Unca Cheeks the Toy Wonder's Silver Age Comics Web Site!

One of the weirdest (and most criminally underrated) DC Comics series of the '70s.

The basic premise of The Human Target (most frequently on display as an infrequent "back-up" feature in the pages of ACTION COMICS) was a streamlined and elegant one. Dashing and debonair gentleman of leisure Christopher Chance -- acrobat; marksman; quick-change chameleon; and all-around absurdly competent adventure comics-type fellah -- would (for a staggeringly exorbitant fee) set himself up as a "human target" on behalf of those finding themselves in imminent danger of violent and/or unplanned demise.

Said stratagem typically involved Chance's literally assuming the identity of his luckless client: utilizing his incomparable array of acting and disguise skills in order to mimic their appearance; their voice; their mannerisms; their fears and foibles...

... in short: everything about them; right down to the tiniest mole or motive.

(It should be noted, at this juncture in the narrative, that the talented Mr. Chance was so skilled the paladinistic parrot, in fact: neither age nor nationality were considered insurmountable impediments to his chosen occupational obsession.

(That much being freely granted, however: Unca Cheeks cannot recall any canonical instance of Christopher Chance assuming the identity of a woman. OR a very small child. Either one which he'd be willing to pay top Yankee dollar to actually see some clever and resourceful writer attempt with the character, you damn betcha.

[GANGLAND ASSASSIN (leveling a snub-nosed pistol at A Very Small Beard-Stubbled Girl Child, bedecked in bow ribbons and a pinafore; sneering): "Awright, cute li'l girl-type kid... I dunno why, 'zactly, dose East Coast syndicate boys wants youse rubbed out so damned bad... but: a contract's a contract, y'know...?"

[CHRISTOPHER CHANCE (i.e., The Little Girl; backing away cautiously, towards the toy box against the far wall): "It doesn't have to go down this way, 'Big' Lenny. You can still walk away from this; no harm... no foul."

[GANGLAND ASSASSIN (cruel, mocking laughter as Chance lunges towards the toy box and withdraws an oversized Teddy Bear): "BWAH-

ha-haaa -- ! Whatcha gonna do wit' dat dere t'ing, sweetie-pie? Tickle me under da chin, mebbe...?"

[CHRISTOPHER CHANCE (smiling a hard, thin smile): "Oh, Lenny... Lenny... this isn't just your ordinary, garden-variety teddy bear, you poor, doomed S.O.B. -- "

[Yanks on the rip cord; sudden, ear-splitting NOISE as the powerful Evinrude motor secreted within the toy roars into deadly life.]

[CHRISTOPHER CHANCE (charging towards the wide-eyed gunsel, shrieking): "... say hello to TEDDY CHAINSAW BEEAAARRRRRR -- !"

[GANGLAND ASSASSIN (as the bloody, terrible carnage begins): "AAAAAIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE -- !"

(I'm just sayin', here. That's all.)

Each and every one of the Human Target stories (most of which were seldom longer than eight, maybe ten pages in brisk, economical length; "back-up" feature... remember?) opened up with a "grabber" sequence: a storytelling "hook" guaranteed -- or, at the very least, calculated -- to snag the casual or newbie reader's attention, and lure them into reading further. (Or maybe even -- the Good Lord and Dick Giordano willing -- cough up the twenty cents, American, requisite to the actual purchase of the comic in question.)

Chance's preferred base of operations was his regular corner table at Luigi's: an upscale Italian restaurant located somewhere in Boston, Massachusetts; where its portly and solicitous proprietor -- i.e. the loyal "Luigi" --would fret and fuss, ad nauseum, over whether his beloved "Signor Chris" was eating properly or not, whenever either contract or circumstance would dictate his dining elsewhere.

Chance's unique talents were so very much in demand, in plain point of fact -- this whole "human target" business being one in which he pretty much enjoyed a monopoly, by and large -- that potential clients would (frequently) employ any lengths to engage the adventurer's (admittedly jaded attention.

Unca Cheeks' personal favorite of these was (and remains) the method undertaken by doddering and decrepit multi-gazillionaire Henderson Repp; who arranged for a sultry and curvaceous redhead to surprise Chance with a large, hand-lettered sign reading MY EMPLOYER WISHES TO SPEAK WITH YOU.

While skydiving.

In FREE-FALL, no less.

(Unca Cheeks remains hopelessly embittered -- right to this very day, even -- that his high school guidance counselor never, ever so much as even raised the POSSIBILITY of this "human target" thing, re: possible post-collegiate career options.)

Chance's own circuitous route into the glamorous, high-salaried world of Professional Doppleganging was no picnic, God wot; seeing as how it involved watching Dear Old Dad getting the top of his dopey, middle-aged head blown off at Extreme Close Range, and all.

It seems that Daddy Dearest was deep, deeeeep into the proverbial "red" with a local loan shark by the name of Mister Sharkey; AND that Mister Sharkey, in turn, decided (at some point along the way) to write off Chance, Sr. as a "bad debt"; turning the whole distasteful matter over to a mob-affiliated assassin (the homicidally cheerful hit man known as Dancer), for summary resolution.

"Who can say what fear will do to a man?" a solemn Chance philosophizes, via origin story flashback. "Some will use it as a tool to triumph...

"... others... well: my father was one of the others."

"Dancer... please... don't!" Chance's panicky pater blubbers and whinnies, sinking to one arthritic knee in sorry supplication. "I'll get the money... I swear it! Please... DON'T KILL ME!"

Rolling his eyes in manifest embarrassment and revulsion, a sneering Dancer thumbs back the hammer of his handgun...

... and -- just that quickly -- a young Christopher Chance realizes his life's calling: Human Clay Pigeon.

"NO!" the youth screams, vaulting forward to place himself protectively between Cowering Father and Crazed Sociopath. "Leave him alone! If you want to kill someone... kill ME -- !"

Dancer -- obviously in a great, tearing hurry to haul hinder the sweet holy heck outta there, before someone gets word to the Batman that his origin story is being ripped off for, like, the thousandth freaking time, already -- is sorely tempted by the wholly generous offer, on Young Chris' part; but opts to stick to the assigned task at hand, nevertheless.

In all seriousness, however: author (and series creator) Len Wein and artist Dick Giordano do a nice, tidy little job with the story, overall; detailing how the nightmarish, life-altering incident leads the (obviously) traumatized Christopher to dedicate the remainder of his earthly existence towards "standing in" for other, similarly defenseless "victims" of crime (organized or otherwise).

(That being said, however: don't you think that mebbe the ol' Chrismeister, here, was being awfully... I dunno... hard on Daddy Dearest, re: the aforementioned origin reverie...? I mean: who wouldn't prob'ly end up groveling and pleading for their very lives, staring down the round, dark business end of a Glock, f'cryin' out loud? What'd he expect the old man to do, f'chrissakes: shrug into a spandexed union suit, and blast Dancer's ugly face to shreds with his repulsor rays, or something? C'mon, now.)

There's not a great deal more to say, really, about this short-lived (yet fondly remembered) back-up series. There was a television pilot for a HUMAN TARGET series, a few years ago (starring, I believe, former pop-

rocker Rick Springfield in the title role), which -- mercifully, perhaps -- Unca Cheeks has never seen; and a Vertigo HUMAN TARGET mini-series, earlier this year, penned by interesting Brit comics scribe Peter Milligan (which Unca Cheeks has seen, and has decidedly mixed feelings towards)...

... and: that's pretty much it, so far as the highly original, highly entertaining Christopher Chance is concerned (as of this writing).

Sure do miss the big galoot, though.

With both Len Wein and Dick Giordano being (I believe) between regular assignments, series-wise: wouldn't it be a genuine kick, seeing the two of them yoked in creative tandem once more, detailing the further ongoing adventures of the one and only mainstream comics protagonist whose entire motif -- boiled down to its bare essentials -- is: "Hurt me. Oh, pleeeeaaaaasssse. HURT me"...?

Tell you what we're gonna do, campers.

Just as a mild experiment in comics readership power, mind.

Everybody and ANYbody out there, reading these words, who genuinely would like to see the original, non-Vertigoized Christopher Chance return in the course of a present-day DC Comics series: send Unca Cheeks an e-mail, to that effect.

Type the words HELL, YES, I'D TAKE A BULLET FOR CHRISTOPHER CHANCE, somewhere in the header; and add a brief line or two, underneath, to the effect of: "Damn betcha. I'd easily cough up a couple'a bucks, American, to see Giordano and Wein do the ol' Christopher Chance-type thang, one mo' once." (Let's not promise more than we can actually deliver... all right, troops?)

Unca Cheeks will collect 'em all; and, after a pre-arranged amount of time -- say, by January 1st, 2000 -- he'll pass 'em all along, en masse, to each and every DC Comics editor (and associate editor) with a viable, publicly known e-mail address.

One or two hundred such requests -- bundled together, as a "unit" -- would be pretty darned impressive, wouldn't it...?

I'll keep you all posted, as to the response(s)...

... and, hell: if this one works... we can shoot for the return of Ace, the Bat-Hound, next time out.

"MORE COMIC BOOKS," YOU SAY...?

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