Through the film's imagery, the Persians are equated with deformity, deformity is equated with decadence, and decadence is subtly equated with liberalism.
The contributions of the other city-states of Greece are downplayed into non-existence; in '300', Leonidas is a king who alone among his people has the foresight to spot the need for a war, and when the cowardly and decadent Senate refuses to fund his troops, he's forced to go off alone without the men and equipment he needs, dooming him to failure. (This is, of course, not so much a distortion of history as a cut-and-paste replacement of it with the current conservative view of the present day.) The pre-eminent anti-war Senator turns out to be a traitor in the pay of the Persians, and is stabbed on the floor of the Senate by Laura Bu--errr, Queen Gorgo.
And, of course, we get the conservative refrain that the military culture is "better" than the civilian culture; the volunteer forces that accompany the Spartans are shown as less worthy, less courageous, and ultimately cut and run when the going gets tough--the historical records say differently, but who needs history when you've got an agenda? And, in the end, we're shown how Leonidas' heroism inspired the Spartans to amass a huge army to finally destroy the evil Persians and end the threat they posed to America. (Sparta, sorry. I'm so bad at this.) The fact that Persia is, in essence, modern-day Iran should perhaps worry anyone who wants to read into the symbology of all this. We don't see the final battle, but of course, we know how it has to end...after all, the Persians lost, right?
They did, in fact. In a decisive naval battle. To the Athenian navy. (You know, the "philosophers and boy-lovers" the Spartans made fun of at the beginning.) But apart from that, it fits the right-wing philosophy perfectly.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
ConBestiary #5
Grumbling Banshee: As far as cryptozoologists can determine, these creatures are close cousins to the banshee (spectralis amplificus). Unlike the legendary banshee, who predicts death with its loud, discordant shrieks, the grumbling banshee appears at conventions to predict discord, irritability, and lack of sleep. It floats, bodiless, into hotel rooms and lets out a series of low, growling rumbles, letting the inhabitants of the room know that they're in for a difficult night and an irritating morning of arguments about who's a loud snorer.
Cryptozoologists have tried explaining the concept of the "self-fulfilling prophecy" to grumbling banshees, but they apparently don't have the conceptual framework for it.
Cryptozoologists have tried explaining the concept of the "self-fulfilling prophecy" to grumbling banshees, but they apparently don't have the conceptual framework for it.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
An Open Letter To Marvel Comics
Dear Marvel,
My name is John Seavey, and for a long time, I've been a customer of your company. Since I was a small child, I've been purchasing Marvel's brand of periodical publications, and I've come to associate the 'Marvel' logo with a certain quality, and more importantly, a certain identity in entertainment. Much as I expect to see light-hearted family entertainment when I watch a Disney film, I've come to expect that when I pick up a Marvel comic, I can be assured of upbeat, family-oriented, fast-paced adventure stories. You've published books in a wide variety of genres, something I admire and respect, but I've always felt that Marvel knew what its strengths were and played to them well. You've almost always done an excellent job in shaping a solid stable of continuing characters, and choosing writers and artists who publish new stories in keeping with the tone and ethos of your publishing history.
Recently, though, you seem to have forgotten what your customers are looking for--a fact that isn't simply dissatisfying, but actively worrying to me as a consumer. Your writers (and more worryingly, your editors) seem to be more interested in indulging their own personal whims than in maintaining a stable of characters and stories that have a long-term publishing future; the recent 'Civil War' storyline is a perfect example, in which both Iron Man and Captain America, two of your flagship characters, were portrayed in a light so unsympathetic that I have difficulty imagining myself wanting to read about them in future. Perhaps this was an interesting individual story, but was it really worth trading on the brand identity Marvel has spent so much time and money to establish?
Your company has worked very hard in associating its trademarks and logos with certain expectations; indeed, in an industry where "hot" writers and artists come and go, these expectations are the only thing of real, permanent value you have. When you sell a comic that I, as a consumer, expect to be "upbeat family enterainment", and when I read it, it's "bleak, depressing adult storytelling", you are essentially using my goodwill as a consumer to line your pockets. This is not to say that I do not read adult stories, or that I have no stomach for thought-provoking tales. But if that is what I wanted, I know where I can find it. I purchased your comic in good faith based on expectations you have worked hard to establish; if you're unwilling to live up to those expectations, you should not be surprised to see your consumer base shrink.
Goodwill is not available in an unlimited supply, nor is its supply predictable. What causes a sales spike now (out of belief in your company's future performance, buying habit, or simple morbid curiosity) will not last indefinitely; I can't predict exactly when or how, but I guarantee you, if you continue to neglect the publishing ethos that made Marvel a success, your company will founder. And, due to its position, it may well take an entire industry with it, a tragedy nobody wants. Marvel should tell the stories it's best at, not the stories that the "writer of the week" is most interested in.
I'm not going to conclude this with a statement like, "I'll never read Marvel again!" I will continue to read the comics that I enjoy, those that live up to my expectations of Marvel comics as a brand and as a company (such as your 'Marvel Adventures' line, or your collections of archived material). But the "Marvel Universe," the flagship line of publications you have worked so hard to nurture over the decades, is traveling in a direction that I have no interest in, and that I do not wish to spend money on...and unfortunately for you, I consider myself to be a reasonable barometer of customer opinion. Perhaps you are telling the stories that you want to tell right now. But at this rate, you might not have anyone left to tell them to.
My name is John Seavey, and for a long time, I've been a customer of your company. Since I was a small child, I've been purchasing Marvel's brand of periodical publications, and I've come to associate the 'Marvel' logo with a certain quality, and more importantly, a certain identity in entertainment. Much as I expect to see light-hearted family entertainment when I watch a Disney film, I've come to expect that when I pick up a Marvel comic, I can be assured of upbeat, family-oriented, fast-paced adventure stories. You've published books in a wide variety of genres, something I admire and respect, but I've always felt that Marvel knew what its strengths were and played to them well. You've almost always done an excellent job in shaping a solid stable of continuing characters, and choosing writers and artists who publish new stories in keeping with the tone and ethos of your publishing history.
Recently, though, you seem to have forgotten what your customers are looking for--a fact that isn't simply dissatisfying, but actively worrying to me as a consumer. Your writers (and more worryingly, your editors) seem to be more interested in indulging their own personal whims than in maintaining a stable of characters and stories that have a long-term publishing future; the recent 'Civil War' storyline is a perfect example, in which both Iron Man and Captain America, two of your flagship characters, were portrayed in a light so unsympathetic that I have difficulty imagining myself wanting to read about them in future. Perhaps this was an interesting individual story, but was it really worth trading on the brand identity Marvel has spent so much time and money to establish?
Your company has worked very hard in associating its trademarks and logos with certain expectations; indeed, in an industry where "hot" writers and artists come and go, these expectations are the only thing of real, permanent value you have. When you sell a comic that I, as a consumer, expect to be "upbeat family enterainment", and when I read it, it's "bleak, depressing adult storytelling", you are essentially using my goodwill as a consumer to line your pockets. This is not to say that I do not read adult stories, or that I have no stomach for thought-provoking tales. But if that is what I wanted, I know where I can find it. I purchased your comic in good faith based on expectations you have worked hard to establish; if you're unwilling to live up to those expectations, you should not be surprised to see your consumer base shrink.
Goodwill is not available in an unlimited supply, nor is its supply predictable. What causes a sales spike now (out of belief in your company's future performance, buying habit, or simple morbid curiosity) will not last indefinitely; I can't predict exactly when or how, but I guarantee you, if you continue to neglect the publishing ethos that made Marvel a success, your company will founder. And, due to its position, it may well take an entire industry with it, a tragedy nobody wants. Marvel should tell the stories it's best at, not the stories that the "writer of the week" is most interested in.
I'm not going to conclude this with a statement like, "I'll never read Marvel again!" I will continue to read the comics that I enjoy, those that live up to my expectations of Marvel comics as a brand and as a company (such as your 'Marvel Adventures' line, or your collections of archived material). But the "Marvel Universe," the flagship line of publications you have worked so hard to nurture over the decades, is traveling in a direction that I have no interest in, and that I do not wish to spend money on...and unfortunately for you, I consider myself to be a reasonable barometer of customer opinion. Perhaps you are telling the stories that you want to tell right now. But at this rate, you might not have anyone left to tell them to.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Post-Civil War Predictions
So, the dust has settled, the smoke has cleared, and the Civil War is over. Captain America is in prison, Iron Man is in charge of SHIELD (and by extension, every super-human in the United States), and Registration is the law of the land! Huzzah...wait a second, doesn't that kind of seem like a depressing ending? And doesn't it kind of mean that the entire seven issues were a complete waste of time? Oh, well. It sold, right?
So now the obvious question is, "What happens next?" Here it is, my absolute infallible predictions on the future of the Marvel Universe post-Civil War.
Within five issues, Captain America will either break out or be broken out of the Negative Zone prison. Probably, he'll be the "new Ronin" they're talking about in the pages of 'New Avengers', since the "take up a temporary identity" gimmick is one they've done before for Cap, and it makes a certain amount of sense; he doesn't want to restart the big war, and Cap's a big, tangible symbol of the Resistance. But he's obviously not going to stay in prison for long, because he's got his own series.
Within two years, it will be revealed that Iron Man is either mind controlled, an impostor, or just plain went insane. It will be further revealed that he orchestrated the explosion at Stamford, CT (by maneuvering either the heroes, the villains, or both into that spot) to create the furor that pushed the SHRA into law, all to consolidate super-heroes under his personal control. There'll be another big crossover, Iron Man will be defeated, and the SHRA will be repealed now that everyone sees how dangerous it is to give so much power to one man.
Within five years, there will be a tremendously unconvincing storyline in which Peter Parker pulls a scam to make everyone think that the revelation of Spider-Man's identity was, in turn, a scam; everyone will believe this new scam hook, line, and sinker, allowing Peter to return to his old job at the Daily Bugle.
Within seven years, if Tony Stark was revealed to have just plain gone insane, it will at this time be revealed that he was either mind controlled or an impostor all along, and the real/normal Tony Stark will come back as Iron Man.
Within ten years, Aunt May will be back from the dead, if she was in fact fatally wounded and not just wounded at the end of the latest issue of Spider-Man.
In other words, my prediction for 'Civil War'? In ten years, it'll be as if none of it ever happened. Because there's either two options here. Either one, this is Act One of a grander story that will end with a return to the status quo, or two, Marvel's editorial staff has just made a colossal mistake that they will spend the next decade burying.
You decide!
So now the obvious question is, "What happens next?" Here it is, my absolute infallible predictions on the future of the Marvel Universe post-Civil War.
Within five issues, Captain America will either break out or be broken out of the Negative Zone prison. Probably, he'll be the "new Ronin" they're talking about in the pages of 'New Avengers', since the "take up a temporary identity" gimmick is one they've done before for Cap, and it makes a certain amount of sense; he doesn't want to restart the big war, and Cap's a big, tangible symbol of the Resistance. But he's obviously not going to stay in prison for long, because he's got his own series.
Within two years, it will be revealed that Iron Man is either mind controlled, an impostor, or just plain went insane. It will be further revealed that he orchestrated the explosion at Stamford, CT (by maneuvering either the heroes, the villains, or both into that spot) to create the furor that pushed the SHRA into law, all to consolidate super-heroes under his personal control. There'll be another big crossover, Iron Man will be defeated, and the SHRA will be repealed now that everyone sees how dangerous it is to give so much power to one man.
Within five years, there will be a tremendously unconvincing storyline in which Peter Parker pulls a scam to make everyone think that the revelation of Spider-Man's identity was, in turn, a scam; everyone will believe this new scam hook, line, and sinker, allowing Peter to return to his old job at the Daily Bugle.
Within seven years, if Tony Stark was revealed to have just plain gone insane, it will at this time be revealed that he was either mind controlled or an impostor all along, and the real/normal Tony Stark will come back as Iron Man.
Within ten years, Aunt May will be back from the dead, if she was in fact fatally wounded and not just wounded at the end of the latest issue of Spider-Man.
In other words, my prediction for 'Civil War'? In ten years, it'll be as if none of it ever happened. Because there's either two options here. Either one, this is Act One of a grander story that will end with a return to the status quo, or two, Marvel's editorial staff has just made a colossal mistake that they will spend the next decade burying.
You decide!
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