Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!
(... and why I love them)
[Part One]
I am such a Major Junkie for this character. Swear to Jesus. You just have no idea.
Reason One: I am a flat-out, let-me-just-hand-over-my-wallet-right- here-right-now sucker for Tragic Heroes. Always have been; always will be, I expect. The more incalculable the amounts of heartache and angst you can pile atop a character, and still -- against all odds; versus all human reason -- have him struggle and stagger towards the ultimate goal line of Big-Time Self-Sacrifice on the behalf of others... the faster my resting pulse rate, while held fast in the grip of the author's narrative.
All of my favorite comic book characters -- the Batman; Jonah Hex; Captain America; Grimjack; etc., etc., -- have had miseries piled on top of calamities, throughout their four-color careers. Murdered family and friends; physical (and mental) scarring; dead sidekicks; male pattern baldness... you name it.
Just the vicarious, empathic thrill of watching the lonely, hag-ridden soldier
of some higher ideal; trudging with friendless steadfastness through the black,
chill serein of his own heart's chambers. Just give me that,
and I'm yours for life. Sadistic monster that I am. 
So: given all of that, then... you can maybe, kindasorta understand -- just a little -- why I've beenn fascinated by the character and exploits of DC's Deadman ever since his very first appearance, waaaaay back within the pages of the long-defunct STRANGE ADVENTURES. I mean... getting your intestines splattered all over the inside of the circus big top, in the first few pages of your flippin' origin story, f'cryin' out loud...
... well. Just try topping that for a hard luck story, pal!
Oh, but wait! It gets even better!
(Or, ummm, worse, I guess. If you happen to be the series' chief
protagonist, I mean.) Upon waking up covered in blood and sawdust only
to find himself afflicted with a really serious case of The Deads, "Boston"
Brand (a.k.a., Deadman) is accosted by the spirit of someone/thing
by the name of Rama Kushna -- "the Spirit of the Universe," no less,
she tells him (now, there's a well-honed messianic complex for you, by
golly!) -- who informs the startled ex-circus aerialist that he needs must rustle
up his own killer, before getting a chance to sneak even so much as a quick
peek at Heaven. Or whatever.
All Deadman knows, re: the true identity of his slayer, is that the sneaky li'l sure shot in question had a prosthetic "hook," in place of his left hand.
That's it. That's everything. Lock, stock and deerstalker
cap. Over and out, Houston.
That was the series' storytelling mainspring, for the length of Deadman's STRANGE ADVENTURES run.
Find the Hook.
Utilizing his supernatural ability to briefly "possess" and animate the bodies of other sentient creatures, unseen and unnoticed... Deadman followed a trail more chock-full of false leads; red herrings; and Hitchcockian "McGuffins" than a drunken and impromptu "Can You Top This -- ?" bull session of the Mystery Writer's Guild of America.
Eventually, the increasingly frantic and frustrated wraith sought out no less a manstalker than the Batman, his own bad self, within the pages of THE BRAVE AND THE BOLD.
It might almost have been better for the restless haunt's eternal peace of mind, however, had he not unraveled the tangled skein of this particularly ghoulish riddle. Upon finally tracking down the man he'd known (and obsessed over) only as "the Hook," Deadman discovered -- to what sort of horror and numbing, nerveless anguish, I can but leave to your assorted sympathies and imaginations -- that his hideous death, ultimately, had no greater purpose or meaning to it What. So. EVER.
"The Hook," you see, had merely (merely -- !) been "auditioning" for a seat at the bloody table of a clandestine organization known as "The League of Assassins." "Boston" Brand had been selected by the mercenary non-entity completely at random.
Yeah; sure. I'm a pretty mean-spirited S.O.B., I suppose, for liking to watch my heroes gnaw through their own emotional "legs," whilst held fast 'tween the cold, razored teeth of various and sundry psychic bear traps...
... but: manomanoman. That's just plain old, garden variety cruel.
If I'd been sporting a tail, at the precise moment I first read that now-classic
scene... it'd have been wagging.
... and
-- while you're all whispering amongst yyourselves and wondering which one
of you is going to call the nice men in the white coats to have me dragged
back to my private room, over at the sanitarium -- I'll take advantage
of the opportunity to tell you about yet another of my all-time
favorite DC Comics "misfits": the swift, silent and wholly remorseless
midnight avenger known as The Black Orchid. [See cover, below]
We were
never given the lady's real name; a proper accounting of her powers (nor
the origins of same); not even a clear-cut reason why, precisely,
she'd chosen such a bleak and soul-consuming path as she had. She
simply... appeared, unheralded, within the pages of ADVENTURE COMICS
#428. Right out of nowhere.
Just as she would "appear," similarly, before her chosen prey.
Just exactly like that.
The short-lived series benefited from a particularly noir-ish "feel,"
thanks -- in no small measure -- to the highly stylized and dream-like artwork
provided by 70's penciling superstar Tony DeZuniga, as well as the intelligent
pastel palette of colorist Adrienne Roy. Everything was awash in
bruised purples; burnt umbers; and oceanic, nighttime shades of blue.
One very nearly half-expected to see the rumple-suited, beard- stubbled likes
of a George Raft or Jimmy Cagney to stroll on-panel at any given moment, growling
around cheap, moist cigar stubs about "stoolies" and gangland-style "rubouts."
The mysterious
mesdame wasn't much of one for pitched, no-holds- barred duke-'em-outs
with your standard spandexed super- baddies, preferring instead to focus
her terrifying attentions on the sorts of underworld lampreys that fastened
and battened upon the innocent and the defenseless. Loan sharks;
pimps; drug czars; and the like were her particular brand of poison...
and she, in turn, was most assuredly theirs, as well.
Her unique modus operandi was as elegant as it was effective. She would assume the identity of someone "involved," in some which way, with her selected target -- a battered streetwalker; perhaps a silent, subservient secretary; mayhap even a wife or daughter -- playing her given "role" of the moment with eerie, supernatural skill. Thus having gained unparalleled access to her victim's assorted secrets and stratagems... she would maneuver her luckless, unsuspecting fool of the moment with all the pinpoint precision of the most intricate Swiss watch mechanism.
Class upon class: as a final, in-your-face-chump flick of the imaginary "finger"... she'd leave behind her personal calling card.
A single,
cut black orchid blossom.
Now that, kids and kiddettes... is s-t-y-l-e.
A VERTIGO imprint series, of but a few years ago, posited the Blossom Bombshell as being a rootless (you should only pardon the pun) dryad of sorts. While the stories therein were by no means ineptly conceived or written... I must confess it: I vastly preferred not knowing so much about the lady's "true origins," all else being equal.
The eternal allure of the unknown, after all, is ever more compelling than that of the rudely revealed...
... and -- gee whillikers! -- a girl's got to have some secrets, after
all!
MONSTERS, HEROES AND GOOD/BAD MEN
PAGE THREE (Jonah Hex)
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