Friday, August 1, 2025

Friday Fun MARVIN MOUSE "Not-So-'Honest John' "

The creator of Prince Namor: the Sub-Mariner, Bill Everett, was an amazing writer/artist...
 ...who could do almost anything he was asked to do.
Unfortunately, funny animals, weren't exactly his "cup of tea"!
This never-reprinted tale from Atlas' Marvin the Mouse #1 (1957) was scripted by Stan Lee and illustrated by the aforementioned Bill Everett.
I believe Everett was instructed to make the characters as different as possible from other cartoon mice such as Mickey and Mighty, which resulted in rodents who looked more like rats than mice!
Bill had shown a knack for humor as shown HERE and HERE, but this was a major disappointment!
A caption at the end of the book read "And remember, every issue Marvin Mouse magazine brings you the best in laughs, adventure, and fun ... don't miss a single issue!"
No problem!
The book ended up a one-shot and the already-completed stories intended for #2 became filler in the backs of other humor titles.
(Editor Stan Lee was very frugal and didn't let anything go to waste!)
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Thursday, July 31, 2025

Reading Room FANTASTIC FOUR: DOOMSDAY Part 20


Twenty
You Can Read the Previous Chapter HERE!
Johnny Storm awoke with a start. “Where am I?” he inquired. There was darkness everywhere. There was no answer. Either he was alone, or the other party wasn’t talking. Total silence. Johnny could hear only one man breathing. He was alone.

His head ached and he still felt tired. I hadda be drugged. Nothing else could explain it. Drugged and brought here, wherever here is.

He stood up and felt the walls. They were soft to his touch. Not stone, certainly. But what? Well, no use staying in the dark, he thought.

He tried to flame on. He concentrated, but he was unable to ignite. “What the hell’s going on here? Who’s doing this? C’mon, where are ya?” Doom! It has to be Doom. He’s behind all of this. He lured us here. But what do I do about it? I can’t seem to flame on.

He sat down again. There’s gotta be a way outta here. Reed had always told him to think out his plans thoroughly before deciding on a course of action. Don’t waste your power needlessly. Think. Think! THINK!

Doom has somehow canceled my powers. How? I don’t feel any different. I can eliminate the internal factors . . . He may have drugged me, but I don’t think so. My vision’s clear. Heartbeat’s normal. Something external caused this. But what? How?

The room? Possible! Air seems normal. Don’t feel any air pressure. So what did he do? With great care, Johnny Storm ran his fingers over the walls. No projections coming from anywhere. He crouched to his knees. Nothing from the baseboard.

He stood up and tried to ignite again. His finger flickered a bit, then nothing. Something in this room has got to be affecting me. But what?

Anguished, he wrung his hands together. They felt greasy. There was some coating on them. Johnny approached the dim light bulb. It glinted dully off a thin filmy substance that coated his hand.

“That’s it. It’s got to be. He’s put something on me. I’ve got to get it off.” His sharp nails scraped the palm of his hand when he heard the sound come from behind him. He whirled and saw a fan in the ceiling begin to spin. No air blew from it. Suddenly he realized; it was sucking the air up through an exhaust system. Doom was pumping the air out of the room.
“No! You can’t!” Johnny shouted, fear welling in the pit of his stomach. “Don’t do this to me! You can’t!” No use . . . Doom wanted him to die. Screaming would only make him use up his diminishing air supply that much sooner.

He fell to the floor. Gotta keep quiet. Rest. Stay low. Take it easy. He breathed slowly; he remained relaxed. But he continued to scrape clean his palm.

No use, he thought. It’ll take too long to clean this garbage off me. And by the time I do, I won’t be able to use my flame. There won’t be any oxygen left for me to burn.

Whatever I’m gonna do, I’ve gotta do it fast. In five minutes there won’t be any air left. He tore off his shirt and ripped it into small rags. They’ll absorb this greasy stuff faster than my hands could scrape it away.

With savage fervor he rubbed at his right arm and hand. He scraped away the greasy film that covered him. He concentrated; his hand flared for a moment, then faded. Not enough. Still not enough. He worked with a second rag, then a third. His face was sweating with anxiety.

He heard himself gulping for air. He staggered forward to the door, tripped, fell. He lifted himself to his feet again and fell forward, this time to the wall. Grabbing with his hands, he pulled himself along the wall as he felt his feet weaken from under him. He could barely stand up. Could barely walk. But he had to make it to the door.

He stumbled and turned, then tripped backward. The door was next to him now. He could feel the knob in his sweaty hand. Now, with all his concentration, with every fiber of his being behind him, he willed his hand to ignite. He would center all his power into one hand. If that wasn’t enough to do the job, it would all be over.

The door itself was steel, but the frame around it was something different, something plastic. It glowed under the heat, turned bright red, then blue, then white. It began to shift form, to melt, to drip.

Johnny felt the pain overwhelm him. There was so little air to begin with, and his flame was using what was left. He had less than a minute left. He fell to his knees and felt a sharp pain stab through his legs. He had to ignore it, ignore everything but the flame. Had to keep the flame glowing, had to keep burning the framework around the door.

Suddenly, he felt a cool breeze wash across his face. Johnny stared up through half-closed eyes. There was a tiny puncture in the doorframe.

The air gushed through the hole, enlarging it. Johnny grinned as the coldness whipped past him. Hungrily, he swallowed the air, let it play in his throat. Then he collapsed.

He was unconscious for only a moment. His eyes opened and he saw two vague figures before him. They sharpened into view.

“Figgers, junior. Yer always takin’ a nap. Didn’t ya get no sleep?” Ben Grimm’s voice could not be mistaken.

“You great big ape. Get me outta here.” Johnny extended a hand as Ben ripped the door off its frame. “Just tell me one thing, big fella. Where were you when I needed you?”
“Playin’ games with a bunch o’ King Arthur rejects.”

The other figure stepped into view. “Are you all right, Johnny? What happened in there?” Sue was plainly worried. “I found Ben and then we heard you groaning.”

“I guess I’m fine. Just barely. Doom tried to kill me. He almost succeeded. Hey, where’s Reed?” He was sorry he had asked almost as soon as he spoke. Sue’s chin was trembling; her eyes were liquid. “What happened to him? Tell me, damn it. Tell me!”

Ben shook his head and grumbled. “We don’t know, kid. We ain’t been able ta find ’im. We searched everywhere.”

Sue’s voice quivered with fear. “I’m scared, Johnny. I don’t know what Doom’s done to him. What if he’s—” She couldn’t bring herself to finish her thought.

Johnny was grim-faced. “Then we’ll split up and search some more. I don’t think Doom would’ve taken Reed away—not and keep us here. Search every corridor, check if doors lead to phony doors. Knowing Doom, it’s possible Reed was right before us, only we just didn’t see him. Fan out.”

“You don’t have to.” A trembling, weak voice came from behind them. They whirled and saw Reed propped against a pillar, his costume torn, his face white. He staggered forward almost out of control. Then he fell. Ben caught him in his massive arms.
“Stretcho! Wha’ happened?”

Sue pushed passed Johnny and took Reed’s hand. “Darling, talk What did Doom do to you? Please, for God’s sake, tell me. I’ve got to know.”

For several agonizingly long minutes, Reed let his breath return. He waited until he could easily open his eyes. Johnny fetched him some water. Slowly, carefully, he drank it, savoring each mouthful. “I was trapped like a rat in a maze,” he began. “Trapped, with nowhere to go, no lights to see by, and a torrent of burning acid crashing toward me.”

He saw Sue tremble. He lowered his voice to calm her. “I had taken the wrong tunnel hoping to find the maze’s exit. Somehow I had to get through the gushing torrent of acid and head for the correct corridor.

“I could hear the wave rushing toward me, but that was all I heard. I realized then that Doom had shut off the flow of acid into the maze. I also knew that the acid had by now branched off into every corridor, filling each tunnel as it passed by. I was in the farthest section of the maze, and the torrent had diminished by the time it had reached me. There was enough to flow through the tunnel, certainly enough to burn me if it hit me, but not enough to fill the tunnel from the floor to roof.”

He paused again, took another sip of water. It hurt him to talk. He still felt the pains of his escape. Ben scowled. “C’monl C’mon! This is like the end of a serial chapter. I ain’t waitin’ till next week ta find out how ya escaped. Talk, big man . . . talk!”

Reed smiled weakly. He saw the others relax. Ben’s offhanded humor always eased any situation. The big, brawny Thing had a way of seeing right through to the humor of any given problem. “All right, all right,” Reed allowed. “Just give me a moment.”

He sipped some more water, then felt the strength return to his aching bones. “I stretched toward the ceiling, and propped my arms and legs against the walls. I was a paper-thin blanket slithering over the torrent. An occasional wave washed by me. I wanted to scream, to grab my wounds, but if I did, I’d drop to my death.

“I had to press on, fight the pain, edge my way to the end of the corridor, take the other tunnel and continue across the roof until I reached the door. That’s where I faced my toughest problem. I had to somehow open the door without burning my hand. Unfortunately, the doorknob was under the current of acid. There was no way I could get to it.

“I stretched my hand toward my boot. That was the thickest part of my costume. I knew I had to take the risk; otherwise, I would eventually weaken and drop.

“With my hand inside my boot, I reached into the acid. The boot began to smoke instantly. You all know I constructed our costumes out of unstable molecules. It allows me to stretch inside my uniform, Johnny to flame on without destroying his, Sue to turn invisible and take her costume with her. Unstable molecules can do almost anything, but they still burned. I felt acid trickle in, but I kept my hand inside the boot and guided it blindly toward the knob. My fingers began to burn, but I couldn’t stop. I had no choice. The pain became terrible. I thought I would black out at any moment, but I didn’t. Sometimes I wish I had. My face was contorted; I was crying from the terrible pain. It would have been much easier to give in.

“But finally, the door opened. I stretched through, stayed on the ceiling until I was far from the maze. Then, finally, I fell to the floor, where I heard voices. I was still too dazed to realize they were yours, but I inched forward, ready to fight. Then I heard Ben speak, and I knew that voice could belong to only one man. That’s it. That’s all.”

Ben Grimm scratched his brickish chin. “Ya see, even when I ain’t around, I save lives. I’m a regular Florrie Nightingale.”

Johnny shot Ben a glance, then smiled. “You mean Daffy Duck, Ben. Both of you are quacks.”

A huge orange arm shot out, and four stubby fingers grabbed Johnny’s waist and hoisted him in the air. “Wha’d ya say, junior? Ya mind repeatin’ it so’s I can hear ya an’ respond in a manner fittin’ yer statement?”

“All right, you two, stow it. We haven’t got the time for bickering.” Reed stood up, shaky at first. “I want to find Doom, now!”
To Be Continued...Tomorrow at
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Wednesday, July 30, 2025

Wednesday Worlds of Wonder MARS "Rebirth" Part 1

From Tragedy Can Come Greatness...

...as paraplegic genius Dr Morgana Trace demonstrates in this unjustly-forgotten series, set in the future, from over four decades ago!














And on that ominous note, we take our leave until
NEXT WEDNESDAY!
Written and illustrated by Mark Wheatley and Marc Hempel, First Comics' Mars #1 (1984) is a fast-paced start into the tale with several twists you won't see coming!
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Tuesday, July 29, 2025

Reading Room FANTASTIC FOUR: DOOMSDAY Part 17 & 18


Seventeen
You Can Read the Previous Chapter HERE!

Doom entered his private jet and sat in a wide plush chair. He pressed a button on the control board at his side. The robot pilot was activated; the jet would now take off and he would be in America by dawn.

Tomorrow was his birthday, and all had been planned for the special gift he had promised himself. He closed his eyes as the jet shuddered to life. He would sleep now and awaken upon landing. He needed all his strength.

He dreamed. He first saw soft clouds and bright blue sky. He saw rainbows long and beautiful. He saw himself as a boy sitting at a campfire, his handsome father at his side. His father had a broad smile as he sang a ribald song. Other Gypsies laughed in response. He saw his father’s medicine bag at his side. It was always at his side in case it was needed. His father had been a great, caring man.

Then the smile faded from his father’s face as he stood up and bade Victor to follow him. The young boy did as his father commanded.

They walked through the forest to the edge of their small village. He listened as his father spoke. “Someday, Victor,” he had said, “you will be the last Von Doom. You must always remember your heritage, my son. Always remember your father loved you, that we come from a proud line of Gypsies.” Young Victor said nothing, but he listened intently.

At the edge of the forest there was a small cemetery. The markers were crude stones carved with chisel and hammer. They stood before one stone that simply said “Cynthia Von Doom.” Victor realized why he had been brought here. Today was his birthday, May 1. Every May they came to this cemetery to honor his mother.

“Your mother loved you, Victor, as much as I do. She wanted her only son to be a big, tall, handsome man—one great in pride and strength. She wanted her only son to be a good man, compassionate, merciful, loving.”

His father paused and held Victor with both hands as he stared into the young boy’s eyes. “Do you understand that, my son? Strength and compassion, pride and humility. They go hand in hand. Without one, the other is abused. Without compassion to temper strength, there is only the basest of bullies. Without humility to temper pride, there is only arrogance. Do you understand that, Victor? It is important that you do.”

Victor said yes. He understood, although he thought his father was wrong. Mother was compassionate, and the Baron’s men abused her. She had great humility, and the Baron’s men embarrassed her, slaughtered her like an animal. What good were compassion and humility to his mother? They served to have her slain by wanton cowards.

No, strength was important. It could put down those who would seek to humble me. Pride was important. It permitted others to know whom they could not push about.

But Doom simply nodded in answer to his father’s question. He was such a good man that he failed to see how important strength and pride could be. He loved his father and did not want to argue with him. Saying yes would please his father, and that is all he wanted to do just then. Later, when he was older, he would show his father the errors of his ways.

They bowed before the gravestone and said a prayer. Werner Von Doom shuddered a bit. It was no use, he knew. His son didn’t hear or didn’t believe a word he had said. He could see the bitterness set deep in Victor’s eyes. My Lord, Werner thought, so young, and so much like his dear mother.

He feared his son, feared this child’s intensity and ability to hate. Cynthia was as intense, but she didn’t hate. That was the difference. She could be loving, giving. She used her witchly powers for good, not bad. She used her spells to help fertilize their gardens, to help heal their sick, to protect them from attack. But in Victor, he sensed only the power, not the compassion. The world would one day hear about this boy. Victor would grow into manhood with terrifying powers—powers that would lead to his own destruction . . . or the destruction of his pursuers.

All this Werner saw in Victor’s deepset, brooding eyes. He grasped his son’s hand and the young boy looked up at his father. “Yes, Father? What is it?”

Werner smiled weakly. “Nothing, Victor. Let us go home. We still have to make our dinner, eh?” Right now the boy was young. But soon . . . much too soon . . .

Doom’s eyes opened as the jet began its descent. The airport had been notified that Doom the First was arriving. New York’s mayor offered a diplomatic ceremony, but the Latverian embassy said Doom preferred a simple limousine, which they would prepare for their Monarch.

He disembarked and climbed into the car. The next stop was the embassy, and from there, the Baxter Building.

Eighteen
Doom waved his hand across the electric eye, and the elevator door instantly slid open. It had been simplicity itself to duplicate the exact code necessary to open the private elevator of the Fantastic Four.

What would come next would not be simple. Doom braced himself as the elevator reached the proper floor. He was unable to learn how to properly enter his foe’s central headquarters. There would be an arsenal of weapons waiting to attack him. He breathed in deeply. Now he was ready.

The door opened to an outer lobby. Before him were two more doors. Solid steel. They would have to be blasted.

He raised his hand and a bolt of white light flashed from his fingers, bathing the doors in an eerie, unearthly glow. The door convulsed, creaked, shimmered, then dissolved into a slag of molten metal.

From inside there came a faint clicking sound. Doom was alerted. The protection devices had snapped on.

Beyond the door Doom could see the visitors’ reception room. There wouldn’t be any traps there. Too many uninitiated cretins waited in this outer lobby until one of the Fantastic Four would come to greet them. No, Richards wouldn’t allow them to come to accidental harm. The dolt was concerned with human lives; he would do nothing to endanger any man. And that is why Richards and his foolish friends would die and Doom would win. After all, nothing would come between Doom and complete victory.

With an arrogant gesture, he blasted the reception area door from its hinges and stepped inside. Daniel in the lion’s den, he thought. If his hideous mask could smile, it would.

From the floor came a sudden grinding noise. He had stepped on a large square, one of many, yet this one vibrated ever so slightly. He could discern a slight separation between this tile and the one that bordered it. All this he noticed in a fraction of a second, even as a square of plexiglass shot up from the slight separation and attached itself to the ceiling. Doom was surrounded in a plexiglass prison.

“You are a fool, Reed Richards. To think this paltry prison could long stop Victor Von Doom!” He extended his iron arm and grasped the side of the plexiglass with his fingers. “I have no need to even use my incredible powers.”

His fingers pressed outward with incredible force. His iron armor was an exo-skeleton which increased his strength a hundredfold and more. The glass cracked into a spider-web design. Then Doom smashed the prison into a thousand flying fragments with the back of his heavy glove.

“I know you, Richards!” Doom shouted, fully aware his foe was more than five thousand miles away, if he weren’t already dead by now. “You wouldn’t create devices to harm a man. Your weaponry is designed to capture, to imprison, to disarm. You are too weak to kill a fool who deserves death. That shall be your undoing.”

Doom knew the plans to the Baxter Building. The thirty-fourth floor housed the Fantastic Four’s living quarters. There were kitchen facilities, dining rooms, bathrooms, and four bedrooms. The thirty-fifth floor contained their recreation rooms, gymnasium, meditation chamber, and monitoring rooms. The thirty-sixth floor contained all of Reed Richards’s labs. Anything he had to build could be constructed there.

What Doom wanted was on the thirty-seventh floor. Above him, on the top of the Fantastic Four’s five-floor headquarters, were the vehicle maintenance shops, the hangars, and the entrance to the retractable rooftop observatory. Along the side of the headquarters was their rocket silo.

Suddenly, Doom sensed gas spreading through the hallway. Instantly the oxygen system built into his armor was activated. All airholes were covered with a thin, transparent glass.

He made his way to the elevators. These responded to a different code from the ones in the lobby. He placed his fingers along the control panel, then his armor’s computers whirled into frenzied activity. “Damn.” Doom was angry. They could only be activated by the special fingerprint patterns programmed into Richards’s computer.

He had to get upstairs. His fingers clawed the control panel a second time. A white gas spread from them. As the gas touched the metal plate, it became solid, icy. Freezing white ice spread over the panel and the elevator door, covering it completely. Doom stepped back. With every second the ice would get colder until it finally reached absolute zero. But the door would crack long before then.

Within moments the door crumbled to the ground, a useless pile of icy shards. Ignoring them, Doom entered the elevator. His fingers pressed the automatic button. The elevator would rise now.

The elevator rumbled, then ground to a sudden halt. A voice filtered over the sound system. It was Reed Richards, and it took Doom a moment to realize the voice had been taped and programmed.

“To whomever has entered the private elevator of the Fantastic Four: This is Reed Richards. You are trespassing on our property. If you have made it this far, undoubtedly you have encountered several other devices. But I warn you now, you will not penetrate our inner headquarters. I have constructed a series of elaborate protective weapons that will guarantee the sanctity of our headquarters. To go farther would be to risk your life. This has been a warning. I suggest you press the button marked ‘Exit.’ The elevator will take you to a side corridor where you will find a stairwell allowing you to leave unharmed.
“Remember, you have been warned. We are no longer responsible for what may next happen. Consider your alternatives.” The tape clicked off.

Without pausing, Doom again pressed the button marked “thirty-seven,” then dashed off the elevator. The car dropped suddenly out of view. No matter which button was pressed, the car would head for the corridor Richards had mentioned and deposit the trespasser by the staircase.

“You are clever, Richards. Too clever for your own good. But soon you shall meet defeat at the hands of Dr. Doom.”

The elevator shaft was empty now. Doom peered upward and stared into the darkness. This is the only way. I have no other choice.

His powerful hands gripped the heavy steel cables. One hand reached above the other, pulling him upward. There was little problem climbing this way, even with the incredible weight of his armor, but it annoyed Doom to have to use physical force. That was beneath him. He was pleased Richards would soon die, if he already hadn’t been burned to a final cinder.

Gas spread through the tunnel, but the mask’s glass filters were still in place. Angrily, Doom continued his climb.

From the walls, lasers snapped into view. Beams criss-crossed in all directions, bouncing off Doom’s armor. Long ago he had coated his armor with an anti-laser refracting base. Once more Richards had been checkmated.

He paused for a moment; his feet searched out a small ledge. “Damn you, Richards. Damn you for this inconvenience.” Never before had Doom had to work so. With his powers, he always took what he wanted.

As he passed the elevator door on the thirty-fifth floor, the sonic bombardment began. It cut through his armor the way a sharpened scythe slashed through a field of wheat. His head reeled back painfully, his eyes closed into thin slits, and tears poured from them.

The sharp sound rumbled through his brain, his body was in agony, his arms twitched, his legs flailed helplessly. He felt his fingers loosening their grip on the cable. He forced himself to stare downward. If he fell, there would be a thirty-five-story drop. Not even he would survive.

His fingers struggled to maintain balance as he fought to control his mind. He had to shake off the pain the sonics created. He had to close his mind to everything but his mission.

Quietly, he recited ancient prayers forgotten long before the days of the Druids. His mind reached outward and inward; he thought of his mission, his mother, his childhood, his face, his awful, disgusting face. How handsome he had once been, how proud he had been of his manly features. And now, what was it? A scarred, disfigured, pulpy mass, of twisted flesh and scabbed sores.

He remembered his mother’s diary, the curses, the visions, the oaths. He had never mastered sorcery the way his mother had. Science was his to command. He could create whatever he needed. But sorcery eluded him. He wanted that knowledge, knew it was his birthright. He had to possess complete knowledge of the Dark Arts; otherwise, his destiny could never be fulfilled.

He wanted power, the power to destroy all his enemies, the power to rule a world, the power to rule the universe itself. But to do so he needed control over the evil ones, the dark forces, the creatures of hell. He needed to blend his mysticism with his science. No one could defeat him then. No man would dare try.

He heard his breath hissing through his mask; he heard his metal feet clanging against the steel-lined corridor. Then he realized the sonic blast which attacked him had abated. It was over.

Quickly, without pause, he climbed the cables. He thought of nothing but reaching the thirty-seventh floor. Hand over hand, his feet hooked the cables and pushed him upward. It was only a matter of moments now. He could see the elevator door above him, a shining beacon indicating freedom. It drew closer, became larger. Then, at last, it was beside him. He blasted the door off its hinges and he leaped to safety.

He made it. He had conquered death once more. Invigorated with renewed pride, he shouted to the world at the top of his voice, “I am victorious! I have won! I am Victor Von Doom. Let the world beware my awesome power!”

And now, he thought, he need only find what he had come here for.

“Soon, very soon, the Negative Zone will be mine!”
To Be Continued...Tomorrow at
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Monday, July 28, 2025

Monday Mecha Madness SHOGUN WARRIORS "Elements of Destruction" Conclusion

We Have Already Seen...

...the three Shogun Warriors face three enemies who are the embodiments of the ancient "elements" of Earth, Fire, and Water!
At the moment, the Earth Elemental may be getting the best of Combatra!
Remember, I said "may"...

As we showed last week with Combatra, the entire backstory created for Raideen in his Japanese adventures was discarded for this series.
Unlike Combatra, Raideen was piloted by just one individual...but he had a whole support team behind him, assisting as needed!
Here's the credits Sequence for the Raideen TV series...
Next Monday, More Mecha Madness!

Sunday, July 27, 2025

It May Be Hot, But the RetroBlog Summer Blogathons are HOTTER!

You're Reading The Fantastic Four's Premiere Prose Adventure from 1979...

...with Parts 15 & 16 combined, on Monday, at...
Speaking of "Seducing the Innocent", it's time for our annual Gothic Romance Beach Read, starting Monday at...
RetroBlogs are SIZZLING!

Saturday, July 26, 2025

Space Hero Saturdays ROCKET KELLY "Mr Weather's Revenge"

As a Heat Wave Bakes the Continental US...

...we thought you'd enjoy a Space Hero Saturday story involving something cooling...like glaciers!








Gotta admit, a smiling Sun is not what you'd expect in the final panel of an ostensibly-serious strip!
This never-reprinted tale from Fox's Rocket Kelly #4 (1946) was credited to "Ted Small", a Fox in-house pseudonym used on all the Rocket Kelly stories (despite several obviously-different writers and artists) along with a number of one-shot features!
Illustrated by Arnold Hicks, this story is from the third (and final) version of the strip, after being a WWII aviator with a souped-up fighter-bomber...then a WWII aviator who accidentally ends up aboard an alien spacecraft...to an ex-WWII aviator whose genius father gives him his own creation to fly around in and keep the Earth safe.

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Friday, July 25, 2025

Friday Fun COOL CAT "See You in the Funnies"

We Love it When Comics Go  (Sorta) "Meta"...

...in this case, characters being spied upon by a comics creative with his own ulterior motive!




This never-reprinted tale from Prize's Cool Cat V9N1 (1962), written and illustrated by Jack O'Brien may confuse many readers younger than Baby Boomers (1946-1966) who don't realize the extensive variety of subcultures that existed during the 1960s.
Cool Cat's parents are beatniks.
Cool Cat himself is a hipster/slacker.
The cartoonist, though a creative, is a square, supposedly not as "artistic" as a beatnik or hipster.
Note: there are no hippies at this point.
They didn't come along for another several years.
Trivia: Though this is V9N1, it's the second of only three Cool Cat issues, none of which have ever been reprinted in any form!
The numbering was continued from Black Magic, created by Jack Kirby & Joe Simon in 1950.
Writer/artist Jack O'Brien began his comics career in 1943, doing work for everyone from Charlton to Parents Magazine Press to Dell to Harvey to Timely (Marvel's predecessor).
His first work for Prize was in 1952, and he continued freelancing for them until 1965, switching over to their b/w MAD magazine clone SICK when the four-color comic line was cancelled in 1963.
His new last work appeared in 1976.