Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!
The Charismatic Life and Tyrannical Times of Victor Von Doom, Esq. (Part FOUR)
AN IMPORTANT NOTICE FROM "UNCA CHEEKS' " ATTENDING PHYSICIAN: the eminent DR. ALOYSIUS P. CORNWELL-SMYTHE
Good afternoon. My name is Dr. Aloysius P. Cornwell-Smythe.
For the past few years, now, I have served in the capacity of personal physician for the dangerously unbalanced individual known to most of you as "Unca Cheeks."
It is with the most profound regrets that I must inform you -- "Unca Cheeks' " regular weekly audience for his addled ravings, re: these old "comical books" over which he ceaselessly obsesses -- that a recent series of setbacks in his weekly therapy sessions has left him temporarily unable to serve as your online "host." He --
... oh, bloody hell. Let's not mince words, here, shall we? The poor s.o.b.'s a friggin' nutjob, all right?
Bughouse. Looney Tunes. Whack-a-ding-hoy. Two McNuggets shy of a Happy Meal, f'chrissakes.
Accordingly: I have allowed him -- just before we had to haul out the tranquilizer rifle; and immediately following that unfortunate incident involving the busload of nuns and orphans; the trampoline; the life-size inflatable Florence Henderson doll; AND the child's wading pool filled with Campbell's Chunky Cream of Chicken Gumbo -- to arrange for a "guest host" (if you like) for this week's column concerning this distasteful "Doctor Doom" fellow.
"Unca Cheeks" will be back with all of you next week; the Good Lord (and a few major breakthroughs in the psychiatric and/or pharmaceutical sciences) willing.
We now turn you over to... to...
... well: to whomever he managed to rope into this ridiculous online enterprise of his, I suppose.
Thank you.
Good evening, scum.
I am... the Batman.
I don't know what sort of foolishness and folderol "Unca Cheeks" tended to allow, during these imbecilic "retrospectives" of his...
... and -- quite frankly -- I don't really care.
Sit down. Shut up.
Anyone I catch whispering to their neighbors at any point during the lecture will be dragged out into the back alleyway, screaming for their mothers; and given a thorough, savage and bloody "Bat"-beating.
... and you don't even wanna know what I do to gum-chewers.
Fanboy vermin.
"... And Be a Villain!" [SUPER-VILLAIN TEAM-UP #5; April, 1976; Steve Englehart, author; Herb Trimpe, artist] is one of those hopelessly muddled Marvel Comics-style affairs of the dreary sort that -- believe you me -- we simply don't >stand for, over at good old DC Comics, Inc.
Thank you. Good evening. Break any laws on your way home, and I'll hunt you down and cripple you for li --
... hmmmmm?
Oh. "Unca Cheeks always gives us more than that," does he...?
Good. Fine. I'd like to thank the young man in the third row wearing the "I [Heart] Super-Hero Action Figures" t-shirt two sizes too small for his more-than-ample torso for bringing that to my attention.
Somebody want to help him with that tourniquet, there...?
All right, then. I'm leafing through the comic book, here. Happy...?
There's a good deal of dithering and blathering between this "Sub- Mariner" fellow -- he claims to be "the King of Atlantis; clearly, the man's some sort of delusional freak; the real King of Atlantis just happens to be a personal friend of mine -- and the members of the Fantastic Four, whose skyscraper headquarters the former has just crash-blundered his way into while in the grips of some sort of delirium.
Hmmmmmm... apparently, this "Prince Namor" (HA!) underwent some sort of falling-out with his former partner in super-villainy: one Doctor Doom, to be precise. (Why these so-called "super-heroes" are even bothering to help the injured Sub-Mariner is beyond me, certainly. What they ought to be doing, obviously, is gang-pummeling him into a red, pulpy of torn cartilage and scar tissue. The way we do things in Gotham, by God!)
All right... let's see, now... the youngest member of the Fantastic Four -- the one calling himself the Human Torch (I do so like seeing idealistic, well-muscled youths getting themselves involved in the crime-fighting game. I wonder if he's ever considered wearing shorts on that costume, rather than full leggings...?) -- notices that there appears to be an intruder of some sort on the roof, and flies out to investigate. Good lad!
The Torch circles behind his prey, unawares, and discovers...
... discovers...
... OOOOOooo. Nice costume, there.
"What th -- ?" the Torch exclaims. "Who are you?"
"I am... the Shroud!" the dark-garbed man with the absolutely stunning fashion sense responds. "That is all you need to know!"
(Good. Excellent, in fact. Nicely terse, and dramatic as all get-out. Maybe deduct a point or two for striking the boy like that -- we don't much hold with that sort of thing, in my city -- but: good form, overall.)
It was not my intent to be seen!" the Shroud hisses. (Ah. A figure of mystery and terror, then. Better and better.) "I would have come -- and gone -- as silently as a shadow 'cross the moon! But now -- !"
"Good Lord!" the Torch thinks, staring at the Shroud's mask, a-gape. "Where are his eyes?"
Well: after brawling with the hapless Torch for another page or two and knocking him unconscious (this "Shroud" fellow really ought to think twice about doing that sort of thing; the young, well-toned and spandexed youth of our great nation ought to be protected. And watched over. Especially at night. When it's so hot that even the shadows can make you sweat... and you watch his clear, guileless eyes widen in pleasure and eager expectation as you peel away the top half of your costume... slowly... s-l-o-w-l-y... and... and... )
(... ahem.)
(None of you heard that last little "bit," there... right?)
... after knocking the Torch unconscious, not a great deal else happens in this issue. Let's move on to the next, then.
"Prisoner!" [SUPER-VILLAIN TEAM-UP #6; June, 1976; Steve Englehart, author; Herb Trimpe, artist] features a captive Prince Namor; Doctor Doom as his mocking captor; and the Fantastic Four, bearding the latter in his Latverian den in a desperate attempt to liberate the former.
No Two-Face or Joker, though. Drat.
At one point, the metallic monarch is seen entertaining a shadowy guest in this palatial demesne.
"Actually," the mysterious figure speaks; "... it was very good of you to see me at all at this hour."
"Come, come," a casual Von Doom responds. "We are both men of the world! [...] What is time to the fate of nations? If the truth be known, I have waited years for you to come to me!"
"... but you have said nothing," the Doctor continues; "leaving the peoples of the world to cherish their fantasy of a three-way struggle for supremacy, among Russia, China and America."
"I, too, shall speak frankly, Doctor," the urbane guest replies, smoothly. "Until now, I have not considered your weaponry enough to make you a fourth super-power. Your political base was too small. [...] But now -- !"
"YES!" a triumphant Von Doom ululates. "Now I am allied with ATLANTIS!"
"This man is dangerous," the monarch's guest muses, inwardly.
Ohhhhhh... pish-tosh. He's no Ra's al Ghul; that's for certain, at any rate. I've long since dedicated my life; my honor; indeed, my very breath and soul to the hounding and breaking of smug, self-important scum such as he... no matter how great or dread a bane they've ever proven themselves to my own continued exis --
(BaneBanebacksnappingpainpainBanePAINowieowieOWIEbigstinky
BaneohgollyjeepersthatsuresmartsthoughDickAlfredGordonAceHelpMe
MOMMMMMMMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE)
-- tence.
*Kaff*Kaff*
Yes. Well.
Von Doom's gloom-enshrouded houseguest finally stands revealed on the final page of this issue: none other than former Secretary of State Henry Kissinger, his own bad self.
Dr. Kissinger informs a nonplussed Fantastic Foursome that the United States has "just concluded a non-aggression agreement with Latveria! From this moment on, no Americans may interfere in this nation's internal affairs! We need Latveria on our side... to maintain our national security, and world peace!"
Unbeknownst to everyone else
scattered about the massive stone antechamber at this precise moment, however: that shockingly well-accoutred young tyro hero, the Shroud, is listening
from the shadows nearby. (I like this newcomer a little bit more every
time I see him. Now, here's a gent who appreciates the time-honored
Gotham way of doing things, by God...!) 
This brings us, in short storytelling order, to "Who Is... the Shroud?" [SUPER-VILLAIN TEAM-UP #7; August, 1976; Steve Englehart, author; Herb Trimpe; artist]
OOOOOOoooooh... an origin story!
I adore those!
A disconsolate Prince Namor -- still held captive by the smug and aloof Von Doom, within the adamantine bowels of the Latverian monarch's castle -- is confronted by a skulking Shroud.
"You might as well get comfortable, Sub-Mariner," The Son I Never Had informs the hapless hybrid. " [...] I have a long story to tell you... a story no other mortal has ever heard before... the origin of the Shroud!"
My own "origin story" -- promise you won't breathe a word to a soul, now -- has several "lesser known" aspects to it, come to think. How many of you loyal readers out there, for instance, were aware of the following fun "Bat-facts"...?
A.) The first object to come crashing through the drawing room window of my mansion, that fateful evening, wasn't a bat. It was the next-door neighbor kid's frisbee.
I came thisclose to spending the next fifty, sixty years poncing about the wine-dark streets of Gotham as "the Amazing Whamm-O."
B.) Why, yes, as a matter of fact: I have Danced With the Devil In the Pale Moonlight. Who wants to know, sailor...?
C.) All those compartments in my "Utility Belt," those first few years...?
Gummi Bears. Bags and bags and bags of 'em.
D.) Robin's legs were
never that smooth naturally. I mean... c'mon, now.
"It began one night some seventeen years ago," the Shroud begins. "My parents and I were walking home from a concert."
Suddenly: a scummy, verminous gunman darts forward from the nearby shadows and snarls: "Gimme yer wallet and yer wife's jewelry, pal -- !"
The boy's parents -- mother and father, both -- are cruelly slain by said bandit; and the traumatized lad's swears vengeance terrible and unyielding upon all criminals, as a result. He spends the next decade-and-a-half sweating and obsessing, becoming "an amazing athlete"; "a master scientist"; and --
... and... and...
... waaaaaaaaaaaaaiiiiiit a second.
Why am I suddenly getting the feeling that somebody's a-yankin' on the ol' "Bat"-willie, here...?
What... you all actually think this is funny, then, do you? Take a man's @#$%ing origin story like that, and pawn it off to some cut-rate, cheapjack Bruce-Wayne-come-lately wannabe? Huh? Huh? Is that what you're all sniggering at, you loathsome, pimply fanboy jerkweeds, you...?
Fine. Fine, then. You all just keep right on laughing your doughy little hinders off, scumbags.
It'll just make it that much easier to find the lot of you once again, on your respective ways home tonight.
Yeah. That's right. And the same goes double for that clown Englehart, once I get the ol' "Bat"-mitts 'round his neck, by God.
First he takes Silver St. Cloud away from me; and now this...?
Oh, yeah. Payback, baby.
Gonna find his body cold and stiffening in a Gotham City alleyway...
... with his mouth crammed full of Gummi Bears.
Well: in any event, it's a smug and swaggering Von Doom who later strides the nighttime streets of Latveria, exercising his regal right of droit de seigneur. (Literally translated from the French: "Hello. I'm your lord and monarch. Gimme gimme gimme, you sweet thang, you.")
(Hmmmmm... maybe there actually is something to this whole "absolute ruler" business, come to think about it. I mean: when one pauses to consider how many innocent and rosy-cheeked young boys there must be gadding about in your typical remote alpine village... their sturdy, pre-adolescent legs pumping and flashing in those adorable Swiss shorty-shorts, as they gambol and frolic in the crisp mountain air... I... I...
(... ummmm... I shudder at the absolute, degenerate moral wretchedness of it all. Yeah. That's what I do, by jingo. And bite my lip. And take long, cold showers.
(And then think of Alfred. Nekkid.)
That miserable, misbegotten stinker copycat doodyhead, "the Shroud," chooses that precise moment to attack Von Doom; the latter whom muses to himself, incredulous (after blasting the former into so many free-floating atoms): "So much for upstart super-heroes! It's almost insulting that he'd dare to pit himself against me!"
(Doom! Doom! He's our man! If he can't do it, nobody can! Doom! Doom! DOOOOOOOM!)
Tragically, however: the silly little bleeder manages (somehow) to survive the experience, taunting a much-annoyed Von Doom to the effect that "You're not listening, Doctor! As with your ray blasts... my costume and skills are fully prepared to counter anything you may offer!"
"And moreover" (the hateful li'l snot continues), "I can do more than defend! I can attack...
"... as my bomb-a-rang makes perfectly clear!"
Ooooookay.
That's it.
Now -- NOW, by dad and by gum -- we're talkin' lawsuit! LAWSUIT -- !
Right. Right. I'm outta here, then. Gonna give that "Matt Murdock" fellah a ring.
Oh, baby... those yip-yops over at Marvel Comics, Inc. think their cut-
rate comics company is whistlin' the ol' Bankruptcy Blues now -- !
All you little no-necks need to know, in quick summation, is that the Shroud manages to force Von Doom to doff his armored chest plate, via the opportune usage of a metal-heating "magnesium bomb"; and that the Latverian monarch is then sent toppling head-over-jackboots over the side of a nearby cliff, by a pack of ravening and murdurous mountain wolves.
Right. Breach of copyright... and attempted murder.
I've got these clowns coming and going.
All right, then: they should be letting that "Unca Cheeks" dingdong out on an Arkham day pass right around this time, next week...
... so: we'll let him pick up where he left off last time out, with his previously referenced third Doomsian postulate: "Doctor Doom is Marvel Comics' most coolly calculating and dangerous super-villain."
Heh.
Fanboys.
Now, the Caldendar Man; or the Cavalier; or Tweedledum and Tweedledee, even...
... now, those are super-villains.
"MORE COMIC BOOKS," YOU SAY...?
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