I first fell in with Black October in college. It was the next-to-last year of my doctoral program and, as usual, I was ridiculously drunk at the little beer bar near the university. I was the next thing to completely pissed on imported, Belgian ale bought with grant money. It wasn't common to see superpowers back then; it's not common today, I supposed, but it seems like it because of media inundation. Nevertheless, everyone regarded it as a possibility, the same way people who live in the bad parts of towns regard drive-by shootings as a possibility. The majority of Compton's residents have never been accosted and brutalized by gang members; the news, Hollywood and rap might have you believe otherwise.
Even so, my first thought when I saw the hulking mass bent over the girl at the bus stop wasn't, there's a superhuman over there. It was more like, that big guy is getting up to some kind of fuckery with that passed-out girl. Alcohol makes heroes of us all, so I made my way over to investigate. I want to stress, I didn't seriously think anything would happen, even on a mundane scale. I thought, at most, the appearance of another conscious person on the scene would force the overly desperate homeless man or overly amorous frat guy to move along. When I judged myself in hearing range, I cleared my throat. When the man didn't move, I shuffled closer and asked, "What's going on there, Guy?" I would have liked a more dramatic opening phrase, but I didn't know what the night had planned.
When the thing turned to face me I remember thinking, "He's unfortunately ugly." Then its features clicked into place in my mind. The darkness covering its body was not clothing, but rough fur; the sloping belly, cast iron muscle rather than a beer gut. It's protruding lips pulled back over pointed, curving teeth. The sodium vapor streetlight cast just enough illumination to give the blood on its teeth a red, fresh-strawberries, hue.
Before my body could react, before my mind registered anything but shock, the carnivorous ape had me. One of its great hands clamped down over my shoulder and it lifted me into the air. I am not a little guy. It roared; reverb fed through a child's nightmare. The sound split the world. Tears ran down my face in rivers. My teeth vibrated. Its breath smelled like burning metal and onions. My stomach turned and, bizarrely, I thought a quick prayer to Jesus, asking not to throw up. I hate throwing up.
I kicked out with both feet, steel toed boots catching in the thick muscle of the ape's abdomen. I may as well have been a struggling puppy.
That's when I heard someone call out. I found out later the word was Chimeran, though my buzzing ears translated it to "Cimmerian". The word filled me with an irrational kind of hope. If a monstrosity from a Robert E. Howard story had appeared in the city streets to murder me, why wouldn't Conan the Barbarian appear to save me.
My shoulder dislocated as the ape slammed me into the cement sidewalk next to the bus stop's wire bench. The ground felt sticky, like I'd landed in drying fruit preserves; the girl's congealing blood. Looking up, I saw the baseball size chunks of flesh torn from her upper arm and right breast. It roared again. This time, I heard mad rage in its howl, clearly distinct from the dominance challenge moments before. It feels important to note that there's no way I could know its intent with each roar. I don't know anything about animal behavior beyond what everyone who has cable picks up from National Geographic or Animal Planet; more like something inside me, a holdout from before we ruined the world with carbon emissions and reality TV, caught the ape's intention and bowed down before it.
I tried to sit up, ended up on an elbow, trying to process what had happened through the haze of 9% beers and a likely concussion. That's when I saw the angel. I know, for some, that's a term of endearment or a flowery description of a pretty girl. That's not what I'm going for here. I saw a figure, in the absolute physical prime of his youth, untamed hair blowing in a breeze I couldn't feel; and the glow. He shined, not brightly enough to hurt the eyes, but enough to warrant the descriptor luminous, like looking at the full moon on a clear night.
The gorilla charged in a kind of graceful shamble that ended in a swipe with one forepaw and successive kicks with his feet. All three passed through the glowing man as if he were a hologram in a science fiction movie, his whole visage flickering and going unsteady. He then sidestepped, extended an arm, reaching into the carnivorous ape's barrel chest, and jerked, as if pulling the handle of a slot machine. The monster's legs gave out and it fell back on its haunches, breathing heavily, stunned.
The glowing man walked to me and knelt. He spoke, but by then the adrenaline that had been keeping me conscious was starting to run out. The last thing I remember before waking up in the private room of that same local beer bar, was placing the black, orange and yellow of his uniform. Black October.
Terrorists, huh?
Cheers,
-B.H.
Sunday, April 14, 2013
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Who Are Black October?
Pop-culture superheroes, the ones that get hours of coverage on the superhero entertainment "news" networks, don't have an agenda. That's poorly phrased; I know this one or that one backs such and such charity, or represents this institution which conducts research about this terrible disease. What I mean to say is, pop-culture superheroes don't have deeply personal, exclusive-to-them agendas. They do good works and that should be admired. But people with true visionary mindsets are, mostly, too abrasive to consistently make the kind of fluffy, feelgood news that is the staple of entertainment televisions.
Terrorist organizations, by contrast, are characterized by fanatical devotion to their agendas. Their agendas are not always clearly defined, or even sane, but it's that single-minded drive to impose their will, fight for freedom, whatever, that pushes them to commit atrocities.
So, what about Black October? The news--major news networks, not the entertainment variety--frequently paints them as a bogeyman. They are a favorite topic for alarmists along all points of the political spectrum and, if everyone is to be believed, they are responsible for everything from various economic crises, to plagues, to wars, to the largest ongoing bill for property destruction the world has ever seen. I don't put much credit in alarmists. In fact, that's an understatement. I feel active animosity for alarmists; especially ones with political agendas. For them, terrorism is a buzzword, the ultimate scare tactic, and Black October consistently tops the chart on their doomsday countdown.
Assuming my previous statement is correct, terrorists are defined by their causes, then I'm confused as to the validity of the claim that Black October is a terrorist organization. They've been known to steal resources from every first world country on the map, regardless of political inclination. They've never attacked a holy site of any of the world's major religions, or even made a religious statement. Come to think of it, since accepting the responsibility for the flu pandemic immediately following WWI, they haven't made a single public statement; even at that time they made no demands, it was more of a blanket apology.
For those of you who forgot your high school history, World War I was bad: 37 million casualties, civilian and military. The superflu that followed took around a hundred million. At the time, that was about 5% of the world's population. 5%, that's one out of every twenty people dead.
Most people have heard that Black October was somehow linked to the outbreak. Some consider this everyday conspiracy-theory trash. Some consider it solemn truth and think it reason enough to hate the organization no matter what they stand for.
This hardline hatred doesn't make sense though. No nation, religion, ethnic group or political preference was wholly safe from the massive viral outbreak.
Scholars, buffs and fanatics on the subject have all heard of a supposed "black gene" and even a connection to the sunken city of Atlantis.
There's too much here for a single article. All articles this month, therefore, will be directed toward a single goal: telling the Black October story, and trying not to get killed for doing so.
Cheers,
-B.H.
So, what about Black October? The news--major news networks, not the entertainment variety--frequently paints them as a bogeyman. They are a favorite topic for alarmists along all points of the political spectrum and, if everyone is to be believed, they are responsible for everything from various economic crises, to plagues, to wars, to the largest ongoing bill for property destruction the world has ever seen. I don't put much credit in alarmists. In fact, that's an understatement. I feel active animosity for alarmists; especially ones with political agendas. For them, terrorism is a buzzword, the ultimate scare tactic, and Black October consistently tops the chart on their doomsday countdown.
Assuming my previous statement is correct, terrorists are defined by their causes, then I'm confused as to the validity of the claim that Black October is a terrorist organization. They've been known to steal resources from every first world country on the map, regardless of political inclination. They've never attacked a holy site of any of the world's major religions, or even made a religious statement. Come to think of it, since accepting the responsibility for the flu pandemic immediately following WWI, they haven't made a single public statement; even at that time they made no demands, it was more of a blanket apology.
For those of you who forgot your high school history, World War I was bad: 37 million casualties, civilian and military. The superflu that followed took around a hundred million. At the time, that was about 5% of the world's population. 5%, that's one out of every twenty people dead.
Most people have heard that Black October was somehow linked to the outbreak. Some consider this everyday conspiracy-theory trash. Some consider it solemn truth and think it reason enough to hate the organization no matter what they stand for.
This hardline hatred doesn't make sense though. No nation, religion, ethnic group or political preference was wholly safe from the massive viral outbreak.
Scholars, buffs and fanatics on the subject have all heard of a supposed "black gene" and even a connection to the sunken city of Atlantis.
There's too much here for a single article. All articles this month, therefore, will be directed toward a single goal: telling the Black October story, and trying not to get killed for doing so.
Cheers,
-B.H.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Jesus, a Superhero?
People assume superheroes didn't exist before the so called Dawn of the Superhumans a few years back. Is that the case? I suppose that depends on how reliable you consider mythology. Look at Iktomi, a culture hero of the Lakota people. Some stories have him as a giant spider, others as a man, but all credit him with the ability to shapeshift; fluidly, almost beautifully. Look at Hercules, whose legendary strength is the inspiration for not one, but six current day crimefighters.
In honor of the Holiday, let's take a look at some of the best-known superhuman stories worldwide: the old and new testaments. Stories from these pages have been co-opted by all the Abrahamic religions; Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Because of the Catholic church's insistence that miracles must be verified, they serve as the best documented source of superhuman exploits outside the modern fad of superhumans as entertainment.
St. Francis of Assisi proselytized to animals. Speaking with animals is a superpower. St. Lucy's eyes were gouged out. They grew back. Regeneration is a superpower. Healing the wounds of others, curing disease, these are all superpowers. Are all the saints superheroes? Why would anyone argue the fact? Because their power is subsidized by an outside source? If that's the case then any superhero who got his shtick from government tech, ancient magic or alien experimentation is in the same boat.
So then, what's left but to talk about the big guy? Let's leave His superhuman charisma out of the equation. Water to wine? Transmutation. Superpower. Healing the masses, lepers or the insane? Superpower. Calming the storm? Weather manipulation. Superpower. Raising the dead? Creepy, but a superpower nonetheless. Loves and fishes? Multiplication. Superpower. Self-resurrection/Immortality/Astral Projection? Whatever happened three days after His death, it was a superpower. Let's not forget Jesus appearing in several places, mostly in people's homes without using anything so mundane as a door after coming back from the dead. Teleportation? Insubstantiality? Both superpowers.
That's one character from one of the world's major religions. Superheroic feats abound in religious texts. People discounts these figures because religion is no longer en vogue. Today's superhumans though, are endorsed by the mass media which, tragically, lends them increased credibility.
Think about that while you're scarfing your chocolate eggs on a holiday named after an old Norse goddess celebrating the return of the Christian god.
Cheers,
-B.H.
In honor of the Holiday, let's take a look at some of the best-known superhuman stories worldwide: the old and new testaments. Stories from these pages have been co-opted by all the Abrahamic religions; Judaism, Christianity and Islam. Because of the Catholic church's insistence that miracles must be verified, they serve as the best documented source of superhuman exploits outside the modern fad of superhumans as entertainment.
St. Francis of Assisi proselytized to animals. Speaking with animals is a superpower. St. Lucy's eyes were gouged out. They grew back. Regeneration is a superpower. Healing the wounds of others, curing disease, these are all superpowers. Are all the saints superheroes? Why would anyone argue the fact? Because their power is subsidized by an outside source? If that's the case then any superhero who got his shtick from government tech, ancient magic or alien experimentation is in the same boat.
So then, what's left but to talk about the big guy? Let's leave His superhuman charisma out of the equation. Water to wine? Transmutation. Superpower. Healing the masses, lepers or the insane? Superpower. Calming the storm? Weather manipulation. Superpower. Raising the dead? Creepy, but a superpower nonetheless. Loves and fishes? Multiplication. Superpower. Self-resurrection/Immortality/Astral Projection? Whatever happened three days after His death, it was a superpower. Let's not forget Jesus appearing in several places, mostly in people's homes without using anything so mundane as a door after coming back from the dead. Teleportation? Insubstantiality? Both superpowers.
That's one character from one of the world's major religions. Superheroic feats abound in religious texts. People discounts these figures because religion is no longer en vogue. Today's superhumans though, are endorsed by the mass media which, tragically, lends them increased credibility.
Think about that while you're scarfing your chocolate eggs on a holiday named after an old Norse goddess celebrating the return of the Christian god.
Cheers,
-B.H.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Beware the Walkin' Dude
The lack of imagination when it comes to some superhero and supervillain names is troubling to me. The Walkin' Dude however, named after Stephen King's most insidious character, got his moniker from the man himself.
The author, supposedly, opened the paper one morning, in a little cafe he frequents in Maine; after reading the headline story concerning a supervillain's casual violence, disregard for life and propensity for manipulating people, he quoted himself saying, "Beware the Walkin' Dude." It caught on.
The Walkin' Dude started off calling himself Deception. Ominous and mysterious, I suppose, but it lacks character. A good handle, like a good costume, gives a hint at the character it represents. I guess the best example of this is The Icon who stands out in a crowd, is constantly in the public eye and strives to set the example for all other superheroes. A terrible example is Michael & Collins, the college kid and his magic dog who, whether they know it or not, owe their name to one of the most famous faces of the movement for Irish independence in the early 1900s. Tangent. Apologies.
The Walkin' Dude is heartless, using others to perpetuate his violence. Much like Charles Manson, he turns folks into devotees using charisma and incredible personal magnitude, then he convinces them to commit atrocities, seemingly for no other reason than to watch them play out. Stabbings, fathers murdering their wives and children, abductions, shooting sprees; these are all the handiwork of one sadistic man.
Also, the Walkin' Dude walks. He's been caught a handful of times, but literally walks out of prison a short time later, after convincing the guards, medical staff or warden that he shouldn't be behind bars. From there, he's untraceable. The Walkin' Dude can't be tracked by credit cards because he doesn't fly. He walks.
Imagine the life: walking from cheap motel to cheap motel, sitting down for a thirty-minute conversation with the desk clerk, turning him into a personal thrall, convincing them to put you up in an empty room for a night, the way you might a favorite uncle.
Imagine the magnitude. The Walkin' Dude walks, from one end of America to the other, from small town to small town, infecting Joe Sixpack with his wormy ideas, leaving them to go about their lives, like sleeper agents, until the time comes for...what?
Imagine the process. The Walkin' Dude's victims haven't been mind-wiped by magic or technology. They haven't had a Khan-style bug dropped in their collective ear. They've been convinced by a sit-down tet-a-tet with a very genial, very friendly psychopath.
Next time you see a down-on-his-luck college kid with his thumb out, think twice before giving him a lift and, for God's sake and for your own, beware the Walkin' Dude.
Cheers,
-B.H.
The author, supposedly, opened the paper one morning, in a little cafe he frequents in Maine; after reading the headline story concerning a supervillain's casual violence, disregard for life and propensity for manipulating people, he quoted himself saying, "Beware the Walkin' Dude." It caught on.
The Walkin' Dude started off calling himself Deception. Ominous and mysterious, I suppose, but it lacks character. A good handle, like a good costume, gives a hint at the character it represents. I guess the best example of this is The Icon who stands out in a crowd, is constantly in the public eye and strives to set the example for all other superheroes. A terrible example is Michael & Collins, the college kid and his magic dog who, whether they know it or not, owe their name to one of the most famous faces of the movement for Irish independence in the early 1900s. Tangent. Apologies.
The Walkin' Dude is heartless, using others to perpetuate his violence. Much like Charles Manson, he turns folks into devotees using charisma and incredible personal magnitude, then he convinces them to commit atrocities, seemingly for no other reason than to watch them play out. Stabbings, fathers murdering their wives and children, abductions, shooting sprees; these are all the handiwork of one sadistic man.
Also, the Walkin' Dude walks. He's been caught a handful of times, but literally walks out of prison a short time later, after convincing the guards, medical staff or warden that he shouldn't be behind bars. From there, he's untraceable. The Walkin' Dude can't be tracked by credit cards because he doesn't fly. He walks.
Imagine the life: walking from cheap motel to cheap motel, sitting down for a thirty-minute conversation with the desk clerk, turning him into a personal thrall, convincing them to put you up in an empty room for a night, the way you might a favorite uncle.
Imagine the magnitude. The Walkin' Dude walks, from one end of America to the other, from small town to small town, infecting Joe Sixpack with his wormy ideas, leaving them to go about their lives, like sleeper agents, until the time comes for...what?
Imagine the process. The Walkin' Dude's victims haven't been mind-wiped by magic or technology. They haven't had a Khan-style bug dropped in their collective ear. They've been convinced by a sit-down tet-a-tet with a very genial, very friendly psychopath.
Next time you see a down-on-his-luck college kid with his thumb out, think twice before giving him a lift and, for God's sake and for your own, beware the Walkin' Dude.
Cheers,
-B.H.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
The Return of Dr. Perry Quantum
If I had to invent some sort of character archetype for Dr. Perry Quantum,--by all accounts his real name-- I'd label him a two-fisted scientist, or an adroit bruiser, or something equally oxymoronic. He's a man who can truly, only be defined by contradictions.
After obtaining advanced degrees in Chemistry and Genetics, Dr. Quantum turned his superhuman intelligence and charisma toward extensive research and experiments, and gaining funding for extensive research and experiments respectively. His goal? Wish fulfillment.
Like every other boy who grows up in a first- or second-world country, Dr. Perry Quantum went through a superhero phase. He just never grew out of it. Is it coincidence his "big breakthrough" came around the same time the first real life superhumans began showing up in the headlines? Of course not. Coincidence and superpowers don't broadcast on the same frequency.
Just days after he revealed his super-serums to the public, he walks out of the rubble of a collapsed building, an ambulatory statue in a white lab coat, holding an 8-year-old girls in his arms. The picture won some kind of award from Time Magazine; little girl, curly blond pigtails blowing in a dusty breeze, clinging to this stone man who doesn't even feel the weight of her on one arm, the ruin of a collapsed brownstone behind them.
Dr. Perry makes the news again this week as a man calls himself The Druid, a hobo with the ability to manipulate plants, attempted to terrorize Boston Common. Dr. Perry appeared on the scene within seconds, of course. It must save on time, not having to cover a secret identity. The superhuman branch of the Entertainment channel caught the best footage: Dr. Quantum, surrounded by tree's out of J.R.R. Tolkien's worst nightmares, pulls a syringe from his coat pocket, jabs it into his arm and depresses the plunger with his thumb, not even rolling up the sleeves of his signature lab coat.
Dr. Quantum combusts, and he is encased in flame; simultaneously, he rises six inches off the ground. Branches flail at him, but they erupt in red fire and turn to ash before they can touch his skin. The hero lowers his hand imperiously at monstrous tree after monstrous tree, gouts of flame shooting from his fingertips.
The battle ended in minutes. Dr. Perry Quantum, socially conscious as he is, forced "The Druid" to right the trees he'd uprooted, healing the damage from the Dr.'s own fire. He's not a crazy hippie. I'll vouch for him.
Look. I'm no scientist. I'm a journalist. But, I passed all the basics. Dr. Perry Quantum injects himself with one of his super serums and his skin turns to unbreakable stone. He uses another and he's sheathed in fire. Am I willing to believe this is a miracle of science? Yes. In his stone form, his coat gets ripped and torn, in a very dramatic fashion. In his fire form, his lab coat never burns. Am I willing to believe that's science beyond my ken? Hardly.
Why not? I'm not sure. I went to college in a different age--before the dawn of the superhumans. I witnessed their birth. My mind has been able to adapt to things people of other times just wouldn't have been able to handle. But there's something about seeing that brilliant white lab coat, pristine like a flag, not burning to cinders as the world burns around it, that makes my mind say, "No, that's not scientifically possible". Scientifically.
There are more things on Heaven and Earth, Horatio...
All I'm saying is, Dr. Perry, maybe it's you, not the super serums.
Cheers,
-B.H.
After obtaining advanced degrees in Chemistry and Genetics, Dr. Quantum turned his superhuman intelligence and charisma toward extensive research and experiments, and gaining funding for extensive research and experiments respectively. His goal? Wish fulfillment.
Like every other boy who grows up in a first- or second-world country, Dr. Perry Quantum went through a superhero phase. He just never grew out of it. Is it coincidence his "big breakthrough" came around the same time the first real life superhumans began showing up in the headlines? Of course not. Coincidence and superpowers don't broadcast on the same frequency.
Just days after he revealed his super-serums to the public, he walks out of the rubble of a collapsed building, an ambulatory statue in a white lab coat, holding an 8-year-old girls in his arms. The picture won some kind of award from Time Magazine; little girl, curly blond pigtails blowing in a dusty breeze, clinging to this stone man who doesn't even feel the weight of her on one arm, the ruin of a collapsed brownstone behind them.
Dr. Perry makes the news again this week as a man calls himself The Druid, a hobo with the ability to manipulate plants, attempted to terrorize Boston Common. Dr. Perry appeared on the scene within seconds, of course. It must save on time, not having to cover a secret identity. The superhuman branch of the Entertainment channel caught the best footage: Dr. Quantum, surrounded by tree's out of J.R.R. Tolkien's worst nightmares, pulls a syringe from his coat pocket, jabs it into his arm and depresses the plunger with his thumb, not even rolling up the sleeves of his signature lab coat.
Dr. Quantum combusts, and he is encased in flame; simultaneously, he rises six inches off the ground. Branches flail at him, but they erupt in red fire and turn to ash before they can touch his skin. The hero lowers his hand imperiously at monstrous tree after monstrous tree, gouts of flame shooting from his fingertips.
The battle ended in minutes. Dr. Perry Quantum, socially conscious as he is, forced "The Druid" to right the trees he'd uprooted, healing the damage from the Dr.'s own fire. He's not a crazy hippie. I'll vouch for him.
Look. I'm no scientist. I'm a journalist. But, I passed all the basics. Dr. Perry Quantum injects himself with one of his super serums and his skin turns to unbreakable stone. He uses another and he's sheathed in fire. Am I willing to believe this is a miracle of science? Yes. In his stone form, his coat gets ripped and torn, in a very dramatic fashion. In his fire form, his lab coat never burns. Am I willing to believe that's science beyond my ken? Hardly.
Why not? I'm not sure. I went to college in a different age--before the dawn of the superhumans. I witnessed their birth. My mind has been able to adapt to things people of other times just wouldn't have been able to handle. But there's something about seeing that brilliant white lab coat, pristine like a flag, not burning to cinders as the world burns around it, that makes my mind say, "No, that's not scientifically possible". Scientifically.
There are more things on Heaven and Earth, Horatio...
All I'm saying is, Dr. Perry, maybe it's you, not the super serums.
Cheers,
-B.H.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
The Great Equalizer
How do underpowered superheroes stay in business?
By "business" I, essentially, mean alive. Time and again, we see underpowered superheroes-- acrobats, martial artists, soldiers-- with enough moxie and grit to keep them in the game when their "peers" with the ability to fly and shoot lasers, or manipulate the elements have been taken out of the fight.
For my money, the perfect case study is the partnership between The Icon and the enigmatic Kasey Jones.
We all know The Icon. He is, forgive me, iconic. He flies. His flesh is invulnerable. He hurls blasts of electricity from his hands like a Greek god, or at least an early 90s video game character.
Chances are you know Kasey as well. She's the one who blatantly stole her identity from a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles character; Raphael #1, 1985. (Note- this may be incorrect, as I refuse to fact-check my Ninja Turtles trivia as a matter of pride. If I'm wrong, leave a note in the comments column). Kasey's unique twist is, instead of a hulking master of stealth and violence, she's female master of stealth and violence. She has a great body, scantily covered by Kung-Fu pants and a sleeveless shirt that refuses to cover her belly-button. Even with the ever-present hockey mask, she's a frequent character in the fantasies of young men whose proclivities run toward capes and crime fighting. True to character, she even shouts "Goongala" before bashing in her opponents face.
We've seen these two fight side by side at least a dozen times on the national news, more if you follow any of the superhuman television/radio/magazines, or if you read web-based superhero-related news outlets, which you do.
Kasey has no apparent superpowers, unless creating a baseball bat focused martial art is a superpower. She's faster than a normal human. But so is every Olympic runner. She's strong for a woman her size and weight, but not impossibly so. Her perception may be a little quicker than everyone else's, but she isn't clairvoyant. She has an edge, but one that comes through strict training, not superpowers.
Theories abound on how she manages to stay on the same relative powerlevel as heroes like The Icon: cybernetic implants, unconscious use of fate/probability manipulation, drugs, she's faking not having powers. But my favorite explanation is this: she's good.
I don't mean to say she's skilled, which she is. I mean that she is a genuinely good person. Before you get your feathers ruffled, let me say this: we all know genuinely good people. None of them dance around with belly shirts, beating invading aliens bloody with a Louisville Slugger. Ask yourself this. How many of the truly good people you know have the drive to truly make a difference? Do they? Make a difference I mean. The ones who do probably lead community organizations, feed the poor, direct neighborhood watch groups, volunteer their time caring for the sick and dying. They're real heroes. Now, imagine they had the drive to help the world on a large scale. You end up with one of the true greats; Gandhi or Mother Teresa. Now, imagine this hypothetical person's skill set tended toward war instead of peace. Make her a beautiful woman, with a warrior princess's body. Put a hockey mask on her. You get my point.
What am I implying? That our homegrown heroes, our pugilists and vigilantes who choose to go toe-to-toe against villains dangerously above their power level, are some variety of warrior saints? Well, yes.
I believe that God, or the Universe or Karma or Whatever, smiles on these people for what they do and for their dedication to a righteous cause. I won't presume to guess who is responsible. That's not my place. But I will tip my hat and say thankya to whomever it is. Don't believe me? That's fine. We live in a world of secret hideouts and death rays, giant robots and power blasts. Today's headline the Tribune was about a dog who can wreathe himself in flame or turn into stone because he is infused with the elemental energies of creation. You'll forgive me a little indulgence in the fantastic.
Cheers,
-B.H.
By "business" I, essentially, mean alive. Time and again, we see underpowered superheroes-- acrobats, martial artists, soldiers-- with enough moxie and grit to keep them in the game when their "peers" with the ability to fly and shoot lasers, or manipulate the elements have been taken out of the fight.
For my money, the perfect case study is the partnership between The Icon and the enigmatic Kasey Jones.
We all know The Icon. He is, forgive me, iconic. He flies. His flesh is invulnerable. He hurls blasts of electricity from his hands like a Greek god, or at least an early 90s video game character.
Chances are you know Kasey as well. She's the one who blatantly stole her identity from a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles character; Raphael #1, 1985. (Note- this may be incorrect, as I refuse to fact-check my Ninja Turtles trivia as a matter of pride. If I'm wrong, leave a note in the comments column). Kasey's unique twist is, instead of a hulking master of stealth and violence, she's female master of stealth and violence. She has a great body, scantily covered by Kung-Fu pants and a sleeveless shirt that refuses to cover her belly-button. Even with the ever-present hockey mask, she's a frequent character in the fantasies of young men whose proclivities run toward capes and crime fighting. True to character, she even shouts "Goongala" before bashing in her opponents face.
We've seen these two fight side by side at least a dozen times on the national news, more if you follow any of the superhuman television/radio/magazines, or if you read web-based superhero-related news outlets, which you do.
Kasey has no apparent superpowers, unless creating a baseball bat focused martial art is a superpower. She's faster than a normal human. But so is every Olympic runner. She's strong for a woman her size and weight, but not impossibly so. Her perception may be a little quicker than everyone else's, but she isn't clairvoyant. She has an edge, but one that comes through strict training, not superpowers.
Theories abound on how she manages to stay on the same relative powerlevel as heroes like The Icon: cybernetic implants, unconscious use of fate/probability manipulation, drugs, she's faking not having powers. But my favorite explanation is this: she's good.
I don't mean to say she's skilled, which she is. I mean that she is a genuinely good person. Before you get your feathers ruffled, let me say this: we all know genuinely good people. None of them dance around with belly shirts, beating invading aliens bloody with a Louisville Slugger. Ask yourself this. How many of the truly good people you know have the drive to truly make a difference? Do they? Make a difference I mean. The ones who do probably lead community organizations, feed the poor, direct neighborhood watch groups, volunteer their time caring for the sick and dying. They're real heroes. Now, imagine they had the drive to help the world on a large scale. You end up with one of the true greats; Gandhi or Mother Teresa. Now, imagine this hypothetical person's skill set tended toward war instead of peace. Make her a beautiful woman, with a warrior princess's body. Put a hockey mask on her. You get my point.
What am I implying? That our homegrown heroes, our pugilists and vigilantes who choose to go toe-to-toe against villains dangerously above their power level, are some variety of warrior saints? Well, yes.
I believe that God, or the Universe or Karma or Whatever, smiles on these people for what they do and for their dedication to a righteous cause. I won't presume to guess who is responsible. That's not my place. But I will tip my hat and say thankya to whomever it is. Don't believe me? That's fine. We live in a world of secret hideouts and death rays, giant robots and power blasts. Today's headline the Tribune was about a dog who can wreathe himself in flame or turn into stone because he is infused with the elemental energies of creation. You'll forgive me a little indulgence in the fantastic.
Cheers,
-B.H.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
King and Fool
These two boggle my mind.
If you recall the early days of superherodom, you might remember King of Diamonds and Jack of Hearts, a vaguely Medieval-, oddly casino-themed crimefighting duo. The former wielded a, supposedly, diamond sword and exerted some power over light, refracting multicolored beams that sometimes burned like Star Wars lasers. The latter, a sharp-tongued acrobat with the ability to slow down time, but only in a subjective way. I heard him explain it once like this: he could project a short range field, very short range, one or two others at his personal best, which dragged his personal timeline to a crawl. This allowed him to move, to his perception, through a quiet, stop-motion world. While to others it looked like he moved at super speed.
Though their power suites put them in the same league as any of the heavyweights, their personalities kept them in the minor leagues and, today, exiles them to a league of their own.
The first breakup came when a then-unknown journalist wrote a story on the two and incorrectly labeled Jack a "sidekick". King of Diamonds refused to publicly correct the error and Jack of Hearts went his own way. The two faded into near obscurity.
Three months pass. A new team of villains appear on the scene: a gun maniac sporting a big black spade on his chest and calling himself Ace and a thug named Jack wielding, predictably, a club. The two appeared to be interested in nothing more than inflicting property damage in New Mexico. There is a media cry for help and King and Jack appear on the scene, dressed in sleek new costumes, to save the day.
The second breakup came a little under a year later when the same journalist, still less famous than he deserves, breaks a story exposing the King of Diamonds as the man who financed the two low-level goons in New Mexico. King tries to justify his actions with a lengthy Internet video in which he is clearly on some kind of amphetamine.
From there, the two decide to embark on solo careers. The Jack of Hearts takes up his former partner's sword, puts on a cape and cap, and restyles himself Jack the Giant Killer, using his time manipulation powers to mimic the mythical character's enchanted shoes, said to grant him inhuman speed. At the same time, the King of Diamonds rebrands himself, I shudder, The King. His white jumpsuit, bedazzled with rhinestones, becomes the central focus of his light-based powers.
These personas fall apart, thankfully, and the parade of names and identities continues. A greatest hits collection would feature Jack, now an anxty anti-hero ala James Dean calling himself Jack Frost and King sporting a scepter and crown, calling himself King Solomon and claiming his powers came from God. He spent much of his time in this phase fighting skinheads in Boston whom he claimed, erroneously, were antisemitic.
The final paradigm shift came when King went rogue (ha) and kidnapped a B-list actress from her billion-dollar wedding to a, much older, A-list director. King declared himself the Crimson King and decreed he was claiming the right of Prima Nocte. Several heroes showed up to right the situation but nobody knew where to look for the odd and erratic King.
Enter Jack, dressed now as a classic jester, his patchwork motley sewn together from the cast-away costumes of his all his former personas. He, apparently, counter-kidnaps the young damsel and returns her to her big-league fiance. Cameras are already rolling. Jack launches into this piecemeal soliloquy, not much more than word salad, declaring he, "Had been a Fool and was thusly-justly to be called." It isn't minutes before the Crimson King appears and battle commences. Red lasers fly. "Fool" hops madly around, all the while shouting esoteric taunts and calling his former partner "Nuncle".
The battle ends in a standstill.
To this day, the two appear sporadically and duke it out in public. To the rest of us, it seems as though King spends all his time trying to pull one over on Jack and Jack bides his time until the next game. God only knows what it looks like to them.
They remind me of the worlds most dysfunctional marriage.
Wasted potential.
Cheers,
-B.H.
If you recall the early days of superherodom, you might remember King of Diamonds and Jack of Hearts, a vaguely Medieval-, oddly casino-themed crimefighting duo. The former wielded a, supposedly, diamond sword and exerted some power over light, refracting multicolored beams that sometimes burned like Star Wars lasers. The latter, a sharp-tongued acrobat with the ability to slow down time, but only in a subjective way. I heard him explain it once like this: he could project a short range field, very short range, one or two others at his personal best, which dragged his personal timeline to a crawl. This allowed him to move, to his perception, through a quiet, stop-motion world. While to others it looked like he moved at super speed.
Though their power suites put them in the same league as any of the heavyweights, their personalities kept them in the minor leagues and, today, exiles them to a league of their own.
The first breakup came when a then-unknown journalist wrote a story on the two and incorrectly labeled Jack a "sidekick". King of Diamonds refused to publicly correct the error and Jack of Hearts went his own way. The two faded into near obscurity.
Three months pass. A new team of villains appear on the scene: a gun maniac sporting a big black spade on his chest and calling himself Ace and a thug named Jack wielding, predictably, a club. The two appeared to be interested in nothing more than inflicting property damage in New Mexico. There is a media cry for help and King and Jack appear on the scene, dressed in sleek new costumes, to save the day.
The second breakup came a little under a year later when the same journalist, still less famous than he deserves, breaks a story exposing the King of Diamonds as the man who financed the two low-level goons in New Mexico. King tries to justify his actions with a lengthy Internet video in which he is clearly on some kind of amphetamine.
From there, the two decide to embark on solo careers. The Jack of Hearts takes up his former partner's sword, puts on a cape and cap, and restyles himself Jack the Giant Killer, using his time manipulation powers to mimic the mythical character's enchanted shoes, said to grant him inhuman speed. At the same time, the King of Diamonds rebrands himself, I shudder, The King. His white jumpsuit, bedazzled with rhinestones, becomes the central focus of his light-based powers.
These personas fall apart, thankfully, and the parade of names and identities continues. A greatest hits collection would feature Jack, now an anxty anti-hero ala James Dean calling himself Jack Frost and King sporting a scepter and crown, calling himself King Solomon and claiming his powers came from God. He spent much of his time in this phase fighting skinheads in Boston whom he claimed, erroneously, were antisemitic.
The final paradigm shift came when King went rogue (ha) and kidnapped a B-list actress from her billion-dollar wedding to a, much older, A-list director. King declared himself the Crimson King and decreed he was claiming the right of Prima Nocte. Several heroes showed up to right the situation but nobody knew where to look for the odd and erratic King.
Enter Jack, dressed now as a classic jester, his patchwork motley sewn together from the cast-away costumes of his all his former personas. He, apparently, counter-kidnaps the young damsel and returns her to her big-league fiance. Cameras are already rolling. Jack launches into this piecemeal soliloquy, not much more than word salad, declaring he, "Had been a Fool and was thusly-justly to be called." It isn't minutes before the Crimson King appears and battle commences. Red lasers fly. "Fool" hops madly around, all the while shouting esoteric taunts and calling his former partner "Nuncle".
The battle ends in a standstill.
To this day, the two appear sporadically and duke it out in public. To the rest of us, it seems as though King spends all his time trying to pull one over on Jack and Jack bides his time until the next game. God only knows what it looks like to them.
They remind me of the worlds most dysfunctional marriage.
Wasted potential.
Cheers,
-B.H.
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