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... FATMAN: The Human Flying Saucer!
1967. First contact. 
I was nine years old; already a hard core, make-no-apologies and take-
no-prisoners screaming comics junkie... and I'd never even heard of C. C. Beck.
In my own defense, however: it was, after all, 1967. Fawcett Comics had long since ceased publication of WHIZ COMICS; CAPTAIN MARVEL ADVENTURES; CAPTAIN MARVEL, JR.; MARY MARVEL; and (*choke*) HOPPY THE MARVEL BUNNY. I was, at that juncture, still too young and whey-faced for the more "grown-ups" oriented fannish repositories of comics history such as (say) Roy Thomas' ALTER EGO; and Steranko's HISTORY OF COMICS was years away from being written and published, as were both Feiffer's THE GREAT COMIC BOOK HEROES and Lupoff and Thompson's invaluable ALL IN COLOR FOR A DIME. Everything I knew (or, rather, smugly assumed that I knew) regarding the comics of earlier, bygone eras came by way of DC Comics' 80 PAGE GIANT reprint titles, and monthly dosages of the early Jack Kirby and Steve Ditko fare offered in Marvel Comics' monthly MARVEL TALES.
I was a faithful adherent to three comic book "churches," if you will: DC Comics, Marvel Comics and (so long as the worship service in question was being presided over by The Right Reverend Carl Barks) Dell/Gold Key Comics. All other comic book orthodoxies, I regarded as blasphemous and inane. Archie Comics seemed (to my narrowed gaze) too intent by half in allowing (ugh) girls full church ordination; Harvey Comics (RICHIE RICH, etc.) were the four-color equivalent of Sunday School -- i.e., "little kids" comics; and Charlton Comics -- with the sole exception of THE PHANTOM -- were distributed so infrequently and erratically (at least, it was that way in Nashville, Tennessee, in the 1960's) that they were barely even a "blip" on my quasi-ecclesiastical radar.
DC; Marvel; and any Gold Key comic with Uncle Scrooge in it. This, then, was my Holy Trinity. Everything else ( I just knew, with the pure and perfect faith of the most smug and insufferable acolyte) was degradation and sin... plain and simple, world without end, amen.
In short: I was a right proper little moron, I was.
(Even then, however: I was just hypocritical enough in my liturgical leanings
to be reading Tower Comics' T.H.U.N.D.E.R. AGENTS
and ACG's HERBIE. So much, then, for biblical
inerrancy. I'm just sayin', here, is all.)
You may well imagine, then, the rank suspicion with which I initially regarded
the introduction of yet another "denomination" into my then- comfortable
comics cosmology, that fateful late spring/early summer of 1967; some newfangled
"fringe cult" communion being peddled by some outfit named "Lightning Comics."
Pharisees! Blasphemy -- !!)
I can only assume, then, that it must have been a "light" shipping week that month... because I most assuredly did walk out of the Green Hills Pharmacy (the best new comics selection in Nashville, in those pre-"direct market" days) with the first issue of FATMAN, THE HUMAN FLYING SAUCER nestled snugly amidst my other comics purchases, that bright and golden Saturday morning.
My own little oddball "quirk" in reading new comics was the same, then as now: I always placed the books I expected to be the very best -- based upon past history -- at the bottom of my reading stack, the better to be anticipated and (ultimately) savored. (I've yet to meet any other reader, anywhere, with this admittedly peculiar habit.) Given that FATMAN was (at that point) an "unknown" commodity: I settled back with a soda and a few Mr. Goodbars; idly flipped open the cover, to the first page; and commenced to what was supposed to be a quick, cursory reading.
Thus are even the most steadfast of True Believers led -- all unawares -- onto the path sloping soft and away from Heaven Eternal.
C.C. Beck: Seducer. Despoiler. Satan's Infernal Sock Puppet.
Fatman ("The Only Comic Hero With Three Identities," as each and every cover breathlessly assured us) was, in actuality, the rotund and unfailingly sweet-natured zillionaire-in-waiting Van ("Junior") Crawford; an amiable non-entity whose greatest passions in life were (in ascending order) stamp collecting; hand puppets; bird-watching; and shoveling as much food down his insatiable and bottomless gullet as might be humanly possible.
His well-heeled, social-climbing parents despaired, naturally, of the young Van ever turning his energies and talents towards anything not inherently frivolous or adolescent in nature... but their remonstrations failed to rouse their son's adiposal attentions. The jumbo-sized "Junior," alas, seemed predestined to trundle throughout his life with all the natural imperturbability of a glacier... and contribute slightly less to society overall, in so doing.
It was during one of Van's seemingly endless bird-watching soirees, in fact, that blind Fate -- under the influence, no doubt, of some particularly potent hallucinogenic narcotics -- decided to deal a wild card from the bottom of the destiny deck, in the form of a diminutive, green-skinned and attenaed alien, searching our planet's populace for an individual worthy enough to receive a very peculiar "gift," indeed.
Said "gift" was a one-time potion, which -- when ingested -- would enable the lucky recipient of same to morph into a small car-sized, sentient FLYING SAUCER... a neat little trick first developed by said aliens in order that they might most expeditiously explore the far reaches of the cosmos (!!).
As complimentary "knick-knacks" go... it sure as heck beats one of those el
cheese-o glow-in-the- dark "Kiss Me; I'm Martian" neckties.
The pragmatic Van scoffed at the notion of such a thing, of course... until he (all unwittingly) found himself transforming into -- you're doubtless way ahead of me, by this point -- a human flying saucer! [See pictures, below]
Exulting in his newly-won freedom and maneuverability, the avoirdupois avenger took to the skies as naturally as any bird -- or, at least, as naturally as any Really, Really Fat Bird -- and promptly set about doing the same first three things as might occur to anyone similarly situated in such elephantine running shoes:
1.) Zoooom merrily, merrily through the outermost reaches of the upper stratosphere, buzzing the stray mountain goat or whatnot along the way;
2.) Wonder, idly, if this extra-terrestrial transmogrification meant that he might now be able to pull in one of the better "Top 40" radio stations; and --
3.) Commence to fantasizing about food, once more. (Hey... the
title of this comic was F-A-T-M-A-N, all right? You want
"P.C."... go pick up an issue of X-MEN, whydon'tcha? They "do" P.C. by
the metric killoton, over there.)
In any event: while all of this Complete and Thoroughgoing Lunacy was going on, an entirely different flavor o' folderol was taking place over on the... ummmmmm... well... the "financially embarrassed" part of town, let's say.
Yup. You guessed it. A actual, card-carrying comic book sidekick
was being born.
Professional pantywaist (and future carnival sideshow "Human Skeleton") Lucius Pindle was absolutely desperate to add another eight or ten pounds of muscle and sinew to his toothpick-like frame. (He had a dream, you see: to one day be a ninety-eight pound weakling.)
To this end, he'd tried virtually everything, at one time or another.
Everything, that is, save for one thing: sorcerous black magic.
Dispiritedly mumbling aloud one spell in particular, whilst idly thumbing his way through an ancient volume entitled Old Formulae and Charmes, frail young Lucius suddenly found himself transformed into... into...
... well... maybe it'd be easier if I simply showed you. [See picture, below]
Oh, yeah. That certainly made for one pretty little "improvement,"
didn't it...?
Finding himself now possessed of nigh- incalculable physical strength and stamina -- as well as being all but invulnerable, in the bargain -- Lucius spent the next several hours giddily reveling in his newfound status as Reigning Neighborhood Stud-God (impressing the local populace la femme by slamming home runs during a softball game sans an actual bat, and suchlike). A freak thunderstorm, however, short-circuited Lucius' frivolous frolickings... both in the literal and figurative sense, as a stray lightning bolt to the nickeled noggin somehow managed to transform the metal-clad teen (now self-dubbed TinMan, incidentally) into a rampaging juggernaut of mass carnage and destruction.
No... seriously.
Fortunately, the ever-vigilant FatMan (remember him?) just happened to espy the situation, while still zipping about in search of the nearest four-star restaurant. A titanic battle ensued, as Our Heavyweight Hero employed every trick in his alien arsenal in order to subdue the deranged TinMan.
Eventually, Lucius' proper mental faculties (such as they are, I mean) were
restored to him, and -- wouldn'tja just know it? -- the two fledgling
freakazoids became fast friends, striking up a crime-fighting alliance.
And -- somewhere; somehow -- both Dr. Doom and Lex Luthor
knew fear... and trembled.
All of this, of course, was crisply and cleanly delineated by the illustrious C.C. Beck, in his signature CAPTAIN MARVEL ADVENTURES style. Coming out as it did during the late 1960's -- with the advent of such studiedly (and, at times, self-consciously) "realistic" comics art avatars as Jim Steranko and Neal Adams just then beginning to make the appropriate rowling noises, concurrently -- the FATMAN title looked like absolutely nothing else on the comics spinner racks of the day.
Yet another aspect of the series' singular charm was the burgeoning array of imaginative super-villains with which Beck (along with long-time CAPTAIN MARVEL writing partner, O.O. Binder) quickly populated each and every fat 64-page issue. Of all of these, one of the most intriguing was the self-styled Lunita, the Moon Witch , who utilized a "magic guitar" (!!) in order to strum out various spells by means of which she might ensorcle man and beast alike.
Still another nicely conceived (and executed) "bit" involved issue #3's epic battle between FatMan and TinMan, on the one side, and the clandestine world-wide terrorist organization known only as S.A.T.A.N. (Sabotage Agents To Annihilate Nations. Shhhhh. Not a word of this to the newspapers; you're one of us, now. Await further instructions by special courier. The code phrase will be: "Stan Lee likes to tart up in lacey women's underthings."), on the other. [See picture, below]
(Left to right, the three super-villains pictured are: Gung Ho, who
wielded "an Evil Eye of deadly crystal"; the diminutive Bug
-- electronics expert par excellence; and the chillingly imhuman and
amoral Shroud, who was -- no foolin' -- a living, sentient shadow.
As they say in the stand-up comedy trade: "tough room.")
Throughout it all, however, Binder and Beck maintained their trademark balance of the requisite "dramatic" bits (this was, after all, a mainstream American super-hero comic) with such lovely, breezy storytelling conceits as that of having one of FatMan's earliest opponents -- the squat, musclebound former "Troll King" known as Grollo -- actually reform at the end of one adventure... and promptly take up permanent residence as the young Van Crawford's new live-in chef. [See pictures, directly below]
I dunno... maybe it's just me. But: the very concept of having some sub-human subterranean ex-despot (and would-be world conqueror, lest we forget) -- even one in a cute, fluffy li'l chef's hat, mind -- heating up my grilled cheese sandwiches in his huge, hairy bare hands...
... look... troll dude. No offense meant here, or nothin'... but: I'm orderin' take-out tonight... 'kay?
I'm just... y'know... sayin' here, is all.
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