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Mangy, Lowdown Varmints.
(Part One)
Contrary to the consensus of popular opinion -- which is seldom well considered,
and very nearly always wrong; disastrously wrong -- the
character of Captain America was
NOT the single greatest collaborative creation of Joe Simon and
Jack "King" Kirby. (... although the good captain
does stand, now and forever, as said duo's signal super-hero
conceptualization.)
Likewise: the Simon/Kirby team's far-sighted invention of the "romance comics" genre, with the September, 1947 publication of YOUNG ROMANCE COMICS, does not rank as their all-time boldest creative endeavor, overall. (... although said title did materially change the face of the industry, for decades to come.)
No. No. And... ummmm... no, dammit. 
As any comics reader so favored by Dame Fortune as to have chanced across a copy of that magnificent (and much analyzed) Simon & Kirby western comics series of the early '50s will readily and enthusiastically attest:
... BOYS' RANCH, baby.
In a slow, cool walk: BOYS' RANCH.
Nothin' else even comes close.
Let's take BOYS' RANCH #3, just as a f'rinstance.
"Mother Delilah" [BOYS' RANCH #3; February, 1951; Jack Kirby and Joe Simon, storytellers] opens up with a shot of town poet (and part-time sot) Virgil Underwood, determinedly cadging a free shot of the local redeye from the barkeep of "The Last Chance Saloon": where the cowpoke elite meet to eat, here in the pugnacious little prairie town of Four Massacres.
A sneering quartet of the local hardcases swagger into said establishment,
whilst the aforementioned Virgil is boozily waxing poetic. ("For I have
great wealth! Vast treasures locked within my soul...
of which I give freely, to my fellow humans!" You see how
the old lush goes on, then.)
"Howdy, Shakespeare!" the surliest and snottiest of the four slopebrows -- one Curly Yaeger, by name -- bellows, good-naturedly doing his bit, re: the town's restaurant cleanliness ordinances, by using Virgil's face to wipe the counter. "Give us a verse!"
"He won't be able to," one of Curly's more philosophically inclined hangers-on points out, reasonably; "... if you knock his teeth loose, Curly!"
"The mark of Cain is clearly seen," a coldly furious Virgil portentously intones, fixing Curly with a glare that could peel the varnish from a coffee table at five hundred paces; "... and justice will be done... a gun will flame, a life shall end! Then laugh, you fool... t'will be your OWN!"
(Okay. Okay... granted, it ain't Don McLean singin' "American Pie," exactly...
(... still: when one pauses to reflect on what baseline educational
and literacy standards were doubtless like, back in the prairie
day...)
"Don't know what you mean by them words" (boy... there's a shocker, huh?), a suspicious Curly growls, hefting the scrawny and diminutive Virgil by his threadbare lapels; "... but they sure sounded nasty! I oughtta -- !"
"Let him GO, Curly!" a low, throaty voice imperiously demands, from across the saloon...
... and, just like that:
... SHE sashays in.
"I pay humble tribute to you, gallant lady!" a fawningly grateful Virgil enthuses, as the entrance upon the scene of tavern owner Delilah startles Curly and Company into plopping him unceremoniously onto the floor. "Ne'er has fairer maiden nor more valiant goddess leaped to the defense of a gentleman's honor!"
"Stow it, Virgil!" a contemptuous and sloe-eyed Delilah murmurs, on what is (doubtless) the reader's behalf. (A little bit of ol' Virgil, you see, goes a long, long way.) "I've got some house cleaning to do!"
"Yes, I mean you, Curly!" the tumbleweed temptress continues, advancing with grim and remorseless purpose towards the assembled hardcases. "You and your boys were told once to stay away from this place! And I mean it to stick!"
"Only one I ever took orders from was my paw," Curly mocks, openly; blandly referencing the somewhat controversial (even for those parts) circumstances of his half-man, half-canine parentage. "... and since he got hung for horse stealin', I don't take orders from no one! Not even YOU, Del!"
"Miss Delilah to YOU!" the prairie patootie sneers, witheringly. "Now, get out, Curly!"
"Aw, come on, Del!" rustic romeo Curly unctuates, grabbing her in something between a half-nelson and a full Bob Packwood. "You know how I feel about you! That's why I drop in to break up this place! It's my way of courtin' you!"
[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: ... and, somewhere off in the far distance:
the awful sound of noted western authors Zane Grey and Louis
Lamour revolving like twin steam drills within their respective
graves thunders throughout the black and barren earth...]
The saloon's bouncer, Jonas, strides meaningfully across the room, intent upon liberating his lithesome employer from Curly's loco lotharianisms; only to be rewarded, ultimately, with a impromptu handgun facial for his troubles.
"My boys play rougher'n yours, Del!" a gleeful Curly
observes, as the late, lamented Jonas hits the floorboards like a poleaxed
puma. "Now how about that there kiss?" (... and who,
oh, who could resist a sagebrush smoothie the likes of this
fellah, huh? The Tom Jones of the old west, this guy
is. I'm just sayin', is all.)
"Why, you yellow sidewinder!" a frantically struggling Delilah all but spits, in baleful response. "You shot him in cold blood!"
"Now how about that there kiss?" a stubborn Curly repeats, blinking in mild confusion at her steadfast refusal to collapse, all a-swoon, into his well-muscled arms.
"There are things living in the spaces between your teeth!" an apoplectic Delilah rages. "Your breath is directly responsible for the greater portion of Arizona being a freakin' desert, all right? Your underwear was designated a toxic waste site by the Environmental Protection Agency! Stamp your left hoof twice if any of this is sinking in, Professor Hawking!"
"Now how about that there kiss?" the persistent Curly attempts once more, glancing worriedly at the "cheater" notes hastily scribbled on one fraying shirtsleeve.
"We don't even share the same number of chromosomes, f'chrissakes, you sun-baked mesa mutant!" Delilah shrills, hysterically; working loose the hidden cyanide capsule lodged between her teeth with her tongue. "The only way you'd ever get into my pants is with an acetylene torch and a court order! Helloooooo? Any higher brain activity going on, in there? HELLOOOOOOOOOOO -- ?!?"
Wellllllllllllll... no. Not really, I s'pose.
What really happens, is: "Seemingly from nowhere, an arm in buckskin lashes out with a steel fist against the man with the smoking gun!"; annnnnnnnnnnd --
... here come the good guys!
Top panel, from left to right, then: hillbilly hick Wabash,
whose parents formerly referred to one another as "sister" and "brother";
former Union cavalry boy Dandy, who practically sleeps in
that cockamamie blue army uniform; longhaired and bloodthirsty wild child
Angel (the wild west Wolverine of his day); and adult guardian
Clay Duncan (a.k.a., "The Man Who Shot Liberace. And
Then Raided His Bedroom Closet.")
"Your men are as foolhardy with their guns as you are with your manners, Curly!" a disappointed Clay clucks; standing over the former's rattled fellow ranch hand and piercing him with a steely glare. "Let Miss Delilah go... and apologize to her!"
"Hold on, Duncan!" Curly objects, stoutly. "[Pick One] -- ":
A.) "... I'm no frightened brat to take a scolding from you!"
B.) "... that's purty big talk,comin' from a full grown ki-yote what spends all his spare time rustlin' up stray pre-adolescent boys and takin' 'em back to his 'ranch.' An' listenin' to old Peter Allen records."
C.) "... now how about that there kiss?"
"It's more'n a scolding you need, mister!" a sullen Angel icily intones. "A swift kick in the seat o' your pants would put you in order!"
"Now, I'd say that's more likely to happen to you than to me,
sprout!" an openly incredulous Clay scoffs, by way of response.
"Dawgonne! If you aren't the purtiest cub I ever did
see!" (... oh, man... are we ever gettin' into a weird, weird
area, here...)
Wholly unaware of just how close to the situational edge he's straying, then: Curly reaches out to take a quick, mean tug on Angel's golden locks ("Let's see if that long hair is real -- !"), and is promptly rewarded with a thoroughly savage pummeling, courtesy of the preternaturally protective Clay, in turn. ("I said leave that boy be! [...] The next time, I'll write it on your tombstone!")
After muttering a surly pledge to the effect that "we'll see who ends up on Boot Hill for this, Duncan!" through a mouthful of appreciably loosened bridgework, the chastened Curly (along with his punk-ass posse) slinks shamefacedly through the swinging doors of "The Last Chance Saloon"; leaving burly Clay and curvaceous Delilah to appraise one another warily, in the aftermath.
"Sure is nice to see you again, Clay!" Delilah purrs, tugging on her ample décolletage and winking broadly. "You've always been a good friend! I... I've sorta missed you, these days!"
"Helping the boys run the ranch is a full time job,
Del!" a red-faced Clay manages to blurt, fighting off a mild case of heterosexual
panic. "I don't get to town very often!" (Yeah... well:
not without a police escort, at any rate.)
"I'd be mighty pleased if you'd stay for dinner, Clay!" Delilah persists, rubbing herself up and down the length of the rancher's ramrod posture like a mink in heat and waving a fistful of "Try One, Get One FREE!" coupons underneath his nose. "There's so much I'd like to talk about!"
"Perhaps some other time, Del," Clay stammers, thinking desperately of old baseball batting averages. "Fact is, the boys and I were headin' for the barber shop when we heard the ruckus!"
"That is... exceptin' Angel!" rustic Wabash -- whose face resembles nothing so much as a gnawed and overlarge yam -- asides, cannily. "He won't stand for hair-trimmin'!"
(Wellllllll... not on his head, anyways. Smooth, adolescent
boys. Long, lonely nights on the ranch, with the seductive strains
of The Grand Old Opry Radio Hour wafting over the darkling plains.
Bacon grease. Party dresses. Oh, Mary, don't ask.)
"I asked you to STAY, Duncan!" a suddenly enraged Delilah snaps, waspishly. "The only people who say no to Del Barker... are those who live to regret it!"
Well, suh: it's a right persuasive argument, and no mistake... but: Clay and his merry band of boy-men unilaterally reject it, all the same; quitting The Last Chance (and sexually charged Socratic dialogue) in favor of things more agreeably tonsorial.
Holding hands. And skipping.
The saloon's patrons all enjoy a friendly (albeit inebriated) round of horselaughing at the frustrated and crestfallen Delilah's expense, then; leading the exotic entrepreneur, in turn, to spin about on shapely heel and shrill:
"Men! I wouldn't give a pinch of fool's gold for the lot of you! And I'll break a bottle over the skull of the next one of you who laughs!"
"Pay this rabble no heed, madam!" an obsequious Virgil fawns, draping what appears to be a particularly tacky and moth-eaten antimacassar over Del's milky shoulders. "I suggest [Pick One] -- ":
A.) "... a stroll in the open air, to ease your hurts... and rid you of these oafish taunts!"
B.) "... booze. Because Booze Satisfies. Booze UNDERSTANDS."
C.) "... sneaking into nearby barnyards, in the dead of night, and tarting up small, defenseless domesticated animals in teensy-tiny ballerina outfits."
D.) "... slipping into something suitably authoritarian,
and climbing to the top of Mount Me. And then see
which one of us ends up yodeling first."
"You've got something there, Virgil!" a contemplative Delilah agrees, while the former takes a few spastic swipes at the giant, imaginary bats circling overhead. "Angel is the apple of Duncan's eye... if the kid got into a scrape, it would probably kill Duncan!"
"Beware, Delilah!" the potsy poet intones, dolorously.
"Beware! Better to be scorned than dead!
The boy can draw a gun like a winged serpent!" (Whatever
the hell that means, ultimately. I mean: we're talkin' about
a guy who considers "Night Train" one of the four basic food groups,
all right...?)
"Remember, Virgil," a coolly contemplative Delilah murmurs, by way of response; "... it was a woman who delivered Samson to his enemies... and Angel, without his guns... is only a... little boy!"
"And you, I fear," Virgil concludes, morosely, "are still... Delilah!"
As opposed to... I dunno... Davy Crockett, mebbe. Or Angela
Lansbury. Or Elvis Costello. Look, I just work
here, people.
A few days later, then: it is a more demurely dressed and chaste-
seeming Delilah who accidentally-on-purpose chances across the sullen Angel, hitching his pony to a post in town.
"You don't sound very friendly, Angel," Delilah scolds, gently, in response to Angel's mumbled and diffident howdy, ma'am. "Can't say I blame you much... after the way I acted to Clay, the other day! That's the reason why I stopped you... I... I felt I owed you an apology!"
"No need for that, ma'am," the pint-size pistolero rasps, grudgingly.
"I hold no grievances agin' women!" Ah jes' shoots
'em, basically. Shoots 'em daid.
"Is it because," the femme fatale inquires, throatily, "one of them may turn out to be your mother?"
"MA'AM!" a disbelieving Angel blurts, scandalized by the very notion.
(Grade school biology courses were at something of a premium, you
see, back in the days of the Old West.) (Up until that precise moment,
Young Angel had just naturally assumed that Clay Duncan was his
mother.)
"I can speak to you this way, Angel!" a downcast Delilah explains, twisting the knife with practiced ease. "I'm searching, too... for a little boy forever lost to me... you remind me very much of him -- "
"The strange wound which Angel has lived with as long as he can remember," the following caption sobbingly emotes, "burns once more! The voice of this woman is both pain and longing... it's a sad and gentle voice! It stirs him... torments him... and overcomes him!"
"These have been lonely years for me, Angel!" Delilah confides, at the end of their little ride together. "I... I miss the sounds that happy, noisy little boys can make..."
[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: Stop that, now. Just stop
it. Lousy bunch of degenerates.]
"... would you consider having dinner with me?" she concludes, sweetly.
[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: Okay. Unca was wrong, then.
It probably is what you all were thinking. For a change.]
The preternaturally wary Angel allows as how this might be kinda sorta in the neighborhood of something resembling an actual plan, all things being equal; and we cut to an evening or two later, then...
"I'm mighty glad you came tonight!" a bright-eyed Delilah enthuses, surreptitiously kicking a few stray frontier sex toys underneath the sofa. "You'll like the vittles! Made 'em myself!"
"Gosh, Miss Delilah," an eager Angel burbles, the tantalizing aroma of freshly killed, dressed and roasted schoolmarm wafting towards him. "That dress! It [Pick One] -- ":
A.) "... isn't the flashy kind you usually wear! You look like a rancher's wife... or somethin'!"
B.) "... isn't the flashy kind Clay usually wears!"
C.) "... rightly oughtta be mine, ah reckon! MINE -- !" [whips out his pistol, scorpion-like, and plugs a frozen and uncomprehending Delilah right bewteen the peepers. Turns towards the reader, matter-of-
factly]: "C'mon. My name's Angel; I've got Farrah Fawcett hair; and I live in an all-male enviroment. Don't make me spell it out, here, awright...?"
D.) "... now how about that there kiss?"
"Well, if I were," the slinky slattern ripostes; "... I wouldn't let any boy of mine tote six-guns around the house!"
"Hold on, there!" an incredulous Angel stammers, backpedaling frantically as this issue's designated Plot Point thunders down on him like a runaway semi towards a paralyzed baby bunny in the center lane. "You don't understand! I'm never without my guns! I -- !"
"Just for tonight!" Delilah soothes, silkily. "I'm your
Maw... you're my boy! And, you look doggone silly
sittin' at the supper table armed to the teeth!" (Unlike
the hardy dinner fare routinely offered at Boys' Ranch, you see:
"vittles" are cooked and served after being killed, at Delilah's
house. Usually.)
A grudging Angel reluctantly surrenders his shooting irons to Delilah's dour-faced maid, ultimately...
... and then: the saloon gal Salome really throttles up
the mind game machinery to Full-Bore Machiavelli... and then some.
"Oh, stop squirming!" Delilah chides the shirtless and thrashing
Angel; the latter spluttering helplessly as the former gently sluices
away several years worth of accumulated prairie grit, grime, and
-- inexplicably -- Elizabeth Taylor's Passion. "A
little water can make the difference between a saddle bum and a
young gentleman!" (And she's the gal who'd know, when
it comes to "making" gentlemen. I'm just sayin'...)
"Now," she continues, toweling the glum lad dry with brisk efficiency; "... isn't it nice to be clean and fresh... and have some foolish woman fussing about you?"
Squeezing his eyes shut and thinking resolutely of Clay, then: the fluffed-and-folded Angel further submits, in short order, to:
A.) ... the aforementioned "vittles." (That's authentic western-type lingo, incidentally, for: "The Sibling Who Was Coughing Up The Most Blood, Yesterday Morning.")
B.) ... an impromptu spelling bee (!!). ("Deoxyribonucleic acid... d-e-e-o-x-i...")
C.) ... and, as a final, horrific situational "cherry" atop the
evening's festivities: really lousy frontier PARLOR MUSIC -- !
"Sure is a purty song!" an appreciative Angel grins, as Delilah warbles her way tunelessly through Side Two of the latest GWAR album. "Isn't at all like the rowdy-dowdy singin' you do at the dance hall!"
"No, it isn't a rowdy dowdy song," Delilah agrees, planting a sweetly maternal smoochie atop a furiously blushing Angel's forehead. "Because, tonight, I'm a fine lady... singing to her little son!"
"G-Gulp," Angel mutters, by way of inarticulate response; rowdy
dowdy thoughts galvanizing his hormone-suffused nervous system.
(Some of them actually involving people, rather than livestock.
Or Clay.)
"Errr... it's getting purty late," a suddenly guilt-stricken Delilah murmurs, gently pushing an entranced Angel away from her; "... a-and every growing boy needs lots of rest! I guess you'd better be headin' back to the ranch..."
"Yes, ma'am," the now-thoroughly-Stepfordized Angel mewls, in ensorcled agreement. (... and looking more and more like a buckskinned Brittney Spears with each and every passing moment.)
"Remember, now!" Delilah reminds her little victi... errrrrrr...
friend. "We have an appointment for Sunday... to go
for a walk along Main Street!" (Boy... was life one
thrilling, non-stop adventure after another, back in the Old West,
or what...?)
"You can count on me, ma'am," the zuvembie-fied Angel agrees, all thoughts of six-guns and bronco-busting now replaced by bright, backlit images of... I dunno... butter churnings, or something. "I'll be there!"
"After Angel leaves," the following caption confides; "...Delilah's maid explodes in a fit of cackling laughter!"
"YES, MA'AM! NO, MA'AM!" the hideous crone (she looks like Dolly Madison by way of Leslie Nielsen, awright?) brays, in rustic and malevolent glee. "HA! HA! HA! I'm fit to bustin'! You've got that lead-
slingin' imp of Satan eatin' right out of your hand, Del!"
"Save the laughs for the right moment," an inexplicably pensive and faraway Delilah counters, absently; "... you old crow!"
So, then:
We've got one feral and quasi-sociopathic man-child, having his shabby mental furniture subtly rearranged by a guilt-stricken (or is she?) dance hall Jezebel; with every indication that the resulting emotional fireworks will end up being of truly epic proportions.
*Whew* -- !
Pretty heavy (and impressive) dramatic sledding, really, for
an early '50s western comic, huh...?
Be here next time out, then, campers'n'camperettes; as we take an eager and panting look at Part Two of the immortal BOYS' RANCH classic, "Mother Delilah."
It. Is. Gonna. Be. So. Danged. Cool.
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