"You, there! a burly, bearded stranger accosts, hoving into view from off-panel. "That rhino you caught... it's mine!"

"Sure'n you don't think we stole it?" a bellicose Patrick blusters, hefting his homemade shillelagh and brandishing it in the traditional Irish manner.

"No, man," the stranger soothes. "You got me wrong! I'm thankin' you! It was part of a zoo shipment... broke loose... my men'll round it up... but if not for you and the lady -- !"

"Satisfied?" a smirking Shanna archly inquires of her beau, as the rhino wrangler and his sulky charge trundle off into the sunset together; the latter muttering peevishly under its bestial breath about "red-headed perverts" and "reconstructive ear surgery."

"How about I give 'the lady' a lift to her hotel?" the grinning game warden offers, by way of response. ("... her hotel"...? Oh, yeah. Here's a real, true Child of Nature, boy. Only "jungle goddess" in comics with her own personal valet.)

Okay. Time out for a sec, campers'n'camerettes.

Let's go back three or four paragraphs, here, shall we...?

*******************

"Satisfied?" a smirking Shanna archly inquires of her beau, as the rhino wrangler and his sulky charge trundle off into the sunset together [...]"

*******************

"Satisfied?" the lady asks.

As if she's just slam-dunked some particularly squelching and inarguable point here, or something.

Because -- what? -- some sweaty, dust-caked >Frank Buck wannabe didn't recognize the almighty Ms. I-Have-Four-Whole-Issues-Under-My-

Thong, right crackboom off the bat? (Geez, lady: hire a press agent, or -- I dunno -- hold off a marauding Skrull invasion force in front of news cameras, or something.)

... or is/was it because said Big Game Hunter said: "[...] but if not for you and the lady"; implying that the whole stop-that-rhino business, earlier, wasn't a bodacious, babes-only solo effort? News Flash, Miss Thing: that's because it wasn't. (Alleyway. Some guy in a jeep. It'll all come back to you, in a moment.)

Too hard. This series just tried too blamed hard, most of the time.

Bear that thought in mind.

We''ll be coming back to it, before too long.

While en route to Ms. O'Hara's spartan home base, somewhere within the savage and arboreal wilds of the local Hotel Hilton; a thoughtful Patrick gallantly offers to aid and assist the jungle queen with some of the requisite What's-Gone-Before-type plot exposition.

"Any more word on your father, lass?" the genial game warden inquires, softly. [UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: Shanna's daddy is missing.]

"Not a whisper," a sad-eyed Shanna soulfully intones. [UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: Shanna doesn't know where her daddy is.]

"You let me know if I can help, now," Patrick counsels, gently. [UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: Patrick is Irish.]

"You know I will," Shanna smiles, gazing at Patrick with obvious fondness and gratitude. "You're about the only living soul I really trust!" [UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: Shanna would never, ever feed a shrieking and blubbering Patrick to her trained jungle cats. Unless hotel room service were to suddenly run out of fresh steaks, maybe. Or nice, fat bellboys. ]

"... but, now, I'm more concerned with our strange dinner party invitations!" the bikini'd brawler concludes, musingly. [UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: Shanna wonders, fleetingly, what Patrick would look like dressed in a bellboy outfit. And pesto sauce.]

A little later on -- after the two have dolled themselves up appropriately for their ritzy-shmitzy dinner party -- Shanna and Patrick are seen a-strollin' through the hotel lobby; to the obvious consternation of the rest of the guests, therein.

"I'm attracting such stares!" an uncharacteristically self-conscious Shanna observes. "Do I look that ravishing?"

"Eh," a bemused Patrick counters; "[Pick One] -- ":

A.) "... I think it's the cats, me dear."

B.) "... I imagine it's those shredded tatters of bellboy's uniform dangling from Ima and Biri's bloody, foam-flecked jaws, me dear."

C.) "... mebbe if I'd gone with my original plan, and worn those trousers..."

D.) "It's because we're both wearing the same expensive designer evening gown. You bloody hateful brood sow."

"I'm nervous about this party, Patrick," Shanna frets, as the couple jeeps their way towards dinner and destiny.

"So am I, lass!" her date readily concurs. "We don't even know our host's name... let alone his reason for invitin' us!"

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: ... which is, of course, stupid-on-a-

storytelling-stick, right from the very git-go, isn't it? I mean: has ANYone out there, reading these words, evereverever accepted a formal dinner invitation from someone whom they knew approximately jack-diddley about, really? Wouldn't that normally fall under the category sub-heading of What-The-Hell-Is-This-All-About, f'chrissakes? Wouldn't you at least make a quick phone call, or something? If only to make certain you weren't mailed the freakin' thing by mistake, I mean...?

[... on the other hand, however: we are talking about someone who managed to misplace her dad, somewhere along the line. And sleeps with a pair of vicious, cretinous creatures.

[Three of 'em, if you count Patrick.]

Arriving punctually at the appointed feeding place -- a massive and ornate gated mansion, out in the middle of Nowheresburg -- Shanna and Patrick stroll right through the wide-open (and curiously unattended) front door --

... and are almost immediately confronted by a muscular and gargantuan hooded man; flanked (in turn) by exotically veiled, Uzi-toting

women in matching costumes!

"Ina! Biri!" Shanna commands, as her twin killing machines -- inexplicably frenzied beyond all endurance -- stretch and strain at their leashes, attempting to lunge at the hoodsman. "I've never seen them so agitated!"

"Their unease will subside," the stranger imperiously informs her; "... if you will only be seated. I assure you... all shall be revealed."

"Allow me to welcome you to my home," the gentleman continues, as Shanna and cats alike glare balefully at him from a seated posture; the aforementioned costumed femme force continuing to stare at them over the barrels of their matching weaponry. "My refuge... my domain. My wish is that you dine well, while I explain... my plan, and your destinies."

""Is he serious?" an openly contemptuous Shanna sulks, as additional servants servants silently move in; bearing great heaping, steaming silver platters of roast beef, Cornish game hen and bellboy au jus.

"I offer you," their hooded host pontificates, grandly; "... the opportunity to join me, in the greatest political venture of this century... the simultaneous overthrow of three African nations, and their consolidation under one ruler... myself!"

One by one, the masculine Martha Stewart identifies his dinner guests, and what he expects of them: Lem Stover, "diamond merchant" (funding for the planned sub-continent coup detat); Lord Dunbar Ainsley, "British peer" (diplomatic connections); General Mojo, military strategist (commandeering of armed forces); a scowling Patrick McShane, Professional Irishman (head of newly established "civil service"; whatever the hell that means); and our own Shanna O'Hara, comic book super-

heroine, who's planned "contributions" to the cause are worth quoting in delirious full:

"... and Shanna O'Hara," quoth the mystery megalomaniac; "... the she-devil with a Ph.D! You will be the charismatic figure I need to rally the minions to my cause!"

(In other words -- stripped of all the verbal flash and filigree and whatnot -- it's: "You know, you're one hot mamaajama, in that fuzzy, polka-dotted bikini of yours! Just stand there and arch your back, Sweet Mama! Oh, yeah, baby! YEEEEAAAAAH -- !"

(All I know, is: nobody ever asks Iron Man or the Black Panther to just... y'know... stand there and look fetching. That's all I'm sayin', here.)

(That being said, however: a Ph.D...? In what, for the love of Jesus? The woman's chosen life's work involves being on a first name basis with chacma baboons! What was the subject for her graduate dissertation, anyways: "World Economic Theory As It Applies To The Big Coconut Tree, Over By That Really Huge Rock Over There" -- ?!?)

"In a word," the would-be world beater confidently concludes; "... I offer you... greatness! A place in history... and wealth beyond measure! What say you?"

"I say you're mad!" an indignant General Mojo blusters, rising from the table and leaving his jellied bellboy trifle all but untouched. "I want no part of your insanity!"

"Nor do I," a coldly furious Lord Ainsley concurs, likewise moving to absent himself from the premises. "I am leaving, Mister... errrr... host!" (Ahhh... the trained and telling wordsmithery of the seasoned, professional diplomat.)

This seems to be the majority opinion, overall, of all the guests attending; and it's starting to look as if the caterers and wait staff just might be able to knock off work early for the evening, after all...

... right up until the point when the hostile hoodsman's girlie gestapo commences to opening fire, that is.

"He's trying to kill us!" one of the dithering diners shrieks, in fairly understandable terror.

"Hardly!" the Malcontent of Mystery scoffs. "You are still too valuable to die! But no one leaves this room until he's seen the truth... why our venture cannot fail!"

Whereupon, a knotted and gnarled hand whisks away the concealing hood; and the assembled revelers reel back, as one, as their horrid and hostile host stands revealed as [Pick One] -- :

A.) ... a guy with the head of a mandrill seated squarely atop his improbably broad shoulders.

B.) ... a guy with the head of Atlanta Braves ace relief pitcher John Rocker seated squarely atop his improbably broad shoulders. (Same thing, actually.)

C.) ... former Monkee Peter Tork. (Hey, he needed the work, all right...?)

D.) ... Regis Philbin. (Geez... that guy shows up blamed near everywhere, doesn't he...?)

E.) ... a furious, fighting mad head representative of Local Bellboy's Union Hall #417. (Ohhhhhh... all right, dammit. That was the very last time. Unca's solemn word of honor.)

"What is there for me," the monkey-faced madman -- referring to himself (not at all unreasonably) as Mandrill -- inquires of the poleaxed partygoers; "... but... power? Already, I have a small army of loyal followers... my converts to a religion of hate!"

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: ... in other words: he's opening up a sister campus facility for Bob Jones University.)

"Like these finely-muscled females," the leering Mandrill continues, displaying a not-inconsiderable pride in ownership, overall. "They worship me... have allowed themselves to be tattooed in my image!"

(All together now, class: EWWWWWWWWWWWW -- !

(Again: trying TOO BLAMED HARD, is what it is, here. " [...] finely-

muscled females"; "They worship me"; " [...] allowed themselves to be tattooed in my image!" We get it, guys, all right? SEXISM = VERY BAD THING. Geez-o-pete.

(That being said, however: what with this whole "tattooed in my image" business going on; Unca, for one, is just darned grateful that this issue's super-baddie isn't going by the nasty nom de guerre of The Crotch; or The Hinder.

(I mean: just imagine.)

Reacting with a wholly admirable alacrity, a steely-eyed Shanna swings into action by --

... pointing in the general direction of her gun-wielding opponents, and snarling: "Ina! Biri! DESTROY!"

Wellllllllll... no: I s'pose it doesn't actually sound all that damned noble or heroic, now that I think about it.

"Patrick!" the She-Devil shouts in warning, as her grim-visaged beau launches himself towards the malevolent Mandrill. "Wait! He's too -- !"

"Too strong for me, Miss She-Devil?" McShane snorts, in manly derision. "I'll -- OOOF!"

"Witless fool!" an outraged Mandrill shrieks. (Well... no one can say ol' Manny isn't one keen and perspicacious judge of character, at any rate.)

Wrapping his fuzzy, elongated fingers around the the stunned game warden's throat, an enraged Mandrill promptly sets about the grim (if no less long overdue) task of throttling the very life out of one Patrick McShane, Esq. (I think it was here that the Mandrill became my very favoritest Marvel Comics super-villain of all time.)

Armed reinforcements quickly fill the room, in the form of more of the Mandrill's curvaceous cutthroat cuties; and an anything-but-suicidal Shanna O'Hara -- remembering what it was the poet said, re: "the better part of valor" -- and bails out through a plate glass window, Ina and Biri hard upon her (undoubtedly) calloused heels.

Limping her way back to the comparative safety of her hotel room ("They'll never be able to track me here; amongst the feral headwaiters, and savage, red-jawed chamber maids! This is Shanna's domain!"), the all-but-exhausted "jungle" goddess staggers inwards, relieved --

... only to discover that she's picked herself a brand new roommate, during the interim.

"That voice!" a startled Shanna exclaims, hitting the light switch while -- from the surrounding darkness -- one can plainly make out the sounds of Two Exceptionally Large Kittycats, Frenziedly Chewing and Gulping. "Can it be...? It is! It's you! [Pick One] -- ":

A.) "Jakuna Singh... of S.H.I.E.L.D.!"

B.) "Jakuna Singh... of L.U.N.C.H.! Migawd, what a bloody @#$%ing mess -- !"

C.) "Y'know... I'll bet this hotel loses more bellboys, that way..."

D.) "Unca Cheeks! The filthy, mother-grabbing so-and-so who's been giving me grief all throughout this retarded little retrospective! Ina! Biri! CHEW FASTER -- !"

A supporting character from previous issues, S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Jakuna Singh has shown up in order to ask for Shanna's assistance in apprehending the Mandrill; informing the incredulous ingenue that said villain has been busy kidnapping potentially useful sorts (coup-wise) all over the continent...

... including (he concludes) "one of the wealthiest men in all Africa... Gerald O'Hara!"

"MY FATHER!" Shanna cries, dismayed.

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: ... and, no: Unca doesn't recall, right off the top off his greying head, what line of business it was that led to Daddy Dearest becoming "one of the wealthiest men in all of Africa!" Possibly something to do with GRIT ("The Nation's Newspaper"), maybe. Man can put some way serious jingle in his jeans hawking GRIT, way I heard it.]

"That is why we ask you to return to Mandrill's villa," Singh concludes; "... allow yourself to be caught... and then, signal us by means of the homing device hidden in this bracelet... after you've freed yourself and the others!"

Okay. So: let's review, shall we...?

1.) S.H.I.E.L.D. already KNOWS the location of the Mandrill's hideout. (Agent Singh specifically refers to "Mandrill's villa"; as opposed to -- say -- "Mandrill's warehouse," or "Mandrill's educational petting zoo.")

So: they could go in right NOW -- this super-duper-techno-fabulous secret spy-type organization -- and take care of business, Mandrill-wise, their own bad, Black Ops selves.

2.) "... and then, signal us by means of the homing device hidden in this bracelet... after you've freed yourself and the others!"

[UNCA CHEEKS' TRANSLATION: "Let's let the powerless, weaponless half-nekkid chick do all they heavy lifting, here; while we James Bond wannabes kick back and pop a few Lowenbrau. Thank God for government work, huh?"]

(This story is losing simple coherence the way a nail-punctured tire leaks air.)

Hauling hinder back towards the very same place she just came from, then: Shanna (accompanied, as always, by The Kittycats Two) is quickly subdued and captured, via rifled tranquilizer darts.

The She-Devil regains consciousness (or a reasonably adroit aping of same) strapped and bound to an operating table, with a Les Nessman lookalike leering down avidly at her; an electronic tattooist's needle in hand, and a few non-Comics Code Authority-approved ideas plainly antic on the gerbil's flywheel of his tiny, repressed mind.

"My friend the Mandrill did not exaggerate," the panting professor -- one "Skecher," by name ("Skecher"; sketcher. 'Cause he does tattoos, y'see. This sort of thing always seemed infinitely less "forced," whenever Stan and Jack did it, don't you think?) simpers and drools. "Never have I seen a finer female specimen!"

(The way this guy is all but rubbing himself up against the table, here; you'd have to wonder if he's ever seen a "female specimen." One not lovingly crafted out of polyvinyl, I mean.)

"It's my privilege," the med school mouth-breather concludes, moving in; "... to adorn your sculptured face... with my lovely Mandrill tattoo!"

"You men amaze me!" an outraged Shanna snarls, snapping the leather strap restraining her right wrist with a ferocity born (one presumes) of naked revulsion. "Not only do you grossly underestimate my strength... you even presume to choose my cosmetics for me!"

(Boy... there's a ripe slice o' repartee I'll betcha scripter Steve Gerber wishes he could buy back for a dollar.)

"NO!" an enraged Mandrill bellows -- apparently, he was hiding off-panel, sighing over his personally signed photograph of Michael Nesmith or something -- lumbering towards the still-squirminng she-devil. "No woman could -- !"

"Mandrill," a coolly contemptuous Shanna shoots back; whacking him a good, hard, double-handed one in the ol' monkey breadbasket; "... you are wrong! ANY woman can... if she wants to!"

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE: ... which fairly begs the question, in turn: "can do" what, precisely...?

[Can blithely trip and traipse her steel-abdomen'd way through the unexplored and unforgiving wilds of deepest, darkest jungle Africa? Dial 1-800-DOUBT IT.

[Can go ahead and get her shapely, bikini-flattered fanny captured by the Mandrill? Yeah. Prob'ly. So? I could do that, for the luvva Odin.

[Muscle her way out of leather restraining straps, with nary a hair turned in the effort thereof? Not if Unca's aging memories of his high school prom are still what he remembers them being, at any rate.]

Reeling under the onslaught of the furious femme's manicured might: the Mandrill elects to sound a personal retreat; unlatching the cages of his trained army of fightin', killin' real LIVE mandrills, in passing.

Swear to Jesus.

"And while my namesakes create a diversion," the Chacma'd Caliph cackles, gleefully; "... I take my prisoners and flee!"

Well: a roomful of shrilly shrieking monkeys = A Whole Lotta Big, Furry Canapes, insofar as Ina and Biri are concerned (and where the heck were they while their beloved jungle mistress was about to receive a complimentary facial, anyway? Did this book even have a freakin' editor, f'cryin' out loud? Hel-LOOOOOOO...?); and a grimly determined Shanna avails herself of this opportunity to signal the S.H.I.E.L.D. boys, via wrist bracelet gizmo, as said crunchy carnage plays itself out, off-panel.

"He's escaping in that truck," the she-devil perceptively observes, striding towards a conveniently open window; "... with five men captive! That fifth man must be my father! All the more reason Mandrill must not get away... not any any cost... even if that cost is my life!"

It's a price any one of us might willingly pay, certainly, under similar situ -- certainly, anyone having read thiis dopey comic would have cheerfully ponied up, given the opportunity -- but: all it takes, ultimately, is a hastily hotwired jeep, and a brief, desultory chase sequence; ending (at length) at the encroaching jungle's edge.

"You seek to escape me," a frankly incredulous Shanna exclaims, as the pursuit contines on foot; "... by running deeper into the jungle?" Because, God only knows that heat and hillside are the natural territorial climes of hotel-dwelling white women.

"You must be a fool, Mandrill," the brazen beauty boasts further, loping easily after her frenziedly-huffing prey; "... to hide in the jungle, where Shanna is supreme!"

"It's true," the panicky potentate wheezes, inwardly; casting a desperate backwards glance towards his relentless and remorseless Erinyes. "Like me, she must be other than human! Her speed... incredible [Pick One] -- ":

A.) "I'll double back... to the villa! Only way to escape -- !"

B.) "I'll double back... to her hotel! Distract her by ordering room service -- !"

C.) "I'll triple back... fool her by running around in a circle! She'll never expect that! HA!" [Promptly spins about on his heel; slams face-

forward into a tree. Knocks himself unconscious.]

D.) "AAAAARRRRRRRGHHHH!" [Clutches at heart, spasmodically] "Freakin' elevated cholesterol count! My heart pills! Where are my HEART PI -- !" [Topples forward; stone dead]

Leaping nimbly over the high stone wall of his fancy-schmancy Century 21 hideaway, the craven monkeyman chortles with obvious self-satisfaction over his own cleverness.

"Not even the strongest of my female warriors," the Mandrill gloats, "could vault this ten-foot wall!"

"NO!" the hysterical hirsute wails, as the dread enormity of his flighty faux pas makes itself manifest, in the form of a hairy, hateful and closing half-circle. "I've dropped into the midst of the wild mandrills! My sudden appearance... startled them... they're going to... attack!"

As vastly entertaining (and potentially educational) as a follow-up sequence detailing the Mandrill's pain-wracked and involuntary gang- banging at the hot, horrid hands of his hellish helpmeets might well have proven, under the circumstances: said "attack" consists, primarily, of the shaggy super-baddie being nibbled and noshed upon. (Where's that 15 lb. bag of Purina Monkey Chow when you really need it, boy...?)

An inexplicably charitable Shanna opts to promote the shrieking and blubbering Mandrill from his suddenly imposed lower berth on the food chain. (And this is the same woman, mind, who's been feeding bite-sized chunks of her opponents to a hyper-aggressive pair of jungle carnivores all throughout this issue and the three before it, mind.)

Agent Singh and the S.H.I.E.L.D.joyboys (sounds almost like a punk band from the mid-'70s, doesn't it?) finally show up, in belated response to Shanna's S.O.S.; affording the dutiful devilette the long-awaited opportunity to check up on the status of her purloined pater.

"He was spirited away, lass," a shame-faced and apologetic Patrick McShane confesses to a crestfallen Shanna; "... by the Mandrill's armed women!"

"Where is he, Mandrill?" a coldly furious she-devil demands of her smirking, S.H.I.E.L.D.-bound captive. "Tell me, or -- !"

"Empty threats, she-devil," the smug simian replies, archly. "He is my prisoner. And will remain so... until I exact my revenge!"

... but: that was another shoddily-scripted and constructed story, ultimately; for another, happier time.

Be here next time out, pals'n'gals, as we take a frankly wide-eyed and disbelieving gander at one of the stinkiest, most mind-bogglingly misogynist comic book stories of all time; this'un involving current AVENGERS playmate Carol Danvers -- a.k.a., Ms. Marvel.

Be here.

It'll be bloody awful.

"Women of the Marvel Comics Universe": PAGE ONE

"Women of the Marvel Comics Universe": PAGE TWO

"Women of the Marvel Comics Universe": PAGE THREE

"Women of the Marvel Comics Universe": PAGE FOUR

The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE SIX)
The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE SEVEN)