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JET
DREAM and Her Stunt-Girl Counterspies
(... or: "... cripes almighty... and you thought those old
LOIS LANE comics were insulting...")
(This page is dedicated to John P. Selegue... who nagged... and
nagged... and NAGGED...) 
Call this one: DC Comics'
BLACKHAWK... in drag.
This wretched little sideshow pinhead of a title lasted a breathtaking one issue before God decided to prove his own existence by (mercifully) effecting its cancellation.
That one issue, however -- cover dated June, 1968; a date which will forevermore be linked with infamy; degradation; and ruin in the hearts and minds of comics fans the world over -- did enough damage, all by its lonesome, to alter the course of history as we know it.
Don't believe me...?
Keep reading.
"D-Day For the Generalissimo" (the writer and artist for which were both -- wisely, I reckon -- uncredited anywhere within its pages; doubtless, this afforded the culprits extra time to pack) opens up with...
... oh, but wait. Silly ol' me; I almost forgot to mention the
interior cover character bios, first!
The "Stunt-Girl Counterspies" alluded to in this comic's title number precisely four (excluding team leader Jet Dream, whom -- believe you me -- we will be getting to in due time): Cookie Jarr ("A former Olympic gymnast, her athletic skills make her a deadly foe for rogues"); Ting-A-Ling ("An exotic South Seas beauty with the instincts of a panther... but naive and innocent as a lamb"); Marlene ("Powerful as a wrestler, but with a cool, precise Teutonic mind"); and Petite ("She looks fragile... but she's as tough as steel, quick as a whippet, and brave as a lioness").
Okay. So: let's review.
A.) "Cookie Jarr." B.) "Ting-A-Ling" (that "exotic South Seas beauty"). C.)"... a cool, precise Teutonic mind."
We're not even on Page One, yet... and already we are (as
they say) Knee Deep in the racial and/or gender stereotyping Big Muddy,
f'chrissakes...!
[HISTORICAL ASIDE #1: a charismatic young "lay preacher" by the name
of Jim Jones stumbles across a torn and tattered copy of JET DREAM
AND HER STUNT-GIRL COUNTERSPIES, whilst on a spiritual hegira through
the wilds of equatorial Africa. He continues on his pilgrimage...
but: his mouth tastes oddly (and inexplicably) of cherry-flavored KoolAid.]
"Nestled somewhere on the southern coast of California" (or so the accompanying caption blithely assures us, at any rate); "... is the most remarkable private complex ever devised -- No-Man's Land -- home of the world-famed Stunt-Girl Counterspies!"
(Maybe it's just me. I mean: maybe curmudgeonly ol' Unca Cheeks just doesn't... y'know... get this whole "counterspy" thingie. Because -- perpetual spoilsport that I am -- I just find myself wondering idly, at this point: "... well... if they are 'world-famed'... then wouldn't that make this bevy of bimbettes really, truly lousy 'counterspies'? Wouldn't really good 'counterspies' be all but unknown to the rest of world, by definition...?
(As I said: maybe it's just me.)
"A potpourri of panic's cooking, Jet!" intelligence liaison Martin Brown yammers at the sloe-eyed Ms. Dream (whilst simultaneously showing off his impromptu alliterative abilities). "I hope your derring-do dolls are ready to roll. [...] A South American pepper pot is really boiling over... "
It won't do you a single lick of good, you know. I locked
and double-bolted all of the doors just before the theatre lights went
down. Shriek and blubber your silly little faces off, for
all I care.
We cut (although that's scarcely much of a blessing, under the circumstances) to a panel in which " [...] a tall, blonde beauty is sauntering carefree down the sands of a nearby beach..."
"Cookie Jarr," a burly beach Lothario pouts. "Do you realize this is the first time I've seen you in weeks?"
"Yah, Eric," the appallingly bikini'd adventuress replies. "And I miss you as much as you miss me! But my work -- !"
"Speaking of your work, Cookie" Eric sulks, applying suntan lotion and plot exposition in equal measure; "... this movie stunt-girl stuff is dangerous! You could break your neck!"
[HISTORICAL ASIDE #2: a flux in the time-space continuum results in a
copy of JET DREAM AND HER STUNT-GIRL COUNTERSPIES falling into the gnarled
hands of a obscure German paperhanger by the name of Adolf Hitler.
Unable to verbalize his shock and horror in any more felicitous way, he
pens a massive, rambling and largely incoherent tome self-aggrandizingly
entitled Mein Kampf ("My Struggle"). Also: he grows the single
dorkiest-looking moustache known to man.]
A poorly-rendered (even by the rather lax artistic standards of the Gold Key Comics of the day) helicopter swoops low over the beach, at this juncture, and picks up an apologetic Cookie Jarr while beau "Eric" stamps his pretty little feet in frustrated pique.
(COOKIE: "Eric, my love... I'm so sorry... I must leave you! Jet Dream needs me!"
(ERIC: "Jet Dream? But... what about me? Our whole afternoon together?")
Witness, if you will: the heart-rending anguish of a man unable, ultimately, to slip his hand inside the Cookie Ja --
... well... all right, then. We needn't go there, I suppose.
"While on a Hollywood set, some miles north... " the following caption hurriedly provides; and -- all of a sudden, like -- we're scoping out this little French number by the name of "Petite"; yet another glamorous, long-limbed, high-livin' daredoll of the stunt-girl trade.
(Your Unca Cheeks would like to take this reality-affirming opportunity
to point out -- just for the record, awright? -- that most
professional movie stuntwomen -- and movie stuntmen, for that matter
-- having been battered and run over and tossed about over a period of
years, rather more closely resemble aggressively mesomorphic versions
of "Beverly Hillbillies" character actress Nancy Kulp than they
do, say, Catharine Zeta-Jones. Just for the record,
mind.)
"Ah, what a honey doll!" Petite's director of the day enthuses, as the lassie in question executes a perfect swan dive into the nearest river, upon receiving the "come a-runnin'" signal from Jet Dream. "When she gets those messages, she zooms off like a lovely rocket!"
Tootling off in her darling, chi-chi little sports car, the keenly observant Petite notices that she's being followed by some rather unsavory- seeming gents ("Bizarre ca! Ze black car has been behind me many miles... I had best investigate!"), and -- thinking quickly (or, at least, as quickly as she can) -- activates an incredibly obvious "TV camera with a zoom lens," which pops out of her trunk and would be readily apparent even if the late Helen Keller were steering the automobile directly behind her.
" 'Once we... locate... the stunt-girl... headquarters," Petite lip-reads (!!) from a conveniently-placed dashboard video monitor; "... it can... be... bombed '... "
"Sacre!" the video vixen exclaims. "Zey are enemy hound dogs!"
[HISTORICAL ASIDE #3: Shortly after its initial publication, a large,
crated cache of JET DREAM AND HER STUNT-GIRL COUNTERSPIES was passed along
to a hardened, hate-driven clique of anti-American sympathizers in Viet
Nam. These comics were later utilized as instruments of torture
upon defenseless and unsuspecting American P.O.W.s ... in direct
conflict, mind, with the codicils and precepts of the Geneva Convention
Articles of Warfare.]
After causing her pursuers to crash their vehicle and die, via the judicious use of "a stench bomb" ("I must throw zem off ze scent! *TEE HEE*!")... our little French pastry is off and away; annnnnnnnnd --
... we cut, once again, to "No-Man's Land headquarters," where the damned near pre-verbal "Ting-A-Ling" ("exotic South Seas beauty") is manning the compound's "Crow's Nest" observation post.
("Petite come now," Our Gal Ting warbles, in pidgin-style English
which would not seem entirely out-of- place in a midwestern high school
production of SOUTH PACIFIC. "Very fast!" And you all
might as well stop that silly bucking and thrashing about in your seats;
those arm and leg clamps are solid iron.)
Once safely inside their Barbie's Malibu Spy Headquarters (tm), the assembled "stunt-girls" are briefed upon the particulars of their latest mission by the aforementioned Martin. ("So that's our first problem, ladies... the people have revolted to have the freedom-loving Generalissimo, Romero Sanchez, back in power!")
(It's worth a moment's idle pondering, though, methinks: just how "freedom-loving"
can an individual decently be, when he's swanning and strutting
himself around and about the ol' presidential palace with a title such
as "Generalissimo" gaudily affixed in front of his name...? But:
that's really neither here nor there, I suppose.)
More ominous still for Jet and her plucky Playmates, however: "the most
deadly band of killers in history" -- a criminal cabal known only
as Cipher -- "has been hired by the power boys in Sanchez's
country to prevent his taking office!" (Those dirty... dirty
-- !)
Well: it takes more than the mere threat of being ruthlessly and relentlessly hunted down by a world-wide collective of hit men, trained assassins, thugees and dacoit to frighten off your standard model "stunt-girl counterspy," by golly...
...
and, so: "At dusk, five stunt-girl jets lash the skies over No-Man's
Land," whilst the cunningly coiffured occupants therein let loose
with their throaty, fearsome collective war- cry of: "Wheeeeee
-- !" [See page reproduction accompanying. God help us all.]
As it so happens, Jet Dream and her jejune junta reach the Generalissimo's side just in the very nick, as he is being besieged by a hard-bitten strike force of Cipher assassins (all of whom have helpfully elected to make easier and more convenient targets of themselves by gadding about the presidential compound in bright red jackets and large, easy-to-read "Cipher" armbands).
"Rack them up hard, ladies," Jet commands her trooperettes, airily judo-tossing the nearest Cipher agent into a nearby banyan tree. "These characters have got ball-bearings for hearts!"
[HISTORICAL ASIDE #4: a polybagged copy of JET DREAM AND HER STUNT-GIRL
COUNTERSPIES was found in the baronial tomb of noted Transylvanian nobleman
and monster Vlad Dracul -- a.k.a., "Vlad the Impaler." Seriously.
There's an article in the latest issue of SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN.]
"Jet Dream!" a grateful Generalissimo enthuses, upon having his
wattled neck saved by Jet and her All- Tushie Squadron. "I have
heard many stories of you!" (Christ Almighty... these ladies
may well be the absolute, hands- down, no excuses worst "counterspies"
in the recorded history of espionage! EVERYBODY'S heard about
'em, f'cryin' out loud -- !)
After a little obligatory winking and mugging betwixt Jet and the Generalissimo -- the latter of whom seems ready to drop trousers right then and there, quite frankly -- the MaidenForm Myrmidons elect to chaperone Romero for the remainder of his "good will tour" itinerary (i.e., Mexico and Texas); the better to keep his quasi-militaristic hinder from being riddled with bullet holes, or what-have-you.
"Cookie
Jarr," Jet commands, once the quintet is airborne once again. "You
fly point... five miles ahead of us, and keep an eye on
Romero's plane! Remember -- we're not official bodyguards!"
(Ah. Now it all becomes clear to me; Jet Dream and her "stunt-girl
counterspies" are a part of America's off-the-ledgers black ops
program...!)
"Yah!" Cookie chirrups, agreeably. "I'll keep my beautiful Swedish blue eyes open, boss lady!" [See panel reproduction, accompanying]
("... cool, precise Teutonic mind"; "... my beautiful Swedish blue eyes";
if this book were any more aggressively Aryan, it'd qualify as a "David
Duke for President" campaign flyer. I'm just sayin', here,
is all.)
There's some fairly dull and pointless business involving a Cipher-led
and orchestrated jet attack on the airborne counterspies -- I know that
sounds as if it'd be exciting... but: uh-uh -- and Jet's
(literally) stumbling over some reasonably concrete evidence, a little
while later, to the effect that Romero's male secretary, "Felipe," is
actually a double agent in Cipher's employ. There: that's six pages
I've just spared you, then.
The next time anything truly noteworthy occurs, those pesky li'l Cipher varmints have managed to ambush the Generalissimo's presidential motorcade in Mexico City, by means of (waaaaaaiiiiit for it, people)...
... a giant electro-magnet!
[HISTORICAL ASIDE #5: it is a known fact that JET DREAM AND HER
STUNT-GIRL COUNTERSPIES was notorious serial killer John Wayne Gacy's
all-time favorite comic book.]
With a shrilly-screeching Romero waving his arms and boo-hoo-hooing like a spanked spaniel puppy in the magnetized motorcar, it falls to (oh, you've all gone and read the pages ahead of me again! You big cheaters, you!) the plucky Jet to save the day once again; this time, by dint of her gape-inducing marksmanship.
"Ca-can't miss." the incredible ingenue mutters; "... or the whole she-bang goes into that auto squash box for junked cars!"
P-TWEE! FFFTTT! *Sputter*! (Who the hell
is providing the sound effects for this four-color abomination,
anyway; Mel Blanc...?!?)
Good and fed up with having to play the jumpsuited "Duddley Do-
Right" to the Generalissimo's wimpy "Nell," Jet radios liaison with her earlier suspicions, re: "Felipe's" trustworthiness in general... and has her darkest fears confirmed [Pick One]:
A.) "You hit the jackpot, Jet! That bespectacled character whose mug shots you sent is in disguise! He's a Cipher man!"
B.) "I'm afraid it's true, Jet: that jumpsuit really does add five pounds to your figure. Heifer."
C.) "Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin have both filed restraining orders, Jet. Quit pestering the poor devils, willya? They're both gay, f'chrissakes -- !"
D.) "The Gold Key editor who approved your series was just now beaten to death by an angry mob. Of nuns."
E.) "Like bloody hell it's my kid -- !" ;))
This leads to an exciting (welllllll... by way of comparison, I mean) confrontation between Jet and that double- dealing dog, "Felipe"; during which, the former growls that immortal "tough chick" line:
"Okay, Cipher-boy... start talking, or I'll make a real 'zero' out of you for all time!"
[Fetishistic (adj.) -- from the French fetiche; "That which abnormally stimulates or enhances sexual performance or desire." THE OXFORD ENCYCLOPEDIC ENGLISH DICTIONARY; 1991]
(Lookit... I'm just sayin' here, all right...?)
Confronted with the looming spectre of shame inherent in being taken into custody by Jet Dream and Her "Let's-Give-the-Little-Wormy-Guy-a-
Wedgie" Counterspies, an anguished Felipe takes the only honorable action left open to him, at this juncture:
He throws himself on top of the nearest available bailing hook.
As it turns out, however: Felipe actually had a second Darned
Good Reason for opting for death before dishonor. The nervy little
dickens had already primed the Generalissimo's royal vessel to go ka-boomsies.
From there on out -- after hauling Romero's worthless hinder out of the fire yet again -- it's all pretty much a mop-up; with Jet and Company kicking the remaining Cipher booty out there with a cheery elan, and a hearty cry of: "JET-AR-E-E-E-ENO!"
Hah! Blindsided the whole, miserable lot of you with that
one, didn't I...?
[HISTORICAL ASIDE #6: Bob Overstreet reports the existence of a NM/M condition
copy of JET DREAM AND HER STUNT-GIRL COUNTERSPIES which bears the penned
inscription on its cover: "To All My Soulless, Inhuman Servitors
At Gold Key -- Keep Up the GREAT Work! XOXOXO,
Satan."]
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
"JET-AR-E-E-E-ENO!" Jesus.
In their never-ending quest to leave no possible stone of offense unturned, however: the nameless author(s) of this wretched and misbegotten meta-fictive enterprise -- in the manner of all daemonic poker sharks -- withheld their "trump card" (if you will) for the final "payoff" panels; reproduced, below, in all of their mind-numbing glory.
(... and Your Resolutely Gender- Conscious Unca Cheeks would just like
to make it known -- right here; right now; in front of God, The Friends
of Lulu and everybody -- that he manifestly does not not not
in any way champion and/or endorse the sentiments you are about to read
and experience, for your own horrified selves. That means not Word
One out of you, Freeman -- !)
"Without these American pretties," the swarthy Romero murmurs, in true just-a-gigolo fashion; "... our republic would have been lost! I kiss you for all my people, Jet!"
"And I kiss you for all the stunt gals, Romero!" a swooning Jet replies, bending over backwards (IFyouknowwhatimean) in order to assist the Generalissimo in a quick li'l... ummmmm... "cultural exchange."
[HISTORICAL ASIDE: noted online curmudgeon and lovable Silver Age aficionado "Unca Cheeks" subjects his online nearest and dearest to JET DREAM AND HER STUNT-GIRL COUNTERSPIES. The resulting death toll numbers in the tens of thousands. And it's all that Jack Selegue fellah's fault, too, by golly!]
"JET-AR-E-E-E-ENO," Jack!
Heh-heh-heh.
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