You can't even imagine how much this one is going to hurt.

"Too Many Super-Heroes" [THE MIGHTY CRUSADERS #4; April, 1966; Jerry Siegel, perpetrator; Paul Reinmann, co-conspirator] opens up with "quickie" vignettes of the various members of the Mighty Crusaders (Fly-

Man; Fly-Girl; the Shield; the Comet; and the Black Hood) in their respective "secret identities," responding in their various trademarked ways to an "emergency team meeting summons."

(My two personal favorites -- both nicely represented here -- are the sequences involving Bill [Shield] Higgins and John [Comet] Dickering, respectively. The former's ongoing "shtick," see, was that -- due to his continually being forced to dart off in response to this super-heroic emergency or that one -- he was plainly incapable of holding a decent, well-paying job for more than, say, twenty-four hours; thus being reduced to the most unrewarding and demeaning sorts of brute "donkey" work.

(The latter's "gimmick," plainly and simply, was this: the poor s.o.b. couldn't get himself laid if he started loitering about the neighborhood TruValue Hardware outlet, disguised as a gigantic floor tile.)

Okay: that's pretty much everything this four-color thalidomide baby of a comic has to offer us, by way of genuine storytelling enjoyment.

From this point onward: it's all hot, bitter tears of shame and degradation.

Once gathered together in spandexed congress, the members of the Crusaders set about to bickering and squabbling in what one may only reasonably intuit as writer Siegel's spavined interpretation of the Jack Kirby/Stan Lee-driven Marvel Comics approach of the Silver Age.

"If you quit the Crusaders and went back to being a loner, Black Hood," a smirking Shield wisecracks; "that wouldn't aggravate me at all!"

"You'll get a crack on the jaw for that crack, Shield!" a bellicose Black Hood ripostes, feebly. " [...] Your head'll be as red, white and blue as your cornball costume!"

Speak the Devil's name, and he shall appear: no sooner have the hot-headed helpmeets been forcibly separated by Fly-Man and Fly-Girl, than a brand new feebosaurus bursts his way through the storytelling foliage. All of a sudden, like.

"Yes... the Fireball!" the satorially-challenged gent trumpets, serving as his own narrator, on the cheap. "I've come out of retirement, because I think the Mighty Crusaders is the greatest thing since the invention of the pizza pie! I want to join!"

(According to the oft-referenced Rovin: this geriatric goofus -- real name: Ted Tyler -- gained his powers by "going into a laboratory which has been set ablaze by the Bug." Whoever the hell that might be.

(" [...] knocked unconscious by the arsonist and left to die, [Tyler] is bathed in a chemical which gives him the ability to control and even absorb fire." Not to mention eating away at the portion of his brain responsible for formulating the awareness that -- hey -- "shortie" shorts are seldom, if ever, suitable crime-fighting attire for a codger. I'm just sayin', all right? That's all.)

Regaling the hapless Crusaders with dramatic recountings of his pitiably low-rent spandexed exploits, the Fireball is joined by yet two more Crusader wannabes: Inferno and the Firefly.

"Two Brand X pale imitations of me!" the Fireball derisively snorts of the aforementioned pair, as they come putt-putt-putting along astride their adorable little motor scooter. "I'll comb them out of your hair, Crusaders!"

(Rovin: "Devoting his life to the study of insects, [chemist Harley Hudson] discovers that their proportionately great strength, leaping ability and other powers derives from" -- I kid you not -- " 'wonderful muscular coordination.' Mastering this talent himself, he [...] chooses the secret identity of the Firefly." Inferno, on the other hand, is a reformed super-villain of some sort; whose peculiar talent is that of swallowing ambient flames and... ummmm... spitting them back out at folks. Or somesuch. I s'pose.

(Lookit: Unca Cheeks is still trying to wrap his brain -- not to mention this here bottle of Everclear -- 'round that whole "wonderful muscular coordination" bit o' business, all right...?)

The trio of farenheit feebs set to tussling with one another in a limp and desultory manner; all the better to determine, you see, which one of them most deservedly merits inclusion within the fighting ranks of the Mighty Crusaders.

"You applicants can borrow that Crusaders craft," the Fly-Man solemnly intones, breaking things up. "Prove you are worthy of joining our team by doing good deeds! We'll watch you on our monitor!"

"Do that," Fireball snorts; "... and learn how superior I am to these clods!"

"You're superior only in conceit!" an angry Inferno retorts. Ummm... heatedly. [*rimshot*]

(Every time you hear that *rimshot*: Unca Cheeks gets to shake hands again with his old pal, "Mr. Everclear." In self-defense.)

Meanwhile: in the tastefully appointed suburban home of "Professor John Raymond" -- a.k.a. the relentlessly p-whipped Web -- said hero is sulkily swabbing dirty dishes, and dreaming of low-rent glories long vanished.

"To think that I -- who was once the famed Web -- have sunk so low," the unhappy hubby silently soliloquizes; "... that instead of cleaning up on malefactors, I'm... wiping dishes --"

[SIDE TO ALL THE LADIES SCOPING OUT THIS HERE ENTRY: Okay. Look out, now. Here it comes --]

"... while my wife Rosie, bless her heart, is weeping tears over a stupid sopa opera!"

"Watch out, Sarah!" the good Mrs. Raymond moans from the adjoining room, staring wide-eyed and agog at the television screen. "Marcia is out to steal your husband!"

Oh, Jerry... Jerry -- !

Bewailing his wimpy lot in life, Raymond slips out under the flimsy pretext of "needing a little exercise." ("I'll duck into those bushes," the soon-to-be-arrested-for-Indecent-Exposure professor resolves; "... doff this dreary, drab garb... and become the glamorous Web once more... Rosie or no Rosie!")

It's a happy and contented Web, then, who strides the daytime streets of suburbia in full, foppish regalia; seeking out action; adventure; and any stray, cookie-peddling Girl Scouts in need of a good, solid ass-whupping, by jingo!

*Whew*! All of this pulse-pounding drama and high-octane characterization has your gentle Unca Cheeks just plain ol' worn out.

Everclear Break.

A snazzy-lookin' customized black sedan screeches to a halt directly alongside our Sidewalk Super-Savior; piloted by the Fox, with (God take away this bottle if I lie) Bob Phantom and Blackjack lounging about in the rumble seat.

"Some of us fellows got together," the Fox helpfully explains to a nonplussed Web. "We decided that, great though it is, the Mighty Crusaders needs us! You remember Blackjack and Bob Phantom, don't you?" To which a frankly incredulous Web responds, in turn [Pick One]:

A.) [excitedly]: "Do I? WOW!"

B.) [excitedly]: "Do I? WOW! WORLD'S LAMEST COMICS #471; March, 1943! "... And Men Shall Call Him: THE HEMORRHOID!" What an adventure we had then, eh, fellahs -- ?!?"

C.) "Oh, hell yes! Best little pair of grocery baggers our neighborhood's "Piggly-Wiggly" has ever seen, is all! How ya doin' back there, Herbie? Your mom still have that rash --?"

D.) [winking broadly at the Fox]: "Still pulling 'em in from the high school wrestling team with that creaky old 'be my costumed sidekick' dodge, are ya? You twisted, degenerate animal freak, you."

E.) " 'Bob Phantom,' my ass. You three sailors wanna party: it's gonna be fifty buckaroonies. Each."

Everclear: "... Because Booze Really Satisfies."

(Blackjack: "police detective Jack Jones," who "while playing his favorite card game -- blackjack -- at police headquarters, is pulled away to interview a wounded robber about his gang. Jones is captured [by said gang], and -- as chance would have it -- is walled up with a playing card: the Jack of spades. Managing to work the card through the concrete [!!], Jack is able to breathe until rescued, and adopts a vengeful new identity: Blackjack.")

("Managing to work his card through the concrete"...?)

(The Fox: "Angry with himself for continually bungling shots of crime as it's happening, DAILY GLOBE photographer Paul Patton [...] decides to become a crimefighter, just to be on the scene when the law is broken. Experimenting with the costumed identities of the Zebra and Ape Lad, he settles upon the Fox. [...] Despite his extraordinary fitness, however: after several years of two-fisted action, the Fox gets cornered; beaten up; and left for dead in a trashcan." Which -- apparently -- didn't "take." Dammit.

("The Zebra," huh? Must have been a black-and-white photographer, then.) [*rimshot*]

[sound of frenzied, liquid gulping]

(Bob Phantom; no origin listed. Thank you, Jesus!)

In less time than it takes to get to the top of Page Eight, the Web and Company are milling about with all the rest of the spandexed also-rans in the Crusaders' mammoth open field HQ, loudly and arrogantly staking their rightful claim to team membership.

"We've come to join the Mighty Crusaders!" the Fox barks. "Shield -- try to lay one on me right here! I insist!"

"I'll oblige!" the Shield responds, on the (apparent) grounds that anyone willingly hanging out with the sorry likes of Bob Phantom and the Web is pretty much just begging for it, anyway.

"Missed me!" the ebon non-entity gloats, as the Shield's haymaker lands foursquare on the chin of a startled Blackjack. "Now you know why I'm called the Fox! Foxy, huh?" (Geez... now I'm really sorry he didn't settle on "The Zebra.")

Articles of nomenclature aside, however: a wild, swinging free-for-all breaks out amongst the pin-headed petitioners, with an aggrieved Blackjack taking his burly frustrations out on a startled Web, and the Fox (inexplicably) taking a poke at Bob Phantom.

"You're disappearing!" the Fox exclaims, as his opponent of choice does precisely that.

"A typical Bob Phantom maneuver!" the latter smugly replies.

(Oh, booze... sweet booze... you're the only one who truly understands me...)

While all of this is going on, however: Fireball, Inferno and the Firefly are tussling with a Komodo-headed baddie by the rather lackluster name of the Dragon, in a doomed attempt to demonstrate that they really aren't the crime-fighters who put the more in moron.

[CHEEKS' ASIDE: ... oh, yeah... I almost forgot: the Fox pauses long enough during the brawl he started in the first bloody place to plant a quick, spandexed peck on the cheek of a blushing and demure Fly-Girl.

["How cute!" the shapely sidekick thinks, smiling coquettishly.

["I resent that!" a grim Fly-Man fumes, impotently.

["I wonder what sorts of home lives the ARCHIE Comics editors had," a bewildered (and slightly inebriated) plush toy ponders. Not for the first time, either.]

In any event, however: it turns out that "the Dragon" is, in actuality, none other than former-hero-turned-heel the Hangman; "magic rope"-wielding no-goodnik at large and brother to Crusaders' team member the Comet.

"Hee, hee!" the Hangman titters, brushing aside Fireball's ineffectual attack. "Flaming youth, eh? Razz-ma-tazz and poop-poop-a-doop! 23 skidoo!"

"Wha -- ??" a befuddled Fireball exclaims. (Welcome to the frickin' club, Tights Boy.) "The rope fashioned itself into a gigantic loop, and my flames can't pierce the super- frigidity barrier within it!" (... which scarcely seems any more coherent an observation to offer up, really, than does the aforementioned "Razz-ma-tazz and poop-poop-a- doop!", to my way of thinking.) (Then again, however: I'm already on my second bottle... so: don't go by me.)

"The craft got away in a burst of hyper-speed!" Fireball moans, as the Hangman makes good his escape. "... and the rope is zipping after it! We... failed...!"

"... but we put up a good fight!" a chipper (if somewhat delusional) Inferno reminds him. "I'm sure we made a good impression on our Mighty Crusaders buddy-pals!"

Upon returning to their aforementioned "buddy-pals," however: the torrid twit threesome discover that their would-be comrades-in-arms are being beset a super-duper jumbo assortment of "flying robo-bombs!"

"The Hangman told his chum, the Wizard, to send us'ns to destrroy you'ns!" the devices metallically intone, in an uncanny simulation of the late Irene Ryan, circa THE BEVERLY HILLBILLIES.

"Hundreds of robo-bombs!" the Fly-Man exclaims! "Fight, Crusaders -- FIGHT! FIGHT!!!"

This, the augmented assemblage proceeds to do; and -- although we don't actually see them doing so, of course -- we, as readers, can only imagine the thrills and excitement inherent in watching the Fox, dodging missles behind his teammates; Bob Phantom, courageously disppearing so as to avoid being struck; and the Web, whining piteously for his wife, Rosie, to save him.

"Unfortunately," a despairing Comet observes; "... there are limits to the number of 'em I can destroy in time with my de-atomizing rays!"

"Have no fear!" a monocled and turbaned dinkasaurus pontificates, appearing from out of nowhere in a plume of other-worldly smoke. "Zambini, the Miracle Man is here!"

"Ditto, Kardak the Mystic Magician!" adds a second Mandrake wannabe, likewise turbaned (but sans momocle).

(No origins listed for either "Sigfried" or "Roy," here, in Rovin's ENCYCLOPEDIA. Which means that -- whatever their respective origins -- these two yip-yops were even less significant, character-wise, than Bob Phantom.)

(Just imagine.)

The twin conjurors put the kibbosh on the robo-bombs, hastily tansforming them into "harmless foam rubber"; and then --

... oh, hell. What do you think?

"Don't thank me," an unctuous Zambini all but purrs. "Just accept me into the Crusaders!"

"No! Induct me," an outraged Kardak huffs. "I'm an even mightier magician! Take that lie back, Zambini... or would you like to be turned into a snail?"

"Irk me not, Kardak!" the foppish Zambini cautions. "Else I shall transform you into the worm you truly are!"

"Gentlemen," a despairing Fly-Man pleads with them both. "This is a Crusaders meeting, remember? Let's preserve some dignity!"

This, the twin thaumaturges readily agree to do; and -- yoking their respective mystic abilities in tandem -- they obliterate Bob Phantom on the spot.

Welllllllllll... no. But it's a nice dream, isn't it...?

One captioned "Suddenly..." later, however, a solemn Kaardak intones: "Silence...! I sense great evil! Behold a picture of the menace... mind-projected onto yon mountainside!"

"A parade of giant balloon-figures!" the Black Hood helpfully interprets, realizing that the penciler's artwork has illuminated this point with less than perfect clarity. "What's so menacing about that?" (Revealing the one-time police officer to be, quite possibly, the only human being on the face of the planet never to suffer through one of Macy's interminable "Thanksgiving Day" parades.)

The balloons are then burst from within, revealing themselves as mere Trojan Gasbags for their human payload: "Costumed men who bear the insignia of the Wizard and the Hangman [...]!"

With a wholly admirable efficiency, the goofily-grinning gunsels set about to looting and plundering jewelry stores and whatnot; the hapless Crusaders collectively grinding their teeth at the sheer, unmitigated lawlessness of it all...

... when -- oh, Sweet Jesus! -- TWO MORE WASHED-UP SUPER- HEROES SHOW UP!

"It's... none other than Steel Sterling!" an excited Shield ululates; "... propelled by his darlin' Anti-Gravity Belt! Go, Steel, go -- GO! Yippee!"

[Rovin, once again: "When his father was killed by gangsters, young John Sterling decided to become a crime-fighter. Studying chemistry, he searched for something to give him[self] an 'edge' in his battle; what he found was a formula which, theoretically, would give his body the properties of steel."

["Coating himself with the formula, he hesitated before taking the last step -- diving into a cauldron of molten steel." The big wussy-bear.

["Mustering his courage, he jumped in and emerged with tissue as mighty and impervious as metal. [...] Although John can be dominated by magic or dazed by a blow to the head, his greatest worry are 'solar flare-

ups,' which cause his powers to ebb. [...] His other powers include -- "

[ ... get this, will you...?

[" -- the ability to rub his electrolized tongue against his teeth to tap telephone wires, the sound coming from his mouth. Sterling's companion is his pet dog, Honcho." Whom Sterling doubtless lobbed into that vat of molten steel whilst the poor, put-upon poochie was asleep or somethin', betcha. Betcha a dollar.]

[Rovin then adds: "In a 1983 retelling of the story, Sterling is hypnotized by a star" -- I presume he means "enormous, flaming ball of super-heated gasses," here; rather than, say, Gabriel Kaplan or Erin Moran -- "which compels him to walk through the flames at an iron foundry, whence he gets his powers. The star thereafter leads him to a garbage pail, where his costume has mysteriously been planted."

[There you have it, ladies and gents: the only "super-hero" in all of recorded four-color history to go dumpster-diving for his own costume.]

"Gun 'im down!" the consternated cutpurses shout, understandably miffed. "Kill him! KILL STEEL STERLING!"

"I can't outfly bullets!" a worried Sterling confesses, whizzing about in panicky confusion and frantically rubbing his tongue against his teeth. "I'm not that good!"

"But in that moment of unparalleled peril -- " (the very next caption shamelessly exposits); " -- an ethereal form blazes in, yawns its macabre mouth wide... wide... WIDE... AND THEN -- "

"Yum, yum!" the absolute silliest-looking "super-hero" yet chirrups, heartily swallowing the incoming projectiles. "Those bullets taste even better than gumdrops!"

"Mr. Justice!" a grateful Sterling enthuses. "I love ya, pal! Yeah!"

[Rovin: "During the Rogers Rebellion in Scotland in 1040, England's 20-year-old Prince James is lured to a tower of Castle Firth and slain by assassins. Because his destiny was thwarted by human intervention, James' spirit is not allowed to rest, and --"

[... well: no. No... I suppose I don't much care either, really.]

"Gotcha, crumbs!" the Selfless Spook snarls, elongating one ectoplasmic arm and lassoing both malcontents simultaneously.

"No!" one of the fleeing felons shrills. Don't hurt me!"

"I got brats to support!" the other one chimes in. "Think of them!"

"Shut up!" is the Deceased Do-Gooder's cheerily Algonquin-ish reply. "Tell it to the judge!"

"Nicely done!" Sterling congratulates his spectral sidekick. "Now... let's go join the Mighty Crusaders!"

(Geez-o-pete... what are these "Crusaders" nimrods offering in the way of team benefits, anyway: weekly "freebies" with Fly-Girl -- ?!?)

"Meanwhile, at the mountain home of Captain Flag --" the very next caption provides...

"C'mon, Yank!" the red-white-and-blue figure thus referenced exhorts his companion, a massive bald eagle. "I've just learned of a terrible threat to the security of the United States!" All of a sudden, like.

Said "mountain home" can't possibly be more than eight, maybe ten seconds away from Crusaders HQ, tops; because in the very next panel, Captain Flag is commanding" "Shield! There's a danger to this country that can be best defended by you and me!"

"Lead me to it, Captain Flag!" a jubilant Shield responds, all but groveling in his eagerness to ditch this sorry "plot" for what cannot help but be a better one. "That eagle Yank sure is mighty!"

"Shield!" a youthful, similarly patriotically-bedecked figure exclaims, stepping out from a handy, nearby temporal-dimensional vortex-type whahoozie just as Shield and Flag are being borne aloft by the rapidly- herniating Yank. "Wait for your pal, Dusty!"

" 'Twas I who transported Dusty out of the past, temporarily," Zambini modestly confesses; "... for a reunion with his famed partner, the Shield!"

"... but I alone know I'm not the original Shield," the glum Crusader inwardly soliloquizes; "... but am his... son! What will happen if Dusty learns the truth about me?"

More to the point, I think, are these questions, surely:

1.) So... like... this "Zambini" goombah just... I dunno... routinely resurrects dead-type people... without askin' their friends and loved ones first or nothin' -- ?

2.) Did a clearly desperate Jerry Siegel really just introduce no fewer than EIGHTEEN FREAKIN' COSTUMED CHARCATERS in but a scant fourteen pages...?

3.) "What will happen if Dusty learns the truth about me?" Hah! Better to worry about what Marvel Comics' two-fisted, fightin'-mad attorneys might do, if anybody ever tumbles them onto this whole shamelessly lifted "dead patriotic boy sidekick" business!

Whatever the ultimate answers to these questions, however: I'm afraid you'll all simply have to turn your (understandably) strained and flagging attentions to the page immediately following this one, for Part Two of "Too Many Super-Heroes!"

"A typical Cheeks, the Toy Wonder maneuver!"

The Archie Comics MIGHTY CRUSADERS of the 1960s: PAGE ONE

The Archie Comics MIGHTY CRUSADERS of the 1960s: PAGE TWO

The Archie Comics MIGHTY CRUSADERS of the 1960s: PAGE THREE

The Archie Comics MIGHTY CRUSADERS of the 1960s: PAGE FOUR
The Archie Comics MIGHTY CRUSADERS of the 1960s: PAGE SIX

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