Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!
... AND THEY'RE ALL WEARING LEATHER PANTS.
PERFECTLY NORMAL.
DON'T STARE.
"IT'S A MAN'S LIFE ON BLACKHAWK ISLAND!"
(... or "SPINNING INTO THE SUN WITH BART AND THE BOYS": Pt. 3)
Yeah. That's right.
"King Zootomy." "The Moonster." And now this deviant dinkwater.
When it came to costumed super-villains: the BLACKHAWK Comics of the Silver Age were the meta-fictive equivalent of your local community dinner theatre: balding, buck-toothed assistant vice-principals and used car salesmen named "Lloyd" poncing about the proscenium in poorly- stitched costumes and camping it up like the late Paul Lynde, circa THE HOLLYWOOD SQUARES.
Damn thee, France E. Herron! Damn thee! 
... which reminds me: your smart-mouthed Unca Cheeks made himself one holy heck of a major boo-boo, last time out.
In response to last week's smug assertion on my part that:
"(Ya know... the 'France E. Herron' credited with the script for this particular
issue: it's a name pretty much unknown to me, outside of the occasional
BLACKHAWKS comic of the period. I gotta think -- right here; right now
-- that there's one darned good reason for that, ultimately.) "
... site regular (and reigning master of all Silver Age trivia) Rich Morrisey e-mailed me with the following gentle correction:
"Actually, France E. Herron was one of the veteran writers of comics, with some more important credits than his BLACKHAWK stories (some... MOST, I think... better than "The Moon Monster"). He was first brought into comics by Joe Simon and Jack Kirby (working with them at Fox, Marvel, and Fawcett, writing the first Red Skull story in CAPTAIN AMERICA #1), and, as an early writer and editor at Fawcett, has been credited with creating Captain Marvel, Jr."
Boyoboyoboy... when Unca Cheeks screws up, he does it with a regular
ol' flourish, don't he, though...?
Okay. Okay. France E. Herron wrote the first
Red Skull story. And created Captain Marvel, Jr. And
whispered in the ear of a young Billy Shakespeare, to the effect that "Hamlet"
was probably a better idea, name-wise, than "Gigantor-X"; AND
was the first man to successfully split the atom. He's the king of the
world! He's God, only with spiffier shoes! All right?
You all happy, f'chrissakes -- ?!?
"The Cloak-and-Swagger
Crimes of Mr. Quick-Change!" [BLACKHAWK #223; August,
1966; France E. Herron, writer; Dick Dillin, artist]
opens up with a shot of a tall, gangly, goateed gentleman sporting a snappy
turn-of-the-century ensemble and approaching a comely (if somewhat understandably
perplexed) young bank teller.
"It's quite
simple, my dear." the natty nasty responds, when the wide-eyed working
girl asks him to repeat himself. "I said: hand over all
your proceeds!"
As said request would appear (at first blush) to stretch the competitive concept of "Free Checking" just a wee bit beyond those limits normally regarded as the banking industry standard, one of the hired guards thereabouts takes it upon himself to escort the gentleman from the premises, at gunpoint...
... or, rather: attempts to do so.
Doffing his stovepipe hat and courteously introducing himself as "Mr. Quick-Change" -- leading one to ponder, certainly, ree: which criminal nom de guerres the dandy desperado must have rejected, earlier, as being not quite as good as that one -- twists a button on his suitcoat, and promptly floods the immediate area with "an inky cloud of gas."
("My hat serves as a gas mask," the GQ-inspired gunsel adds, burying his face into said chapeau. "... get it?")
(One page -- just one page, mind -- and, already: I just
want to smack this feeb's silly little face off. With a claw
hammer.)
The Blackhawks come storming in from Stage Left; a sight which leaves the lawless laddie-buck with hair unturned.
("The Blackhawks!" he gleefully exclaims. "Just as I expected! I knew you were in the neighborhood... that's why I chose this bank as a target!" So... then... like... these guys all do their banking here, then? As a group? While swishing about in those darling li'l green-and-red costumes of theirs...?
(Geez, but this was one weird, weeeeeeiiiirrrrrrd little comics
series. I'm just sayin', is all, here.)
As the Swingin' Seven advance en masse towards an eerily calm Mr. Quick-Change, the creepy clothier turns his jacket inside-out with a practiced flick of the wrist; and...
"Now --
just like that -- my Octopus Coat becomes a Transistorized
Power Jacket!"
(Look: I don't care if the guy did come
up with Captain bloody Marvel, Jr., at this point. Right is right, and
wrong is just wrong. Think of the children, for God's sake.)
Floored by Mr. Quick-Change's electro-static ensemble, the Blackhawks nevertheless quickly regroup for yet another "go" at the foppish felon; only to find themselves uncharacteristically flummoxed, in turn, as the gentleman fingers one of the buttons of his shirt, and...
... well, hell: maybe you really ought to see this one
for yourselves, here.
Just sorta makes you wanna run right out and savagely
knife a stray runway supermodel or three to death in karmic retaliation,
doesn't it...?
"This is outrageous!" a furious bank manager splutters at our red-
faced heroes, mere moments afterwards.
"While all the confusion was going on out here, hoodlums robbed the vault...
and escaped through the back!"
"So that
was the caper," a stunned Blackhawk exclaims. "A few spectacular
feats out here... while the real business was going on at
the vault!"
"Sacre bleu!" a mortified Andre mutters. "He made dolts of us... non?"
(Oh, Andre... Andre. Still splashing about in the brackish
waters of denial, re: that whole sordid when-siblings-marry business
on your mother's side of the family, are we...?)
"That night"
(the following caption wearily informs us); "... atop the girders of a
bridge, a sensational figure appears, glowing like a neon sign..."
With a dramatic
chuff-chuff-chuff, the Ace Aviators make the scene
in their ubiquitous "Hawk-Copter." (Hey... it was more than thirty years
ago, awright? Helicopters were still pretty darned dramatic,
darn it! Kinda. Sorta.)
A smirking Mr. Quick-Change (for such it is, obviously) stands stock still and allows the 'hawks to to snare him with a lasso and hoist him aloft. (Lassos. They were still pretty much on the "dramatic" side o' things, as well. Helicopters and lassos. Yup. Yupyupyup.)
"Talk about playing right into my hands," Mr. Quick-Change gloats. "I could have pulled off this caper any number of ways... but using the Blackhawks' help is a real dilly...!"
("Caper" and "dilly." Both in the very same sentence,
mind. Oh, my.)
Utilizing the one Highly Dramatic Device for which even so richly experienced a crime-fighting combo as the mighty Blackhawks are well and truly unprepared (i.e., A Really Sharp Knife), Mr. Quick-Change cuts himself free just as the Hawk-Copter is passing over an innocuous-seeming fishing boat. Which (apparently) Our Tricky Tailor knew all about, beforehand. AND (one must likewise assume) the wily wastrel just darned well knew they'd be conveniently passing directly over, once the dramatic dictates of both 'copter and lasso had been decently assuaged.)
(My
question, then: if France E. Herron was only ten, maybe
twelve years old -- TOPS -- then how, oh how did he ever
manage the neat little trick of having penned stories a good twenty years
before this one...?) ;))
Dropping
down lightly upon the deck of the aforementioned craft with all the sweet,
natural grace of a paralytic sumo wrestler, Mr. Quick-Change quickly doffs
his tres cumbersome whatever-the-hell- that-was-supposed-to-be
costume, revealing to both startled onlooker and reader alike that [Pick
One]:
A.) ... that rascally rogue is wearing yet another confoundingly clever costume underneath the first one! Oh, golly moses -- !
B.) ... tragically, the normally forward-thinking Mr. Quick-Change neglected to wear yet another confoundingly clever costume underneath the first one.
Not to mention any underwear.
C.) ... some fellahs are just naturally happier to see a deckload of
rough, rugged sailor boys than others might be, under roughly similar
circumstances. Ahoy there, mateys -- !
Blinding
the startled seamen with a quick flash from his "Sun-Vest," a mocking Mr.
Quick-Change "grabs a statuette from a glass case in the cabin"; shrugs
his way into yet a third ridiculous get-up (this one being the homeliest
and most uniquely awful affair yet; and just how many of these dopey
things can a human being wear at any one time, anyway...?); and
dives headlong into the awaiting briny, scant seconds ahead of the huffing
and puffing Blackhawks.
Darting,
minnow-like, into his idling mini-sub stationed nearby (!!), Mr. Quick-Change
gets away with the solid gold statue dingus; once again leaving DC Comics'
renowned World War Two aces with telltale traces of egg yolk across their
grim-countenanced features.
"That was a great trick last night, boss," one of Quick-Change's easily-
impressed flunkies enthuses, once
they've all reached the comparative safety of the latter's super-secret
underground hideout. "Standin' on the bridge like a big lightning
bug... purposely attractin' the Blackhawks!"
"Anything to goof the Blackhawks," the
creepy clothes-horse cackles, by way of reply. "That's my motto!"
(... and one which stands precious little danger of being cruelly appropriated
by any other struggling would-be Master Criminal, I dare say.)
Giddy as
a schoolgirl (albeit a really ugly schoolgirl, certainly) over his
recent string of successes, robbery-wise: Hell's Own Haberdasher
takes the opportunity to gosh-wow his appreciative gunsels with an impromptu
"fashion show" of sorts, modeling (in turn) "my Clock Costume";
"my Invisible Suit"; and "... my prize, however [...] this
Blackhawk suit! Dashing, eh? And around this
costume, I've built my greatest plot!"
("Greater" than the bank job... and the gold
statue thingie? Jump back, Ra's al Ghul -- !)
"Meanwhile, in
a projection room on Blackhawk Island": our much-chagrined champions
are studying a blow-up head shot of Mr. Quick-Change (" [...] taken at
the bank," the team's leader sonorously points out to his assembled
troops. ""On the right is a copy of the shot... with the goatee
painted out!")
"Recognize
him now... without the chin foliage?" Blackhawk inquires
of his men.
"Yumpin' Yiminy!" the never-less-than-annoying Olaf exclaims. "That ban big crook called 'The Tailor'!"
(To paraphrase the character of Arthur Dent, re: THE HITCHHIKER'S
GUIDE TO THE GALAXY: "Apparently, this is some strange usage of the phrase
'big crook' with which I have previously been unfamiliar.")
"Oui," copy-cat Andre adds, in hasty agreement. "Ze Tailor! He used to make trick suits for smugglers!"
"Right!" Blackhawk concurs. "[...] we squashed his racket and sent him to jail!"
"Dunder!" the all-but-senile Hendrickson concludes. "And dot's why he vants revenge!"
(Is it just your cold and unforgiving Unca Cheeks here, campers...
or does the fact that all seven putative big-deal 'crime fighters' in
this chicken outfit were simultaneously bamboozled, re: this cut-rate
Lex Luthor's true identity, by a friggin' wisp of chin hair strike anybody
else hereabouts as reflecting rather poorly on their joint powers
of observation and/or ratiocination? I mean, given that they were
the ones who beat up on the big weenie in the first place, and
all...?)
The following
evening -- in response to radio reports that a trio of masked gunmen are
ambushing and robbing armored bank trucks -- six of the seven Blackhawks
(sans their American member: the tow-headed Chuck)
literally drop down from the heavens, BIFFing and BAMMing
the aforementioned highwaymen bold with studly, swaggering abandon.
"Suddenly"
(the following caption helpfully provides); "... from machine-gun slots
in the armored car shoot streams of gas... not at the crooks,
but at the Blackhawks!"
"Boss!" one of the Quick-Change's henchmen shouts. "The Blackhawk named Chuck is missing! Only six of them here... and they're all out cold!"
"The other one's probably up in the 'copter," a smug Quick-Change observes; "... but what's the difference? All I want is Blackhawk himself! Hurry!"
Cheerfully
obedient wage slaves that they are, the gunsels lob the unconscious Blackhawk
into the armored car they've only just commandeered; leaving the remaining
heroes still fallen and unconscious on the pavement in their disdainful
wake.
"I'll make
myself up to look like him," Mr. Quick-Change confides in
his worshipful henchmen, as they later lug the (still unmoving) Ace Aviator
into their secret hideaway; "... then join his men! As their
disguised leader, I can lead them one by one into a death trap!"
(... which -- given that we've already seen how this bone-headed bunch
can be buffaloed by nothing more than a Mitch Miller-style beard,
f'cryin' out loud -- actually has the eerie ring of plausibility to it,
don't you think...?)
However: e'en the best-laid plans of men (to say nothing of severely delusional fashion victims) oft go awry, in their final, pivotal moments; as a stunned and uncomprehending Mr. Quick-Change quickly discovers, once the possum-playing hero (supposedly) in his villainous clutches reveals himself to be none other than...
... the missing Chuck!
"Get him!" a muy frustrated Mr. Quick-Change shrieks at his hapless henchmen, as the latter proceed to topple like so many two-legged dominoes in the face of the scrappy Chuck's two-fisted assault. "Get him! Don't tell me that one man can take you!"
"Wrong,
buster!" a familiar voice confidently barks from behind him. "There
are two of us here!"
It is (of
course) the real Blackhawk: wearing one of Quick-Change's
special costumes (specifically, the previously-seen "Sun-Vest").
Utilizing the dastard's own fashion accessory to... ummmm... well... dazzle the remaining gunsels into helpless, squealing submission (boy... they just don't make henchmen like they used to, do they...?), Blackhawk and Chuck prepare to do a quick double-team on the big stinky Head Cheese, his own bad self...
... only
to discover, to their joint dismay, that (during all the ruckus and hurly-burly
of a moment agone) the weasely wastrel has taken the opportunity to slither
his way into his "Invisible Suit" -- !
(Y'know...
the last person your jaded and much-traveled Unca Cheeks saw who
could clamber into and out of a snappy ensemble with such blinding
alacrity was this cute li'l Theatre Arts major of his [then-]coltish
acquaintance by the name of Nancy, back in his long bygone collegiate
days. I mean: she could hit a light switch and end up under
the freakin' covers before the room got dark, all right?
Why, I remember this one time, in fact, when she broke all existing
land speed records in her panting, wide-eyed eagerness to --
(... well: another time, perhaps.)
Nonetheless: neither said "Invisible Suit" or a subsequent change into the even
dopier-looking "Walking Time Bomb Costume" proves sufficient in
forestalling the inevitable; and it is with obvious satisfaction that Blackhawk
himself delivers the final roundhouse haymaker to the GQ-Obsessed
Goober's goateed gawp.
The final
panel shows a sullen and dispirited Mr. Quick-Change languishing in the
durance vile of the local State Penitentiary...
... where -- let's face it -- the sort of fellah who really knows how to decently accessorize can always make the acquaintance of many and varied... ummmmmm... interesting individuals.
I'm just sayin', really. That's all.
Be here next week, for the breathtakingly bizarre conclusion to our BLACKHAWK Comics of the Silver Age retrospective!
Wear something... pretty, okay?
You all know what Unca Cheeks likes.
The BLACKHAWK Comics of the Silver Age (PAGE ONE)
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