Nothing Left To Do But Parade

Personally? I hold Phantom Lad responsible for this mess.

Okay, so that's not really fair. Big deal. BIG FREAKIN' DEAL! I'm in no mood to be "fair" right now.

And besides... as annoying as that phony hipster was back when I was pretending to be a "straight arrow" imaginary twin brother to my legendarily bad-ass self, and he looked on me with total disdain... well, he's only gotten more irritating now that everybody knows who I really am. Because now Phantom Lad is my biggest fan. He's always hanging around my desk, asking me if I need more space-java, or a new pad of holo-notes, or even *shudder* a foot-rub. GAH. Anything I say, he immediately agrees with, aggressively. Even combatively. And I'm pretty sure he's stalking me. He tried to rummage through my garbage the other night, but luckily Storm Boy was already there, searching for used undershirts. And I've tried screaming at him and threatening his very life having a rational discussion with him, but all he does is nod real intensely and say, "Yes, Blockade Boy, of course, you're absolutely right, Blockade Boy" and then the next thing I know he's hanging over my shoulder again. Balls. And he's gotten even scruffier, which I normally would enjoy, but all that extra hair and beard is just making look even more like the Rob Zombie rip-off he is. And just like one of Rob Zombie's movie characters, his first love is the sound of his own voice, and he just won't shut the fuck up! Granted, he's mostly talking about how incredibly awesome I am, but that actually gets tiresome after awhile. Oh, and he smells. At least he lost that tattered glow-in-the-dark cape. Presumably because the damn thing finally rotted away.

Okay.

So what happened was this:

Phantom Lad, Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and I all had to come into work today, even though it's it's "Co-Dependence Day" on Lallor, and most everything is closed. Except liquor stores, and armories. Over at Eyeful Ethel's Detective Agency (Featuring Blockade Boy) we were the "skeleton crew", I guess. I had to be there because I'm the assistant manager or somethin', and Storm Boy had to be there because Lallor's customary radioactive heat waves tend to cause brown-outs and he's the only guy who can restart the computers. And Phantom Lad and Posture Queen both had to be there even though they're both receptionists, because Eyeful Ethel is making them train as "junior detectives" to increase efficiency. So yeah, the four of us were the only ones in the office, and we were already kind of pissed-off about being there. And I was also pissed off because of some recent personal troubles:

• I tried this new Lallorian tanning method that involves submitting one's body to a barrage of intense cosmic radiation, since that's the only way I can get UV rays to penetrate my dense pelt of sexy, sexy body hair. (And no, I'm not going to shave the hair off and then get a tan and then let the hair grow back! What kind of sick idea is that?!) So anyway, I now have a handsome -- one might even call it "glowing" -- tan, but my DNA has been damaged to the extent that I've lost most of my shape-shifting powers. It's back to just plain ol' steel walls for me! Dang it.
• Meanwhile, my sixteen-legged cat, Cootie, is exhibiting even more powers! This started a few months ago, when she displayed a "paralysis ray" power, kind of like Rainbow Girl has. Now, Cootie has something like sixteen different super-powers. That's one for each leg! And she's gotten hyper as hell, running all over the place, destroying my (manly) knick-knacks with freeze-breath, blobs of inky ectoplasm, and mind-controlled hobos. Also, she's peeing all over everything.
• My press-agent has stopped returning my calls, probably because I've started losing endorsement deals left and right, probably because my signature style has become so popular, a good 70% of all brawny, hairy guys now look just like me. If you refine that sampling to include only the brawny, hairy guys who are my boyfriends, the number jumps to around 92%. Which is at least three-hundred people!

So yeah, I was in a foul mood to begin with, and when I showed up at work, the place was like a dimly-lit oven, because, y'know, no power. And both Phantom Lad and Posture Queen were crammed behind the reception desk, arguing about who cares what, and then Phantom Lad spotted me and about killed himself scrambling over the desk like some kind of broken-legged spider, and one of his big dumb feet knocked the computer terminal flying and it busted into a thousand pieces, and then Posture Queen was pissed at Phantom Lad for breaking it, and Storm Boy was pissed at Phantom Lad because now he had to fix it, and I was pissed at Phantom Lad because... well, because he was goddman Phantom Lad, and that was good enough for me. (Have I mentioned that for all his unwavering devotion, he still won't divulge the nature of this mysterious "extra job" that Frigid Queen once alluded to? He said, "Naw, man, I can't tell you that! You'd lose all respect for me!" And I said, "I assure you, that's impossible." But he still won't breathe a word about it. Which, of course, just makes me want to know about it even more.) So anyway, about an hour passed in total silence, because nobody called, because it's a freakin' holiday, and nobody said a word, because they were all seriously bitter about even being there, and apparently Phantom Lad couldn't stand the tension anymore because he suddenly yelped, "YOU KNOW WHAT WE NEED?! SOME MARCHING!"

Storm Boy and Posture Queen looked at him like he had lost his space-marbles, but I was intrigued. I mean, you all know how much I love marching! And Phantom Lad started doing this crazy high-stepping march, with his gangly, withered limbs flying all over the place. "C'MON, PEOPLE!" he barked, with forced gaiety. "LET'S HAVE OURSELVES A GOOD OL' AMADAN-STYLE MARCH, LIKE BRIGADIER BLOCKADE DID ON THE DECK OF THE H.M.S. EXQUISITE!" He started humming "Cum On Feel the Noize" -- which is my homeworld's planetary anthem -- and maybe it was my patriotism, or maybe I was just moved by the sight of Phantom Lad's flop-sweat, but I hopped up from my desk and started marching around, behind Phantom Lad! He beamed grungily at me and said, "Oh, no, after you! Of course!" And I grinned and said, "Don't mind if I do!" and I took my place at the head of the parade. The two of us did a couple of turns around the office. On our second pass, I heard Storm Boy mutter, "That does kinda look like fun," and then he inserted himself in line between Phantom Lad and me. Posture Queen gaped at us as we marched past the reception desk, and I didn't think she was going to join in. But I guess she gets turned on by the sight of erect spines, because she wound up shoving Phantom Lad out of the way and getting in line behind Storm Boy. I could feel myself really getting into it -- being a natural leader, I guess -- and after a final circle of the office, I booted the door open and led everyone down the frozen escalator and out into the streets!

"Wait, where are we even going?" laughed Storm Boy.

Without even a trace of mirth in my voice, I bellowed, "TO THE MUSIC STORE!"

When we got close to the local music shop, I used my force gauntlets to pry the door open, so we could march inside without even pausing. Stomping about the empty store, we grabbed instruments off the shelves. I nabbed a bass guitar, Storm Boy took the most phallic clarinet he could lay his mouth on, Posture Queen grandly commandeered a "marching harp" (which is like a regular harp but with wheels on it), and Phantom "Maynard G. Krebs" Lad helped himself to a set of bongos. I slapped a big wedge of space-cheddah on the counter, pinwheeled my arm to strum the first chord of "Ace of Spades", and led my impromptu band out the door.

YEAH, boy-ee, it was one kick-ass parade! I could tell that Lallor's usual milling half-wits and vagrants had never seen such a sight before. I marched us to the center of town and right down Beast Boy Memorial Boulevard. People were practically tumbling out of their hovels (or maybe they were pushed) to join us! Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and Phantom Lad wordlessly formed themselves into a single rank, three people across, and the newcomers followed suit. I was still in front, moving with the measured, unstoppable ferocity of a Khundian mail carrier. I entered a kind of fugue state, where my only thought was "MARCH MARCH MARCH" and from what the other three have told me, they were kind of swept up into my mania, as well. I pushed us relentlessly onward, never looking back. I could hear the swelling sounds of the parade as it developed behind us. People sang along with us as we performed numerous inspirational marches, like "Cat Scratch Fever" and "Back in Black" and "Tush." After a while, there were so many voices that it all blended into an articulate roar. The road ahead reflected brilliant flashes of colored light, and the scent of gunpowder teased my nostrils. My mind dimly registered this as "fireworks."

And then the blazing husk of a hover-bike whizzed over my head and slammed into the pavement, not eight feet away from me.

I looked back.

And so, presumably for the first time, did Storm Boy, Posture Queen, and Phantom Lad.

We were speechless. Well, except for Storm Boy, who made a pathetic little gurgling sound.

What we had thought was a harmless (if lively) parade, was -- in reality -- a full-scale riot. It turned out that the native marchers were all drunk off their asses and armed to the teeth, and quite disgruntled. They looted luxury boutiques, overturned hover-cars (which takes a lot of work, believe me, on account of the internal gyroscopes) and generally set fire to everything they could. In the distance, Lallor's brutish police force was tussling with a group of people who were hollering "Revolution! Revolution!" Another, smaller group shouted "Anarchy! Anarchy!" and toddled about in random patterns.

Simultaneously, all four of our Omnicoms buzzed.

It was Eyeful Ethel.

"Congratulations, numb-nuts," she said. "You're all fired."

The Tinytanic (by disgruntled guest-blogger, Gadfly Lad)

Sure, make the Bgztlian do all the work. And the Protean doesn't even get to sit in the boat! It has to swim alongside. Unless, maybe it's in training for the Space-Olympics...?

It's me, again. Gadfly Lad. I'm not blogging because Storm Boy asked me to. In fact, he's stopped asking me to!

Let me back up.

I guess I should have realized that if Storm Boy was going to ask me to guest-blog, that he might actually read what I wrote. He called me into his office -- by which, I mean Eyeful Ethel's -- to chew me out over my "insubordination." He demanded to know why I didn't respect him. (And that's the hallmark of an effective manager, double-eyeroll.) So I told him! I said that while I respected his scientific genius, I thought he was a disaster as a leader. I started to give him what I'm sure would have been only between 6.8852 and 7.0023 minutes of explanation for this, but he only let me get to the 1.7304 minute mark before he interrupted me. He shouted, "I ONCE RAN A MULTI-BILLION-CHEDDAH COMPANY!"

And I said, "Yeah, INTO THE GROUND!"

And then he fired my ass. That's right!

I told him I was planning on quitting, anyway. (Confession time: I totally wasn't, you guys. But that's just between us.) Dentata Damsel poked her head through the door and murmured that she was quitting, too, since she'd gotten an offer to (subliminally) narrate a new line of "better sex" holo-vids from Paramount-Universo. Out of sheer spite, I snatched up a big stack of Storm Boy's comics off his desk (YOINK!) and I buzzed out the door. Storm Boy's sole remaining employee is now Frigid Queen, and she spends most of her time macking on and/or pummeling Phantom Lad. It gets hard to tell the difference, sometimes. Not that I'm any expert, mind you. But I'm pretty sure a lady wouldn't like it if I punched her in the boob.

...Hang on. I just heard the buzzer go off on the sonic clothes-tumbler.

Okay. Let's see, here... spare costume (all warm from the clothes-tumbler!), three cans of concentrated space-java, one pack of soylent jerkey, polymer underpants, road flare, my super-disguise kit... and I'm good.

Screw this nonsense!

I'm gonna find Blockade Boy.

Tomorrow in this spot: who the hell knows anymore?

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

It started with the "tattoos."

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

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

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

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

So I take off my glasses.

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

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

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

(I felt so gross, you guys.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Check me out, bitches!

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

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