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Saturday, August 26, 2023

Space Hero Saturdays DRIFT MARLO: SPACE DETECTIVE "Case #1: File of the Periled 'Peace-Maker' " Part 1

Not the first comic character to be called "Space Detective"...
...but Drift Marlo was the first one to be set in the present (1962), not the future!
...and so does the "alien" Drift encountered!
Coincidence?
You'll have to wait until next week to find out!
Plus: we'll present background info on our all-but-forgotten stellar shamus!
But for now, we will tell you this tale is from Dell's Drift Marlo #1 (1962), written by Phil Evans and illustrated by Tom Cooke.
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Friday, August 25, 2023

Friday Fun HILLBILLY COMICS "Mountain Music"

As Oliver Anthony ("Rich Men North of Richmond") is discovering...
...the Trumpettes who are pretending to enjoy country music because they belive it embodies their "ideals" (such as they are) really have no idea about what they're listening to!

Written and illustrated by Art Gates, this tale from Charlton's Hillbilly Comics #1 (1955) was part of a brief trend in comic books during the Li'l Abner series' greatest popularity in the mid-1950s!

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Thursday, August 24, 2023

THE SHADOW: DESTINATION MOON Chapter 16

You can read the previous chapter HERE!
16
In the ornate office of J. Wesley Bryan, the small man in the wheelchair waited expectantly.
The door opened and Dr. Max Ernest entered. The Research Chief of Federal hurried across the office to where his boss waited. He handed Bryan the envelope.

“There it is, CYPHER’s full plan for subsequent operations.”

“Good,” the crippled scientific genius said, and he wheeled his chair around in a circle and waved his small hands toward the left wall of the office.

The entire wall had slid back to reveal a giant television screen. The television was on, and the picture was a large-screen picture of the giant rocket in the hidden valley on the far side of the mountain! Even as Max Ernest turned to look, vehicles moved away from the mammoth launching pad and the rocket stood alone with its umbilical attached to the tall gantry. J. Wesley Bryan’s eyes were bright with a kind of fever as he stared at the picture on the giant screen.

“There, Max! There it is! Almost the end—or the beginning! Yes, the beginning of our glory!

Only minutes, Max! Think of it! All our work, the years, the plans, the schemes and now only minutes and we will be the first men on the Moon!”

Max Ernest stared at the screen with his boss. The Research Chief licked his lips as he watched. J. Wesley Bryan almost cackled with his excitement.

“Absolute certainty! The Moon will be ours!”

“Yes,” Max Ernest said. “It cannot fail. We have made it foolproof—with the help of our unsuspecting friends.”

Ernest laughed. Bryan cackled with joy. A voice suddenly spoke from the screen.

“Fifteen minutes and holding. Final communication check. All systems ‘go’ for on-time launch.”

Suddenly, in the silent office where the two men stared at the screen and the giant rocket solitary on its night launching pad on the far side of the mountain, there was a sharp buzzing sound. Bryan jerked alert. The electronic genius pressed a button on his desk. Instantly the door became transparent and Bryan and Ernest saw the figure of a man standing alone just outside the door. The man wore the uniform of a CYPHER soldier. But Bryan peered and swore harshly.

“Cranston! How did he get here?”

“I’ll get him,” Ernest said drawing a pistol.

“No,” Bryan said. “Let him in. Open the door and cover him.”

Ernest went silently to the door and flung it open. His pistol aimed at the heart of Lamont Cranston. The socialite, wearing the uniform he had stolen from the CYPHER soldier, pretended surprise. He pretended to be both angry and scared. He stepped into the office as if Ernest had him totally powerless.

“What the devil is going on, Bryan? Some men in these black uniforms capture me! They were going to shoot me! I managed to overpower one, steal his clothes, and escape! Now I come here for help, and Ernest has a gun!”

Bryan smiled. “Sit down, Cranston.”

Cranston sat, his hooded eyes still pretending to know nothing. But he had seen the screen.
Bryan saw him glance at the picture of the rocket.

“Yes, now you know about the sabotage,” Bryan said, and the small crippled man snarled.

“You don’t fool me any longer, Cranston! I have the report of the Commandant! I don’t know how you escaped, CYPHER will have to answer for that, but I do know that you are not the innocent amateur and simple businessman that you pretend to be. No, you are much more, and you guessed about me or you would not be here!”

Max Ernest covered Cranston with his pistol. Bryan’s eyes glittered, and he cackled with insane laughter. “So you came to stop me, eh!? You fool! No one can stop me! I have planned far too well! Me! A poor cripple! I will own the Moon!”

Cranston stared at the crippled man in the wheelchair. “You’re insane, Bryan.” The socialite said quietly, but he was watching the screen where the rocket towered and a voice droned.
“Fifteen minutes and holding. Communications check almost completed. Weapons check completed, all A-okay.” Bryan cackled again. “Insane? No, Cranston, you don’t get out of it that easily. I’m not insane. I know exactly and precisely what I am doing. Could an insane man conceive, plan and execute such a project as this?” And the small man in the wheelchair waved his hand again to indicate the gigantic rocket standing on its launching pad in the TV picture.

“Clever, Bryan, but insane,” Cranston said. The socialite looked at Dr. Max Ernest who held the gun pointed at him. “Bryan is insane, Dr. Ernest, but you are not. No, you are only a greedy and stupid fool! You are one of those men who do what someone else tells them will make them rich and great. A fool to be led to destruction by a madman!”

Ernest’s eyes flickered toward Bryan, and then steadied again on Cranston. But there was a small fear in the Research Chief’s eyes behind the pistol. Bryan snarled now at Cranston.
“Madman, eh? Ernest is a fool, eh? Why you stupid poor weakling! Look at that rocket! Have you ever seen such a rocket? No, and neither has anyone else! That is MY rocket! With that rocket I will own the Moon! My men will be on the Moon first, and I will claim it and hold it!”

Bryan roared with maniacal laughter. The small man rocked in his wheelchair as his mad eyes glittered and looked at the picture of his rocket waiting to blast-off for the Moon. “Crazy, eh?

Was I crazy to use the United States and Russia like the stupid fools they are?” The crippled genius laughed and leaned forward in his wheelchair. “Listen, Cranston! Listen to how crazy I am! I developed the fuel control and a special super fuel that could lift more than man ever dreamed could be lifted into space. But no single man has the money or facilities to do the testing work necessary for such a project. So I gave my control to the United States and the Soviet Union! Yes, I gave it to them— so that they could do all my testing for me!” 

Bryan rocked in his wheelchair with hysterical laughter. Cranston watched the crippled genius. There it was—the reason! Bryan had cleverly allowed the United States and the Soviet Union to do his testing work for him! So that he could beat them both to the Moon!
Bryan cackled. “With what I learned from the work of NASA and the Soviet Space Authority I improved my fuel control and my fuel—without telling anyone of my continuing work! I made them do the testing, and sabotaged their projects to make sure that my rocket would be the first to go—and it will be! In fifteen minutes my rocket will blast-off and nothing can ever stop me! I have the fuel control and the fuel to send more to the Moon than ever dreamed of. There are five men in that space capsule, Cranston! Five men with arms and food for years! ! Years, do you hear me? Not a few days, not weeks, but years they can live up there! The Moon will be mine and CYPHER’s!”

Cranston shrugged. “So you send five men to the Moon. What then? Of what importance … “

Bryan roared with laughter. “You fool! Five men on the Moon! Armed! Able to exist for years! With a permanent base developed by me! Supplied by smaller rockets which I have ready, or which I can steal! Armed with rocket weapons that can reach the Earth easily! Remember, Cranston, the Moon’s gravity is so little! A simple Earth rocket, properly fired and orbited around the Earth, can be fired from the Moon with ease and deadly aim! The Moon will be a weapon against the entire world! I will own the Earth! I will rule! Everyone will have to pay me to exist!

I will be rich, powerful, and with my wealth I will, send more men to the Moon! With the Moon I will control the world!”

There was a sudden silence in the office of the crippled genius as the echo of his mad voice died away. Max Ernest held the pistol steady on Cranston. The giant rocket stood on its pad in the TV picture. All was silent and still. Bryan, his eyes blazing with the vision of his power over the entire world, sat staring at nothing, into space, into the twisted recesses of his own hopes and schemes and ambitions.

Then a clipped voice spoke from the TV screen.
“Fifteen minutes and counting. All systems ‘go’!”

Bryan moved, shifted in his wheelchair, his small and crippled body anxious to leave the confines of the chair but held there forever. The small genius suddenly scowled and looked at Cranston.

“I have no more time to waste. This is my night of triumph!

I don’t know how you escaped CYPHER, Cranston, but now I will end it once and for all. Max, kill him!”

Max Ernest hesitated. The Research Chief looked uneasily at his employer. Cranston realized that Dr. Ernest had never shot anyone. It was one thing to threaten, to plan to rule the world, but another to shoot a man who sat in front of you. Max Ernest licked his lips.
“Twelve minutes and counting … . .” “Max!” Bryan snapped.

Cranston went over the desk in a single motion. With his amazing muscular control, the socialite alter-ego of The Shadow flipped forward from his seat, deftly pulled the single lamp from the desk, somersaulted, and landed on his feet behind the desk.
The room went dark except for the bright blue-white light of the TV screen.
“Shoot!” Bryan screamed.

Max Ernest shot. The shot went wild. Cranston hurled a heavy ashtray into the giant TV screen. It shattered with a loud explosion of vacuum, and the room was black.

There was a sudden silence.

In the dark Cranston saw them clearly. Max Ernest still held his pistol and tried to see into the blackness of the room. He stood not far from the door, his pistol swinging back and forth as he searched for Cranston. Bryan sat in his wheelchair. The crippled genius reached into a compartment of his wheelchair and produced a pair of glasses. Bryan touched a switch on his chair. The crippled man pointed straight at Cranston.

“There, Max, two feet to the left of the TV screen!” Ernest shot.

The bullet missed Cranston by inches.

The socialite dove for the cover of the desk. He was aware of what Bryan had done. The electronic genius had switched on an infra-red light and put on special glasses that could see in infra-red light. It was a device for seeing in the dark when no one else could see. Bryan had no way of knowing that Cranston could see in the dark with the powers of The Shadow! But unarmed as he was, Cranston was now pinned down by the pistol in the hand of Dr. Ernest, The alter-ego of The Shadow bent close to his ring radio.

“Margo,” he whispered. “Margo, come in Margo.”

The voice of the beautiful agent whispered back. “Margo here.”

“Where are you?”

“With General Rogers and Professor Farina just outside the main building of Federal Cybernetics.”

“Make noise, anything! Create a diversion!”

“Roger,” Margo said.

The ring radio went silent. Bryan nodded in the dark office toward Max Ernest. “Move around to the left, Max, he’s behind the desk. Hurry! The rocket will blast any moment and I must be there to see it!”

Max Ernest started around the room toward the desk. To do this he had to pass the window that overlooked the grounds of the plant. Suddenly there was shooting outside and a wild commotion. Ernest jumped to the window. The Research Director shouted in the dark room.
“Something’s wrong down there! I see Farina and that Margo woman of Cranston’s! And General Rogers! Someone’s shooting!”

“Why?” Bryan cried. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” Ernest shouted. “Quick then! Forget Cranston! Hurry!”

The crippled genius whirled his motorized chair toward the wall. Max Ernest jumped after him. Cranston was up behind the desk. The wall slid open. Bryan’s chair darted through with Max Ernest close behind. Cranston raced across the room as the wall slid closed. He hurled himself at the opening, but he was too late. The wall slid closed just as his fingers clutched to stop the panel.

Cranston stood alone in the office. Outside in the plant yard there was firing where Margo and the others were battling the CYPHER men disguised as security guards. Cranston did not have the power of The Shadow for opening the wall! Quickly he removed the black garb from beneath the stolen CYPHER uniform and put it on. He placed the fire-opal girasol ring on his finger. The slouch hat on his head, the cloak blending into the dark of the office, The Shadow now stood with his blazing eyes concentrated on the wall. His powers focused. The electronic controls activated, and the wall slid open. The Shadow slid through the opening.

But he had lost precious time. His fiery eyes saw the narrow passage and the ramp leading down. He knew where Bryan and Ernest were going, and he bounded down the steep ramp like a great bird of prey with his black wings flying out. He reached the bottom of the ramp and came to an open door. He raced through the door and found himself in the dim cellar where the jet monorail began. The place, where the torpedo-shaped car had been was empty. Far down the tunnel he could hear the high-pitched scream of the engine as it raced back toward the hidden rocket base. The Shadow bent over his ring radio.

“Come in Harry!”

The radio responded instantly. “Harry here!” “Jet car coming back. Two men. Stop them!”

“Will do,” Harry’s voice said.

The Shadow clicked off and turned in the cellar. His keen eyes saw what he wanted—a large door at the end of the single track. He reached the door and tore it open. Inside were two other torpedo-shaped jet cars. With super-human strength The Shadow pushed one car out onto the track and jumped in. It was a matter of seconds for the Avenger to study the controls. He touched a button, pulled a lever, and the engine whined into life.

Seconds later the jet car was racing down the single track with the black shape of The Shadow bent over the controls in the cockpit.
To Be Continued on Friday at...
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by James Patterson and Brian Sitts

Wednesday, August 23, 2023

Wednesday Worlds of Wonder SONIC DISRUPTORS "Are You Ready to Rock?"

Welcome to seven years from now...as shown thirty-six years ago!

We're beginning a re-presentation of a never-reprinted tale of rebellion against a futuristic police state that most of you didn't even know existed!
To Be Continued
Next Wednesday!
Writer Mike Baron, penciler Barry Crain, and inker John Nyberg created this series for DC in 1986, when the company was encouraging creatives to present new, creator-owned, projects either as stand-alone graphic novels or mini-series.
We've presented several of them in Wednesday Worlds of Wonder, including Merchants of Venus, Space Clusters, and Medusa Chain.

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Tuesday, August 22, 2023

THE SHADOW: DESTINATION MOON Chapter 14

You can read the previous chapter HERE!
14
Four chairs were brought. Cranston and the others were seated. A CYPHER Group-Leader stood
behind each of them. The mass of CYPHER soldiers buzzed behind them. Two men in the uniforms of Area Leaders, the highest non-Staff rank in CYPHER, sat at small tables with stenotype machines to record the proceedings. Cranston watched it all from behind his hooded eyes—it was a full-fledged and rigidly correct military court-martial. And the five men at the head of the room were the judges!

The five sat on their raised thronelike chairs. Four of the chairs were on a level a few feet above the floor of the room. The fifth chair was in the center and raised even higher. On the four chairs that flanked the center chair the grim-faced CYPHER Staff Leaders all wore the insignia of Sub-Commandants. Cranston recognized one of them at once—the big man with the scarred face of combat and the insignia of his former service in the United States Special Forces: Sub-Commandant Nine!

Cranston had faced Sub-Commandant Nine once before when The Shadow was Henry Arnaud in a room on an island near Hong Kong! The others he did not know, but he knew their past and their present. They were all Sub-Commandants, with their numbers on their chest and the marks of their old loyalties deserted for the service in the evil and homeless organization of CYPHER. There was Sub-Commandant Two, with the badge of the British Armored Corps. Sub-Commandant Seven, once a Colonel of French Paratroopers. And Sub-Commandant Ten, wearing the marks of a Bulgarian Political Commissar. All four stared stonily at the four prisoners.

In the center, on the highest chair, sat the fifth judge. Cranston watched him closely, more closely than he had ever looked at anyone. He was a tall man with a strong military bearing. He wore the grey tunic and blue trousers and gold circle of CYPHER on his breast. He wore no insignia of former service. A wide gold stripe ran down the leg of his blue trousers. Gold-leaf frogged the peak of his high-crowned military garrison cap designed in the manner of the German General Staff. And he wore a gold mask that covered his entire face! He wore an insignia that Cranston had not seen before in his brushes with CYPHER. But the socialite alter-ego of The Shadow had no doubt who he was looking at. He knew that he was at last seeing the leader—The Commandant of CYPHER himself!

Behind the gold mask the Commandant spoke. “Begin!”

The section Director who held the long, official document snapped a command. “Prisoners rise!”

The four prisoners were pulled to their feet by the Group Leaders who stood behind their chairs. The Section Director read from his paper.

“Prisoner Margo Lane charged with spying actions against CYPHER, and against contract clients in two known cases. Prisoner Lane has attempted to complicate contract presentations, and has seriously impaired efficient discharge of services.”

Margo was pushed back down.

“Prisoner of unknown name, designated as chauffeur in this charge. Charged with actions detrimental to contract service.” Stanley was pushed down.

“Prisoner Harry Vincent charged with anti-client actions, and with actions against CYPHER
itself in two known contracts.”

Harry sat down unaided and sneered at the judges on the high chairs. The Group Leader who guarded him slapped him hard across the face. Blood trickled from Harry’s lip. Harry laughed.

The Group Leader hit him again.

“Enough,” the masked Commandant said quietly. “Proceed with the charge.”

Cranston had listened carefully, and now he listened even more carefully to the voice of the Commandant. It was muffled and oddly metallic, and he knew that the Commandant was speaking through a tiny microphone to disguise his voice. And yet there was something familiar to the super-hearing of The Shadow.

“Prisoner Lamont Cranston. Charged with strong un-CYPHER activities. Prisoner Cranston has been involved in three contracts of CYPHER—two which terminated in unsuccessful campaigns!

The exact nature of Cranston’s involvement is not known. But in each case where he interfered in client contracts, the contract was aborted! In each case there was also involved a man in black who remains unidentified. Cranston is charged with being instrumental in causing failures of two contracts—and with the deaths of CYPHER members!”

At this charge the whole room buzzed with anger and horror. All eyes turned to Cranston. On the raised dais the four Sub-Commandants looked hard at Cranston. Only the masked Commandant showed no reaction to this obviously ultimate charge. The Commandant leaned back in his thronelike chair.
“How do the prisoners plead?”

Neither of the four spoke. The Commandant nodded. “Prisoners stand mute. So record it. Is the prosecuting officer ready to proceed?”

“Yes sir,” the Section Director who had read all the charges said.

Cranston laughed.

The Commandant’s masked face turned slowly to look at the wealthy socialite.

“Something amuses you, Mr. Cranston?” the hollow, muffled metallic voice said.
“Do we have a defense officer?” Cranston said quietly.
“No. It is not in the rules of the court. You are not the wealthy and powerful Lamont Cranston here.”
Cranston laughed again. “Rules? What rules?”

“The rules of CYPHER, Mr. Cranston,” the masked Commandant said without a hint of amusement. The muffled voice was deadly grim. “CYPHER makes its own rules, Mr. Cranston.

CYPHER exists on its own terms, under its own rules. It is the only way to run the world. Our rules are our own, they are rigid. Iron discipline. By our rules anyone who opposes or harms CYPHER is automatically a criminal and is so charged.”

“That’s a pretty old rule,” Cranston said drily. “Anyone who opposes you is un-CYPHER, and anyone who is un-CYPHER is a criminal. Very convenient.”

“A very old rule, Mr. Cranston. You might say a law of life, a law of nature. The world has always lived by it—the greatest criminal is the man who harms me, opposes me. All we have done is admit it! We face facts, we face the world as it is!”

Cranston nodded. “To admit it is something, I suppose. But you are evil, all evil! Merchants of violence and death! Sellers of hate and immorality. Caterers to all that is evil and filthy in men! Hucksters of horror!”

The masked Commandant did not move. “We supply only what men want, Mr. Cranston. We offer a service that men will buy! We are realists, Cranston, we know the evil of the world, we do not make it! Now, have you finished your speech? Yes? Then it is so recorded, it will be entered into our record. We will now proceed. You have stood mute. You do not plead to the charges. Actually, it does not matter, of course. Only two charges are of importance. The charge that you have opposed CYPHER, to which you are all obviously guilty. The charge that you have interfered with a CYPHER contract, presentation, or client campaign. To which you are also clearly guilty by simply being here. Obviously a successful service agency such as ours cannot allow failures of services to be on the record unpunished. Our efficiency is our main selling-point. To fail is the only mistake we can make. You have all made us fail in two cases, you are now involved in a third case. Clearly you are guilty.”

There was a silence in the massed ranks of the enormous bright room. The Commandant looked to his left and to his right at the other four judges.

“Do the Sub-Commandant judges have any further comments?”

“No,” Sub-Commandant Nine said.

The other three shook their heads.

“How then do you vote,” the Commandant said.

“Guilty!” … “Guilty! ” … “Guilty! ” … “Guilty!”

The Commandant nodded. “A unanimous verdict of guilty will be recorded. Sentence will be pronounced by myself, Commandant of CYPHER by due vote and appointment of the General Staff.”

There was a complete silence. The two Area Leaders worked their stenotype machines. All eyes were on the Commandant. He sat behind his mask like a rigid and frozen statue. Then, suddenly, he spoke.

“However … . .” and he paused. The room waited. “We of CYPHER are practical, we are realists.

Today’s enemy is tomorrow’s partner. That is the way of the world. Advantage, that is all that counts. So we will make an offer, and ask a question. You four have shown resources. You show skill. We offer you the chance to join us. But … first you must answer one question. All four of you, or any one of you. The ones who answer can be one of us.”

The Commandant stopped again. Then, “Who is the man in black? How does he operate?

What are his powers?”

The four prisoners sat silent.

“Miss Lane,” the Commandant said. “You have been seen in close contact with the man in black. He seems to have strange and strong powers. Tell me about his powers, where they come from.”

“I expect he will show you himself,” Margo said quietly.

“I see,” the Commandant said equally quietly. His eyes turned to Stanley. “You, chauffeur!
We can offer you far more than you appear to have.”

“You can go to hell,” Stanley said.

“Very probably,” the Commandant said drily. “Mr. Vincent? Tell me about this man in black and his odd powers. Life can be important, it is all you have.”

Harry Vincent looked at the floor and said nothing. The cold eyes of the Commandant turned behind the mask to look last at Lamont Cranston.

“You have much to lose, Mr. Cranston. You seem to be most close to this man in black.

Where you are, he appears. It is clear that you do not have his powers or you would not be here.

But you must know all about him. Tell us, and I will make a man of your skill a Section Director!”

Cranston shrugged. “Turn yourselves in and I will see that you only go to insane asylums!”

There was a sudden roar of anger. The massed CYPHER soldiers jumped to their feet, shouted.

The four Sub-Commandants leaped up. The roars of anger filled the enormous bright room. Then the voice of the Commandant, still muffled and disguised, rose above the hubub.

“Silence! Order in this court!”

There was an instant silence. Everyone slowly sat down. “Discipline! Remember what we are! How dare you react!”

The room was deathly still. The Commandant looked at Cranston. His mask was motionless, but his eyes were cold and hard.

“We are not insane, Mr. Cranston.”

“No,” Cranston said, “that is the horror.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Cranston,” the Commandant said. “But we did not make the world or the horror. Will you tell us about the man in black?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Cranston said.

Sub-Commandant Nine stared at Cranston. “We have ways to make them talk, Commandant.
I think we can promise that they will tell us what we want to know.”

The Commandant sat back in his thronelike chair and seemed to be studying the four prisoners. His hidden face seemed to be considering, weighing the problem in hand. Sub-Commandant Seven nodded toward the prisoners.

“The woman should crack easily, Commandant. Let us torture them for a time. It should not take long.”

The Commandant rubbed his hidden chin thoughtfully. Cranston was studying the man. The tall figure seemed vaguely familiar, and the voice, but both were so disguised that he could not place the familiarity, and without the power of The Shadow to cloud men’s minds there was no more that he could do now. That power required the black garb and fire-opal ring of The Shadow. Suddenly, the Commandant stood up.

“No, it does not matter now. The contract is about to be terminated, the campaign to go to its successful conclusion. We will not waste time.”

The tall masked Commandant turned and stepped toward a door in the wall of the enormous room behind his thronelike chair. He did not look back.

“Take them out and kill them at once!” And the tall CYPHER Chief was gone.

Every man in the room leaped to attention. The four Sub-Commandants followed their leader out. The Section Director who had read the charges nodded to a squad of black-uniformed soldiers. “Take them out! Shoot them immediately.”

The squad of soldiers, lead by a Group Leader, marched the four prisoners out of the enormous room and down a new corridor. Each of the soldiers carried a rifle of British make.

The Group Leader carried a pistol. It was clearly a firing squad, CYPHER did all in a precise military manner. The Group Leader counted the cadence as the squad marched the prisoners in impeccable order. They went down four or five corridors until they reached one corridor where doors opened off into offices. There was a sudden feeling of air—they were being marched outside! CYPHER did indeed do everything in a correct military manner. Then, as they reached the last corridor before the door that showed the dark night outside, Cranston suddenly began to moan.

“Halt!” the Group Leader snapped.

Cranston slipped to the floor, crouched there on his knees with his head bent over. He moaned and whimpered. His face had gone deadly white. His eyes that looked up were dilated and rolled wildly.

“Get up, you coward!” the Group Leader commanded. Cranston moaned, gasped, his skin a terrible greenish-white.

“It’s his heart,” Margo said to the Group Leader.

The Group Leader laughed. “Hell, it’s his guts! Look at him, he’s sick with fear!”

At that instant Cranston suddenly gasped and fell over in a dead faint. His breathing was labored. His lips were blue. His skin was a sickly yellow-green. The Group-Leader walked to him and kicked him. Cranston did not move or moan now. His limp body showed no signs of life. The Group Leader began to look worried. He bent down and listened to Cranston’s heart.

Then he straightened up.

“He’s just passed out,” the Group Leader. “Take him into the toilet and revive him, and let him vomit his yellow guts! Two of you. Then bring him out. We’ll wait for you. We want them all to get it together.”

The Group Leader laughed a cold laugh. Two soldiers carried Cranston into the toilet. The Group Leader continued on with the other three and his squad. In the toilet the two soldiers laid Cranston on the floor. One of them went to the sink to get water on a towel. The instant his back was turned, and the second soldier was bending over the stricken Cranston, the right hand of the wealthy socialite shot up like a striking snake and his steel fingers closed on the throat of the soldier bending over him. The soldier made no sound. His eyes bulged, he struggled for one second, and then collapsed. Cranston leaped up. The man at the sink turned, saw the alter-ego of The Shadow, went for his rifle, opened his mouth to yell. He neither yelled nor shot. Cranston was on him before his finger could move on the trigger, before a sound came out of his mouth. A single blow to the throat felled the man. Cranston caught his body and the rifle before they could touch the floor. He laid them both down. He began to remove his clothes.
To Be Continued on Wednesday at...
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by James Patterson and Brian Sitts

Monday, August 21, 2023

Monday Madness SLOW DEATH ZERO "Shrink Wrapped!"

 Though it was produced during Don da Con's (hopefully) last term in office...
...this little tale seems apropos as Hurricane Hilary hits the West Coast, to compare and contrast how he and the current guy would handle natural disasters!
At least he didn't throw paper towels at the problem this time!
Written and illustrated by Tim Boxell, this tale was part of Last Gasp's Slow Death Zero (2021), an all-new anthology trade paperback in tribute to the legendary 1970s-80s "underground comic with a purpose"...to warn about ecological horrors to come in an entertaining way!
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