Unca Cheeks Silver Age Comics Site: Marvel Women 7

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SIRENS & SOB SISTERS, MOSTLY

... OR: "... Out of the Kitchen, and Into the Spandex": The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics [ PART SEVEN ]

All right, then. Just so nobody comes crying to Unca later, is all.

The hirsute and relentlessly happy-go-lucky Hank (Beast) McCoy comes ambling on in from Stage Left, at this juncture; loaded down and then some with a small tonweight of hastily purchased sporting goods and suchlike, all for little "Junior." Oh. Help. My sides.

Anyone claiming not to have seen that one coming, right from the very git-go: raise your hands, all right...?

Unca just wants to know where all of the shameless liars are seated in the audience tonight, is all.

"Hiya, Junior!" the team's class clown carols gleefully, upon entering. "Just look at all the nifty playtoys I got for you? Aren't they nicey-

nice?"

"Yes," the Topsy-ish toddler -- now placidly referring to himself as Marcus, by the by -- responds; "... the assortment does seem rather complete. But I'd really prefer a laser torch and whatever electronic components you could spare."

"You... you're talking!" the pelt-covered paladin blurts, eyes all agog and jaw all agape.

"I assume colloquial english is satisfactory?" the chatty cherub chirps back; and already we've achieved the same rollicking, slap-happy level of gut-busting humor seldom discovered and/or appreciated outside of -- oh, say -- repeated viewings of JUDGMENT AT NUREMBERG.

Plainly aggravated beyond all endurance, by this point -- although, hell; at least he isn't READING the bloody awful thing -- a stern-visaged Captain America strides towards the beatific boy-child, eyes narrowed into hard slits of suspicion.

" [...] where did you come from?" the star-spangled sentinel demands.

"My mother," Marcus coolly ripostes; thereby offically marking the very first instance in which Your Unca -- had he only been present, thenabouts -- would have hauled off and smackedd the little wiseass, plain and simple.

"Yes, we know that," the Good Captain tries again; "... but... that is... how were you conceived?"

"Uhhhhh... by my father?" Marcus responds, imperturbably; and, right here, by golly, the very next sound you heard woulda been the rhythmic whump-kerSPLAT, whump-kerSPLAT of Unca doing with Marcus' tousled head what a taciturn Steve McQueen kept doing with that much-abused baseball, in THE GREAT ESCAPE.

"Well, of course, blast it!" a rapidly mottling Captain America barks. "But who is your father?"

"I am," sayeth the walking, talking paternity suit.

"Now see here, young man -- !" the by-now-thoroughly-fed-up Avenger all but snarls; and -- for one brief, glorious moment -- it looks as if maybe we really are gonna see Cap go patriotically postal on the creepy li'l crumb-snatcher; which woulda been just acey-deucey with Unca, and then some.

Stagger forwards, an hour or so after that: and we observe a costumed (and newly svelte; no bulging post-partum tummies allowed in this here comic, don'cha know. Talk about your super-powers, boy.) Carol Danvers re-enters the scene; impelled by the first nascent stirrings of Maternal Devotion, or somesuch. (Unca doesn't even pretend to follow the argument, mind.)

Upon striding her long-legged way into Baby Bunting's appointed chambers, however...

... well: just look, for God's sake.

"Hello... Mother," a bearded and buffed-up Marcus whispers, silkily; affixing a plainly poleaxed Ms. Marvel with a stare so frank and open and full of incandescent meaning as to be well and truly Beyond All Possible Misinterpretation.

In other words, campers'n'camperettes: it's the Marvel Comics High School Senior Class production of Oedipus Rex, right here.

In other other words:

Ewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww -- !

"Please, Carol," the newly "butch" Marcus implores, with a creepy-

crawly sort of familiarity; "... don't be upset. Everything will be fine, once the flux is negated." And -- boyoboyoboy -- thank God for that lower-

case letter L, huh...?

" 'Flux'?" a querulous Hank (Yellowjacket) Pym queries, of no one in particular. "What does he mean, 'flux'?" (Well: now we know why the pitter-patter of li'l feet has never been heard 'round the ol' Pym homestead, at any rate. And that's absolutely, positively the stone last cheap "flux" laugh Unca's going for, tonight. Scout's honor.)

"This is getting freakier and freakier!" a whey-faced Wasp observes; utilizing precisely the proper word choice in description of a story as profoundly distubing (and disturbed) as this one, I'm thinkin'.

"I don't understand any of this, Marcus," a staggered Carol confesses, whilst Burly Boy traipses to and fro before her in his cute li'l towel thingie. "But, most of all, I don't understand what I feel... about you."

(Does anybody else feel like taking a long, hot shower right about now, by the way? Unca feels all sticky and... well... soiled, for some reason.)

Now, while all of this has been going on, in the meantime: Michelinie and Company have been merrily inserting occasional "quickie" vignettes of inexplicable temporal anomalies taking place throughout the city, every few pages or so. Velociraptors loitering about the mailbox; WWI biplanes cheerfully strafing the "Underdog" balloon at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade; knights in white satin, never reaching the end. That silly sort of thing, you understand.

Having pretty much redlined on the whole seamy, sordid A-Boy's-Best- Friend-Really-Is-His-Mother business, at this juncture: the writers (Unca's too tired to argue about it, really) take the path of least auctorial resistence, and allow the two disparate plot threads to make a storytelling sheepshank; with assorted cliques of Avengers confronting various and sundry scenarios such as the one detailed directly below, as a result.

"Blast!" a torqued-off Hawkeye vents, whilst staving off an impromptu re-enactment of Custer's Last Stand alongside Captain America and the Beast. "I told you that kid was gonna cause trouble!" Which -- in actual point of fact -- he hasn't stated to any other character, throughout the length and breadth of this four-color death march through the less savory Inner Places of several working Marvel Comics writers. Who (apparently) were too busy elbowing one another and sniggering, over in the far corner, to waste valuable time and/or effort on keeping track of Who Actually Said What, one may reasonably presume.

"We've no proof that Marcus is the cause of this, archer!" a grimly determined Cap shoots back. "Now, forget your prejudices... and string your bow!"

(... and, speaking of Forgetting One's Prejudices, by the by: designated dialoguer Michelinie -- laboring under the failed assumption, perhaps, that this here story might well have left someone out there decently unoffended, SOMEhow -- includes a throwaway "gag" line on the part of the Beast, whereby he jovially declares it "National Poke-A-Hontus Week" whilst busily rearranging some poor brave's bridgework for him. And some of you, out there, keep sending in e-mail complaining how relentlessly un-"P.C." Unca is, mind.)

Meanwhile: Ms. Marvel is crouching before a towel-clad Marcus and whimpering for him to never, ever leave her.

Seriously. As God is Unca's witness.

"Forgive me, Mother," a solemn Marcus sorrowfully intones, cradling Carol's stilled and supine form in his massive, dimpled arms after summarily zzzzaping her into blessed unconsciousness. "Forgive me... my love."

Sweet Merciful Jesus.

"I knew it!" an outraged Hawkeye snarls, arriving upon the scene just in the very nick. "I knew you weren't kosher, you little scum!"

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE THE FIRST: "... not kosher," Hawkeye? From Unca's (admittedly) limited understanding of ancient Talmudic law: that all depends on how you end up killing him, ultimately. Kindly allow Unca to offer up a few dozen or so practical and considered suggestions.] :-))

[UNCA CHEEKS' ASIDE THE SECOND: ... and: were that skimpy li'l bath towel round Marcus' midquarters even so much as a stray millimeter shorter... we could probably solve the whole knotty issue of the big feeb's comparative "kosher"-ness another way, as well. I'm just sayin', really, is all.]

An exploding warhead arrow launched from the bow of the team's Ace Archer writes a big, noisy fini to whatever the dopey heck Marcus was assembling out of popsicle sticks and stray bits of string, over in the far corner; leading a seething and implacable Marky Mark to rage and spew his now-murderous intentions to "kill ALL of you" towards the rapidly re-assembling Avengers...

... right up until the precise moment, in fact, when his mom calls him back inside, for dinner.

"These are my friends," Mommy Dearest informs her sulky scion; "... and you're going to have to go through me to get to them."

"Oh, Carol," Oedipus Lad simpers; "... why? I wasn't really going to kill them! I only wanted them... to kill me!"

"You what -- ?" a wholly confused (not that he's the only one) Hawkeye blurts...

... and -- just that suddenly; just that horrribly -- we're blindsided by a double buckshot load of Clunky and Inept Plot Exposition, right smack-

dab in the proverbial kisser.

It seems that "Marcus," here, is actually (kinda) (sorta) the son of longtime Avengers foeman Immortus, see; the paradox-inducing issue of said "Ruler of Limbo" and a nameless mortal woman; the latter whom was unceremoniously plucked from some distant point along Earth's time stream specifically to keep The Big Kahuna's little kahuna warm'n'happy at night.

"Once back in Limbo," Marcus explains, "through a combination of gratitude and the subtle manipulations of my father's ingenious machines, the woman fell in love with him." (And if that line -- naked and alone -- doesn't creep you right the hell outt, the Unca doesn't know what the heck ever would or will.)

This one-billion-night stand produces the desired results, as "my father then created within Limbo a pocket of change... a bubble, where time flowed naturally. It was there that I was created."

Eventually, however: both Immortus and his Designated Brood Mare pass on to wherever it is one passes on to, from Limbo; and the now-

abandoned Marcus decides...

... well... heck... if it was good enough for Daddy

Abducting an unsuspecting Ms. Marvel from her rightful chrono-

spatial place and time, Limbo's answer to Liesure Suit Larry makes with the flowers and the chocolates ("I had Shakespeare write you a sonnet, and Beethoven performed an original prelude in your honor, while Marie Antoinette herself clothed you in the finest of satins and silks")...

... and: that's not all he ends up making, ultimately.

"Through the electronic wonders at my command, and with my own inherited powers," a wholly unashamed Marcus blandly continues; "... I was able to implant my essence within you, causing a condition that resembled pregnancy"; and, my God, but Unca would have bloody taken somebody to court in order to have his name excised from the so-called "credits" for this misogynist manifesto, you damn betcha.

"Once 'reborn'," a woebegone Mr. In-Touch-With-His-Sleazy-Side mournfully continues; "... I knew that, as my artifically accelerated growth progressed, the Limbo Effect" -- i.e., the hyper-spatial hiccup which took away Marcus' real Mummsy and Daddsy -- "would become stronger. But I had hoped to build a machine to negate the effect, before I reached full maturity, and the effect became permanent."

The best laid plans of mice and misanthropes, however, oft crash and burn in the situational haymow; and Marcus' very presence, Earthside, has been causing all sorts of temporal undertows and tsunamis and suchlike.

Hence, the dinosaurs. And the biplanes. And the roomful of Vikings, lustfully belting out the chorus to "The Spam Song." And yadda yadda yadda.

"Therefore," Chester the Molester concludes, self-pityingly; "... since I cannot and will not cause the destruction of a world just to realize a dream, my options became either to return to Limbo, living in solemn, solitary hell unto infinity... or else goad you Avengers into killing me... "

"Geez, Marcus," an ashen and solicitous Hawkeye murmurs, all but wiping away the tears with a hanky; "... you should've told us -- !"

(Unca just loves THAT one, by the by. "... you should've told us -- !" You should have just told us you were a calculating and manipulative super-rapist, who simply wanted to plant his unfathomable alien seed in one of our boon comrades, for pity's sake. I mean: it's not as if you'd picked one of the really important Avengers to play Pig-In-A-Blanket with. Like Captain America, say. Or Thor, mebbe. Thor woulda been A Bad Thing."

("... you should've told us -- !"

(Jesus please us.)

... and now --

... NOW --

... now: this fouled-up little meta-fictive funnycar is about to swerve way, way seriously into Mondo Disgust-O territory, here.

Last chance, people.

Turn back now, if you're a-gonna.

"No, Marcus," a dewy-eyed and trembling Carol Danvers offers, edging closer to The Incredible Whatsit; "... you won't be alone."

"I mean," the (formerly) independent and self-assertive woman warrior continues, incredibly; "... that while I still don't know what I felt for you in Limbo, some of that feeling still lingers. And that, combined with the fact that, by some bizarre logic, you are my 'child'... makes me feel closer to you than I've felt to anyone in a long, long time. And I think that just might be a relationship worth giving a chance. So I'm returning to Limbo with you."

Okay.

So.

Let's review, shall we...?

"... that while I still don't know what I felt for you in Limbo [...]"

(Rough Translation: "... given that -- by your own whey-faced admission, mind -- you used super-scientific machines and your own super-powers to MAKE me wanna Do Da Nastee like a weasel in heat in the first bloody place...")

"And that, combined with the fact that, by some bizarre logic, you are my 'child' [...]"

(Rough Translation: "... said 'bizarre logic' being that you actually... whaddyacallit... gestated within my lush and ample body, for the luvva Allah...")

"And I think that just might be a relationship worth giving a chance."

(Rough Translation: "I have no frickin' clue what the word 'relationship' actually means.")

"So I'm returning to Limbo with you."

(Rough Translation: "Take me, David Micheli -- errrr... ummmmm... I mean Marcus, dammit! MARCUS -- !")

"Ms. Marvel," a staring and incredulous Iron Man implores her; "... are you sure you know what you're doing -- ?" (Ahhhhh... and if only there'd been any sort of editor around to ask that very same question, back when this over-heated li'l howler was still in the planning stages...)

"Not entirely, Iron Man," Carol confesses, simply; "... but I've been denying my feelings for quite a while. Maybe it's time I started following them."

All together now, people:

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW -- !!!

At the happy "couple's" behest, they are transported back to Limbo, via vortex created by Thor's mystic Uru mallet...

... leaving it to Iron Man and Hawkeye, ultimately, to deliver the final, tasteless little auctorial fillip; as presented, below.

IRON MAN (solemnly): "We've just got to believe that everything worked out for the best."

HAWKEYE (pensive and introspective): "Yeah, I guess you're right. That's all we can do. Believe... and hope that Ms. Marvel lives happily ever after."

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW -- !!!
EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW -- !!!
EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW -- !!!
This was Marvel Comics first -- and (one devoutly hopes and prays, in any event) their stone last -- paean in praise to the simple, homespun joys inherent in incest and/or mental molestation.

Even bearing in mind the fact that everyone involved in this auctorial abortion has done far more invaulable -- and (yes) praiseworthy work -- over the years (Michelinie and Layton, on IRON MAN; Shooter, with THE LEGION OF SUPER-HEROES; the gentlemanly Perez... well: damned near everywhere, really)...

... this is just wrong, wrong, wrong.

It's wrong with a flourish.

It's wrong with a funny hat on.

... and: should anyone out there (incredibly) feel much like taking issue with Unca, on the matter --

... do yourselves a favor:

Keep it well and truly outta his e-mail box, awright...?

And now, you'll all have to kindly excuse Unca from the party, kids'n'kiddettes.

Unca feels the need to go wash up, again.

With sandpaper.

And maybe a little boric acid, too, come to think.

The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE ONE)

The (Sometimes) Muddled Image of Women In Marvel Comics (PAGE TWO)