Seduction of the Innocent

Halloween Horror WORLDS UNKNOWN "A Gun for Dinosaur" Conclusion

2026-10-15T07:00:00.000-04:00

After you gaze at this eye-catching cover by an unknown penciler and penciler/inker John Romita Sr...

...we'll recap What Has Gone Before!

Time-traveling safari guide/hunter Reginald Rivers offers a cautionary tale to an overly-enthusiastic prospective client.

His story concerns two other clients who disregarded the experienced hunter/guide's warnings...

To enhance your appreciation of this tale, here's a couple of unique treats...

The dramatic radio adaptation of "A Gun for Dinosaur" for the classic sci-fi series X Minus One, starring Mason Adams.

Plus, the illustrations by Emsh (Ed Emshwiller) from the original prose tale in Galaxy Magazine!

More Halloween Horror with dinosaurs to come...

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Rivers of Time

L Sprague deCamp

featuring the complete time travel adventures of Reginald Rivers!
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Halloween Horror WORLDS UNKNOWN "A Gun for Dinosaur!" Part 1

2026-10-12T07:00:00.000-04:00

One of the great hokey time travel stories of all time...

...beautifully-adapted by some of Bronze Age Marvel's best creatives!

Be here Thursday for the astounding conclusion!

Originally written in 1956 by L Sprague deCamp for Galaxy Magazine as a counterpoint to Ray Bradbury's "A Sound of Thunder"...

Art by Ed Emshwiller

...the one-shot spawned a series of stories about time traveling hunter Reginald Rivers!

The adaptation in Marvel's Worlds Unknown #2 (1973) by writer Roy Thomas and illustrators Val Mayerick and Ernie Chua/Chan is extremely faithful to the prose tale.

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Rivers of Time

L Sprague deCamp

featuring the complete time travel adventures of Reginald Rivers!
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Halloween Horror LAND UNKNOWN Part 2

2026-10-06T07:00:00.000-04:00

We Have Already Seen...

...(at Secret Sanctum of Captain Video) an Antarctic expedition investigating reports of a source of warm water and fossils discovers, within a circular mountain range, a hidden tropical oasis...filled with creatures long consider extiinct!
Forced down after their helicopter is damaged by a collision with a pterodactyl, the team encounters another prehistoric creature...

To Be Concluded, Tomorrow, at Secret Sanctum of Captain Video!

Historical note: in 1947, the US Navy found currents of warm water emanating from fissures along the Antartcic Coast!
It turned out to be water from the ice sheet itself, melted by heat from subterranean volcanic activity, not leaking from a pocket oasis on the surface!

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Land Unknown

Includes Audio Commentary & Other Goodies

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Halloween Horror BLACK MAGIC "Cry for Help!"

2026-10-01T07:00:00.000-04:00

Most comics fans know Prize's Black Magic series as...

...one of the Joe Simon/Jack Kirby team's best projects.

But, as you can see from this non-S&K tale, there was more to it!

The S&K team's tenure ended when the book was cancelled with #33 in 1954, due to the mass cancellations of horror comics caused by the "Seduction of the Innocent" hysteria generated by Fredric Wertham.

When the book was revived as a Comics Code-approved sci-fi title with #34 in 1957, Joe Simon returned as editor, but the ongoing partnership with Kirby had ended and Jack didn't participate in the new version.
They would work together on occasional projects like the late-1950s Harvey Comics sci-fi/fantasy line and the reboot of The Sandman at DC in 1974, but not as partners, just co-workers.

This particular story, by penciler/inker Ted Galindo and inker Bill Draut is from the final issue...#50 (1961).

Note: Didn't the son's "future self" say he had found the frozen dinosaur two years earlier?

But he also said he was from 1970...ten years in the future.

So, unless my math is really off, the son wouldn't find the dinosaur for another...eight years!
How did he find it now?

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Simon and Kirby Library

Horror!
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9/11 25th Anniversary THE BIG LIE

2026-09-11T07:00:00.000-04:00

Before the phrase became indelibly-associated with Don da Con's paranoid delusions about the 2020 elections......

...it defined the paranoid delusions of the pre-QAnon nuts who inhabited the internet in the early 2000s about the events of 9/11/2001!

You can read excerpts from the the unverified tale

HERE

and buy the comic itself

HERE

FLASH GORDON THE MOVIE "Interlude" & Chapter 12 "Here Comes the Bride"

2026-09-09T07:00:00.000-04:00

Read the Precious Chapter HERE!

Interlude

NOT only was the moon dangerously veering from its orbit, but comets careened wildly into the Earth’s path. The texture of the ether developed unusual, indescribable colors at various places for extended periods, as if the universe itself was somehow sickened by the Earth’s presence. On the planet, things had become even stranger.

Huge evergreens burst through the ice-packed surface of the North Pole. Ricky Montrose of Tazewell, Virginia, fell through a dimensional portal temporarily created by an electrical disturbance in the atmosphere; the kid was never seen again, much to the relief of his parents. (“He was a little terror!” Mr. Montrose became fond of saying.) Enrico Brusati of Rome discovered that his weight consistently registered at thirty kilograms, though his girth remained the most spectacular (or repulsive) in the city; no one could put forth a reasonable explanation for the phenomenon, and Enrico adamantly refused to permit the doctors to puncture his belly with a hat pin, even under the strictest conditions. Pravda insisted there was nothing fishy going on in the U.S.S.R., an observation which normally would have passed without notice; but the Soviet news agency made the remark every day, and foreign diplomats sent secret correspondence to their superiors complaining about the tigers stalking the streets of Moscow.

Theoretical physicists, however, became preoccupied with the color variations of the ether, and when Dr. Peter Falkenburg of the Jet Propulsion Labs in Pasadena, California, read a newspaper article on the disappearance of the Montrose boy, he had a startling premonition of Earth’s ultimate fate. “Only one man can construct a device which can send out rays to halt the degeneration of the ether,” said Dr. Falkenburg to a colleague. “We must find this man and offer him all the assistance he requires. He’s our only hope!”

“Who is this man?” asked the colleague, lighting a cigarette.

“Dr. Hans Zarkov!”

Here Comes the Bride

FLASH was on his knees constructing a parachute from a blanket when the abrupt swaying of the Sky Palace knocked him off the platform. He grabbed a bar, pulled himself into a hole, and found himself sliding down a tubular silver chute, unable to halt or even impede his progress. I hope there’s some laundry down there so I have a soft landing, he thought.

The chute took him to a dock. Holding onto the sill he had grabbed to break his fall, Flash realized he was seeing a rocket cycle, probably used by friendly visitors of the Hawk Man Kingdom. He had never before seen this invention, and consequently he had no idea how to fly it. But he thanked the Fates he was a fast learner.

Maintaining his balance with difficulty as he crossed the floor, he straddled the cycle, supporting himself by leaning against a metal bar. He gunned the engine. The force of the cycle’s kick, combined with the violent lurching of the palace, sent him flying against the wall. He pulled himself back onto the cycle and gunned it again, this time prepared for its kick. Exhaling bolts of flame so hot their color was pink, the cycle slid down its short track.

Unnoticed by all, Flash was a kilometer away from the Sky Palace when it exploded.

Sitting on a limb on the forest moon of Arboria, Luro the HawkMan picked an insect off his chest. “They were brave creatures, Vultan. With respect, the man who rid us of Klytus shouldn’t be deserted.”

Vultan winced. It was bad enough he was feeling claustrophobic beneath the canopy of foliage, but Luro had spoken loud enough for several of his other Hawk Men perched in the trees to hear. “Will you shut up? So maybe I’d do it differently if I could. But there’s no way I can help a man who’s dead!”

“Perhaps . . .”

“Yes?” said Vultan eagerly.

“No. Forget it. I was going to say that you could ensure that Flash Gordon didn’t give his life in vain, but it’s too ridiculous to even contemplate.”

Vultan pursed his lips and nodded. “True, true. Still, it’s too bad.” Resting his elbows on his knees, he placed his large fists beneath his bearded chin.

Suddenly, static drowned the murmurings of the HawkMen. A familiar voice manifested itself. “Flash Gordon to Vultan; do you read me? Mayday! Mayday!”

The Prince of the HawkMen looked about. Like many of his kind, he believed in reincarnation, but this development was unprecedented. Then he smiled with relief. He spoke into a wrist communicator. “This is Vultan. I read you! Where are you?”

“Flying blind on a rocket cycle.”

“We’re in Arboria. I’ll send you a homing beam.”

“Thank you, Vultan.” A pause. “For what it’s worth, Ming’s got Dale, Zarkov, and Barin.”

“I see,” the Prince said heavily. “My thanks to you.”

“Yeah? What for?”

“Oh, for giving a dumb old bird a second chance. After all, the worth of a man’s life can only be judged by the droppings he leaves behind him. Over to homing beam!”

Vultan suppressed a thrill of pleasure, for he knew he had committed himself and his subjects to a harrowing enterprise which would possibly result in the death or total subjugation of all. Nevertheless, he did not doubt his subjects would accept the risk. Some, such as Biro and Luro, would welcome it.

A certain blond Earthling also welcomed it. While flying a rocket cycle through green and blue skies he let out whoops and hollers and other Alabama war cries.

Dale Arden, on the other hand, experienced no exhilaration, no hope, no sensation, only an overpowering numbness and weariness that caused her every movement to be the result of a tremendous effort. Sitting on a bed of pillows, surrounded by unfortunate harem women who reveled in their exploitation, Dale resisted the comfort offered by the more hedonistic women who liked to keep in practice. Under different circumstances, her pink and blue gown would have inspired a number of sensual fantasies in her subconscious; its touch was soft, like the caress of a tender man. And knowing the caresses she would soon be subjected to, like any woman who permitted powerful men to use her body in any fashion they deemed fit (without regard for the spirit residing inside), she felt like a traitor to everything she had believed in, not to mention everything Flash would have wished for her. The fact that she had no choice but to surrender was not comforting, not in the least.

The doors to the chamber opened. Two red-robed guards threw Aura, daughter of Ming the Merciless, onto the bed of pillows.

Suddenly, the weariness left Dale. She felt alive again. But she was more like an animal than a thinking creature as she bore upon Aura and slapped her with all her might, sending her flying across the bed.

“Are you mad? Stop!” exclaimed Aura. “I’m a prisoner too!”

“You damned Mongoperson!” said Dale, ruthlessly and repeatedly striking Aura with a pillow, then wading in with her tiny fists. “You couldn’t tell the truth to save your life!”
Aura warded off the blows, only to find herself speaking to a wrestling opponent. “Dale, stop! I’m going to be exiled to Frigia in the morning!”

“Liar!” Rolling onto her back, Dale threw Aura across the bed for the second time. Her knee gave Ming’s daughter extra impetus.

Before Dale could renew the onslaught, Aura rushed toward the door, which opened automatically. However, the two guards threw her back into the room. On their knees, Dale and Aura faced each other across the pillows.

The savage rage was beginning to leave the Earthling now, but her hatred remained at a constant level. “It’s a trick,” she said woodenly.

“Is this a trick? Could tears come from my eyes if my heart hadn’t changed?”

Dale leaned over and touched the liquid flowing down Aura’s cheeks.

“I’ve been such a spoiled fool, Dale. I never knew what my father was until he let Klytus put the Bore Worms on me.” She shrugged. “I confess that at first the pain was rather interesting, but as the little creatures made progress, the pain became out of control, utterly unbearable.”

“I believe you, Aura, but I don’t trust you. You have Ming’s blood in your veins. You’ll be cozying up with him again in the morning.”

“Not if you give him this.” She pulled a black compact from the depths of her flimsy pink gown. “It’s a deadly poison. Unless his passions have gained complete control of him, my father drinks a Power Potion before he makes love. Drop this into his chalice!”

Dale stared at the compact for several moments, contemplating and discarding several courses of action. Then she shook her head. “I can’t, Aura. Not after I gave your father my word of honor.”

“What word?”

“To try to be a good wife if he’d spare Doctor Zarkov and Barin. He vowed he would.”

“My father has never kept a vow in his life!”

Dale appeared crestfallen. “Oh? And he seemed so sincere. Well, isn’t that just like a man? But I can’t help it. Keeping our word, or at least trying to, is one of the things that make us Earthlings better than you Mongopeople.”

Aura’s reaction was destined never to be revealed. For at that moment the door opened again. Flanked by two guards, Hedonia entered, wearing an ornate green gown that, Dale noticed with some satisfaction, exposed a bit too much of her tummy for her own good. 

“Follow us,” Hedonia said to Dale. “It is time to prepare you for the bliss which is to come.”

Her lower lip trembling, Dale grabbed Aura’s wrist. “I’m lost. Nothing can save me now!”

A rocket cycle tore through the shimmering veils and swirling colors of the Mongian sky. Flash Gordon maneuvered it through the winds. He felt merged with the megaunits of power expended by the cycle; his muscles flexed with pleasure whenever he manipulated the steering controls. He zoomed over the peasants laboring in the mines, the vast forest of pale crystals, the charred remnants of Ming’s personal firing range, and finally, into the valleys and crevices carved into the barren land about the Mongian city. Flash felt an exhilaration he had never imagined possible as he swooped into an especially large crevice and saw the red and yellow city before him, at this distance an insect in his path, fated to be crushed and then forgotten. As it loomed, he gained more respect for it, but it was still a thing to be conquered, and he experienced a fraction of the pleasure Ming knew every day of his life. He permitted himself a moment of philosophical speculation, thanking the Fates he had always possessed a firm set of principles guarding him from the darker side of human nature, a luxury Ming had never enjoyed. And with that moment acknowledging the common spiritual bond between them, Flash divested himself of all feelings of nebulous kinship with Ming. The Ruler of the Universe was his foe. For the first time in his life, Flash was prepared to cast his principles into the void. After all, the hand of Dale Arden, not to mention the fate of Earth, was at stake.

He accelerated the rocket cycle. It shot forward dangerously, but he held the controls securely.

General Kala sauntered up and down the rows of monitors with an intense air. She could not have been happier if Ming had granted her a kingdom. The sudden loss of Klytus was an unexpected reprieve from a symbolic term of confinement.

Consequently, she became extremely deflated when the colonel from Battle Control appeared on her telescreen and said, “General Kala, Flash Gordon is approaching!”

“What?” she exclaimed.

“Yes, on a HawkMan rocket cycle. Shall I inform His Majesty?”

“Imbecile. The Emperor would shoot you for interrupting his wedding with this news. Fire when Gordon’s in range. Dispatch War Rocket Ajax to bring back his body.”

Flash swung around the rocket cycle as lasers, fired by cannons, bolted about him. Their heat seemed to singe the atmosphere itself. Unable to resist a grin, Flash prayed the Mongians’ communication devices were unable to transmit a close-up of him. His grin widened when he looked over and glimpsed the battleship slowly following him, like an obese carnivore suddenly granted the power of flight.

Aura rode upward in an elevator with a red guard. Her lower lip protruded more than usual, but otherwise she concealed her agitation admirably. She thought of the life she would lead on Frigia. It wasn’t the coldness she minded so much, but the inadequate men of the icy moon. The ever present subzero temperatures had a definite detrimental effect on some of her favorite pastimes.

She wore a golden headdress, a pink gown, and a complimentary wrap that hung from her shoulders like a cape. She unloosed the wrap and let it drop.

“Pick that up, would you?” she asked the guard in a commanding tone.

The guard obeyed instantly.

Just as his fingers touched the wrap and were beginning to tighten about it, Aura withdrew two long pins from her belt. Gritting her teeth (she had never personally killed before), she buried the pins deep in the guard’s back.

She appreciated the satisfied thrill that ignited her heart as she listened to the discordant noises of the guard’s mechanical parts breaking down.

Dale Arden felt like a poison was seeping into her pores; the sensation of her glittering black gown was abhorrent. Her life stretched before her like a dreary monologue in purgatory, and she foresaw an existence without joy and without pleasure. Already the thought of her limbs intertwined with those of the debased murderer filled her with a revulsion unparalleled in her memory. The more intimate details of their marriage—well, she wondered why he found it necessary to marry her at all, if that was what he wanted. She sensed more than she knew the answer; he had to marry her if the consummation of his lust was to defeat her totally. If he took her without their mutual vows, she would still be free in her heart, regardless of the debaucheries he committed on her body.

Boy, I haven’t slept with anybody like that since I was in high school, she thought.

As she walked down the seemingly endless hallways, escorted by two silent guards, she heard the voice of General Kala over the public address system:
“Attention, all wedding guests. While you await the ceremony, all palace screens will display for your viewing entertainment the executions of the traitors Barin and Zarkov.”

This news so numbed Dale that the guards held her arms and forced her to walk onward. Her only thought was a recurring chorus of That heel, that heel.

A weight within her crushed her organs. She had never before felt so alone.

“Tell me more about this man Houdini,” said Prince Barin to Doctor Zarkov. His interest was genuine, for they both were blindfolded and chained against a dungeon wall. They conversed to pass the time, to share their mutually incomprehensible dreams, to forge a bond of friendship.

For despite their widely divergent backgrounds, they shared a longing for freedom and spiritual wholeness. Both desires had been suppressed in Barin’s breast, and he envied Zarkov his control over many factors of his personal destiny. Barin instinctively grasped that until he had decided to fight with Flash and not against him, his life had been fashioned totally by naturalistic forces. Zarkov, however, had undergone heady moments of well-being and good wishes toward the universe, moments when the entire history of Earth seemed to swell in his breast and enlarge his sense of personal identity. How sad that their lives were to end so soon, when this scientist could have taught him the nuances of living he fervently desired to learn.

Zarkov, too, found Barin interesting, particularly as a subject frequently in touch with the right hemisphere of his brain. He regretted (what he considered to be) the myriad failures of his own life, especially the lonely days spent without the warm, passionate, hot, burning touch of a woman.

They tensed as they heard the dungeon doors opening.

A laser fired twice. Something shattered and fizzled.

“Oh my God! Barin!” exclaimed Zarkov, suddenly buried beneath a crippling sorrow for his departed, barbaric friend.

Another burst.

Miraculously, Zarkov found himself dropping. He nearly collapsed when he landed. He pulled off his blindfold to see Aura speaking into a communicating device in the wall.
“Scanner malfunction, Area Seven Seven Delta. Under repair . . .”

The Earth scientist and the Mongian Prince had not been prepared for hope. Looking into one another’s eyes, they repressed their laughter until Aura released the communicator controls. When they saw that an unknown insurrectionist had painted “Long Live Flash!” on the wall between their places of bondage, they shook hands and embraced like brothers.

Flash flew the rocket cycle on a zig-zag path toward a red-tinged cloud hanging in a yellow sky. Laser beams flew past him, and he knew it was a matter of time before one struck him or his vessel. However, as he disappeared into the cloud, the warship ran out of time. He was nowhere to be detected.

The ornate behemoth hung in front of and below the cloud. Though it waited patiently, the captain inside was anything but patient. He paced about the command console; his men silently awaited his orders while he merely waited.

The captain could not know (and he was not clever enough to suspect) that Flash had emerged above the cloud to greet an army of hovering HawkMen, spread out across the sky in a magnificent formation. They were armed with swords and Mongian explosives and lasers and clubs and with courage.

Vultan grinned, baring nearly all his white teeth, as Flash halted the rocket cycle beside him. He was proud of the Earthling, who had learned the subtleties of the vessel well under his tutorship.

“Our trap play worked well, Vultan,” said Flash.

“Excellent!” replied the HawkMan Prince vigorously, his stiff wings flapping; he hovered like a somnambulistic hummingbird. “Now they’ll electrify the cloud.”

Indeed, at that very moment the captain gave the order: “Charge capacitators to electrify the cloud. Prepare sky nets to catch Gordon’s body.”

The red cloud crackled with white bolts that not only embraced it, but crisscrossed through it so closely together that not even a bird could have survived the vicious onslaught. After a few moments, the captain ordered the electrical barrage to be halted. And waited.

As the cloud began its gradual dissipation, Vultan ordered the first wave of HawkMen to attack. The majority remained where they were . . . and waited.

Flash watched the first wave disappear into the cloud, and he wondered about the texture of their lives; he prayed for them. He knew that in war men were fodder for the generals and little else, fodder which had to be conserved because supplies were limited, but he also knew that each HawkMan possessed his hopes, dreams, and desires, the intangible objects that granted life its meaning. He trusted that each man who died today died willingly, for a cause he fervently believed in.

As the first wave of HawkMen descended upon the war rocket, Ming’s minions burst from the open hatches and onto the railways and fins with a thundering roar. Lasers singed the atmosphere. HawkMen struck soldiers with clubs, stabbed them with broadswords, sent them falling from the ship. But the soldiers possessed superior weaponry, and many a Hawk Man fell from the sky as his body bled and his wings burned due to the scorching heat of the laser blasts. Soon the battle area was filled with the screams of the dying; the ship was stained with the colorful Mongian blood; and bodies of both sides regularly plummeted.

Watching the scene from above, Flash hardened himself against his more compassionate emotions as the battle progressed and the cloud dissipated. The HawkMen were taking a terrible beating, but that was part of the plan. Flash spied old, irascible Biro, who radiated the vitality of twenty younger men, who had insisted so stubbornly on performing his appointed task that not even Vultan could overrule him; Biro crawled along the fin of the warship, carrying the explosive device which would blow up the bulkhead and allow the Hawk Men easy access inside. Biro crawled through the smoke of charred skin and overheated engines; he warded off several attackers; he planted the device (the bottom of which was a suction cup) and pulled out the antenna that would receive the detonation signal. Then he cried out; he grasped his side, nearly rolling off the fin.

“Biro’s been hit!” exclaimed Flash. “I’m going in!” And he promptly suited his actions to his words, revving up the cycle and bolting through the remaining wisps of red cloud.

“That young hothead!” said Vultan. Then he thought of Biro lying on the fin, of Flash’s bravery, of how the Earthling had not hesitated to rush to the aid of a companion he barely knew. “Ah, well, who wants to live forever?” he called out, laughing boisterously. “Attack! Dive, my Hawk Men, dive!”

And the remaining wave of Hawk Men swooped down to join the fray.

Flash leaped off the rocket cycle and onto the fin. Part of him was surprised at how he had accepted the grosser aspects of battle now that he was in the midst of it. He lifted Biro’s wing, winced at the sight of the wound, which must have been painful, minor though it was.

“Are you all right?”

“They just winged me. Here’s the detonator,” said Biro hoarsely, removing a tiny control unit from his belt.

Flash dragged Biro to safety and pressed a button on the unit.

The bulkhead exploded. Men (inside and outside, friend and foe) screamed as shards of metal exploded in a deadly spray. At least one soldier caught pieces in his head and heart. Flash’s stomach turned as he saw a Hawk Man collapse and futilely attempt to halt the blood gushing from his wounded leg. A soldier shot the HawkMan, putting him out of his misery. Picking up a laser gun Biro had appropriated during the battle, Flash sliced the soldier in half. He ignored his pleasurable sensations.

Flash moved into the warship.

Elsewhere, Vultan waded through the fray like an elemental force that only materialized whenever groups of men battled one another. He smashed in a skull with his club, disemboweled a second foe, and shattered a jaw, sending his victim plummeting. He stood tall and proud. There was an air about him, as if he was fated to survive the day, as if he was positive he would emerge from battle unharmed. That air, as much as his undeniable skill, was his greatest weapon. Vultan only allowed himself to be diverted from the task at hand when he heard the explosion. He glanced up, saw Luro make an affirmative and defiant gesture. “To the bulkhead, my Hawk Men, to the bulkhead!”

Soon Vultan caught up with Flash and the foremost HawkMen as they fought their way through the ship. A HawkMan set an explosive which tore asunder the door leading to the command post.

As the HawkMen barged in, fighting and slaying all who stood in their way, Flash tossed a Mongian grenade at the second level, killing the soldiers or else rendering them incapacitated. Vultan slew the captain.

The HawkMen had taken the warship.

Aura led Zarkov and Barin through the maze of dungeon hallways she had often explored as a child; she was amazed she remembered them so well. They reached an elevator door. Aura manipulated her ring; a light shone from the jewel onto the fixture beside the door. “They’ve changed the code!” she exclaimed.

Before she had the opportunity to despair, Zarkov lifted her wrist next to the fixture and began fiddling with her device. “It’s okay. I’ll try to work it out.”

Aura turned to Barin, who hefted the laser she had taken from the guard. Ever since she had been in his presence, her knees had been weak, and she yearned for him to take her in his strong arms. She could not recall having previously felt this way about a man, but there was a purity and security in Barin’s spirit that attracted her to him as if he were completely new in her life, as if she had finally met the man she would gladly call master.

“I’ve changed too, Aura,” said the Prince of the Tree Men.

“So have I,” she replied breathlessly.

“Can you still love me?” he asked, knowing full well the answer.

“I don’t know. We’ll try.” But there was no commitment in her voice. “I don’t know what kind of relationship would satisfy me. I’m not the monogamous type.”

“I know.” Barin smiled in a manner which implied he understood her internal conflict. “You have needs.”

“Yes. Perhaps an open, liberal relationship would be the best thing.” Though her words seemed to widen the gulf between them, she found it difficult to resist him as he leaned over to kiss her. She knew the kiss would be tender. Though Zarkov kept distracting her by moving her arm around, she had never known such a tenderness. She broke away with an effort. “Not now, Barin!”

For a moment Barin’s former personality reasserted itself. “You haven’t changed!”

“Please! If I’m not at the wedding I’ll be shot!”

At that point Zarkov succeeded in cracking the code. A light stabbed out of her wrist, and the elevator door opened.

As Barin moved past her to join Zarkov, Aura succumbed to her overwhelming passions and planted a kiss on her lover that almost caused him to drop his weapon.

“Hurry!” said Zarkov.

Aura ran down the hallway, and Barin entered the elevator. As the door closed, Zarkov said, “I thought it was a prime number. Part of the Zeitman series. I haven’t changed!”

HawkMen jury-rigged the warship instruments that had been damaged during the battle. Flash was amazed at how quickly and efficiently they worked on the complicated equipment; he recalled Vultan had confided in him that his people had been preparing several years to revolt against Ming. The arrival of Flash and friends, which had caused events to get out of hand, had merely caught them off guard. Flash did not see any prisoners of war, and he pointedly avoided inquiries concerning their treatment. He concentrated on mastering the warship flight controls.

Biro looked up from the instruments he had been working on; he wiped his brow and smiled. “Autopilot repaired.”

Vultan slapped his round belly. “Good, good. All right, everybody take off! Luro!”

“Yes?”

“Watch Biro here; see that he stays out of trouble.”

Luro and Biro grinned at one another, it was clear they both would be going out of their way to find trouble once the main battle commenced.

Vultan shrugged. Those two, he thought warmly. “Form into a battle stream behind the rocket,” he ordered. “Flash and I will bail out when the shooting starts.”

As the HawkMen filed out, Flash pushed buttons on a device in the upper right corner of his console. Numbers ran backward.

“What’ve you set there?” Vultan asked.

“That’s how long Earth has left, Mongian time. One of your mathematicians figured it out for me. The differentials due to the space curvatures gave him trouble at first, but I almost wish he hadn’t done such a good job.”

The digital clock read three minutes forty-three seconds.

“Level with me, Vultan. Will this do it?”

“No doubt. They’ll switch on the lightning field around the city. And when this baby hits it—BOOM! It’ll blow that field dead, and my HawkMen fly right in.” He twirled some radio dials. “Let’s hear what the airwaves have to say!”

Vultan and Flash stood frozen as the traditional ceremonial music of Mongo crackled through the speaker.

Flash turned pale. “Oh my God.”

Though the stoic monitors cared not for how her mannerisms indicated her emotional state of mind, Kala found their presence unnerving as she paced back and forth. Without warning, she had found herself fighting off a HawkMan attack while Ming was engaged in a social function he would not permit to be interrupted. Sometimes she wandered to the main console, which she alone knew how to operate now that Klytus was dead, but mostly she paced the length and breadth of the room.

The face of the colonel posted at Battle Control appeared on the screen. “I am pleased to report that Rocket Ajax is returning, General Kala.”

“With Gordon’s body?”

“I presume so. Communications are out for some reason.”

Suddenly alert, Kala dashed toward the main console. “Are they in the proper approach pattern for today?”

The colonel hesitated, licking his lips. “Actually, they are not.”

“Open fire.”

“On Ajax, General?”

“Open fire! All weapons! And charge the lightning field. I take personal responsibility in the Emperor’s name.” Though I reserve the right to change my mind at some future date. As the turrets’ shocks reverberated throughout the castle, Kala spoke into the public address system, “Attention, all wedding guests. There is no cause for alarm. The city’s weapons are being fired in continuous barrage in honor of His Imperial Majesty’s wedding.”

As Dale slowly marched the intricate path through rooms and the throngs of the court, her life became even more desolate. Her ornate black headdress seemed to weigh her down. She was totally unaware of Aura’s renewed treachery against her father, of the escape of Barin and Zarkov, of the attack upon the city led by Flash. She had become a person without an identity; no longer an individual by any definition of the word. Cut off from her past on Earth, her future became, impossibly, increasingly repulsive. When she heard the voice of Kala over the speakers, a twinge of hope momentarily stirred in her breast. Though she had perhaps indulged in too many attempts to make her fantasies (particularly those of a certain order) come true, she was a realist at heart, and she did nothing to nurture that hope. It was utterly impossible for Flash to have survived the explosion of the Sky Palace.

Thoughts of a similar nature went through Ming’s mind as he walked up a flight of steps which led from beneath the palace hall to the altar where he had wed so many times before. He wore his finest red clothing, the gold collar of his softest jacket being formed by three circular shapes that encased his visual perceptions in a luxurious cage. The anticipation he felt for this Earth woman threatened to distract him forever from the spiritual matters of genuine importance an emperor was duty-bound to dwell upon. However, he did not regret his preoccupation with mundane affairs. To the contrary. Oneness with the universe could wait a while.

That is why Ming nodded with approval when he heard Kala explaining that the barrage of gunfire was merely a salute. He did not wonder why she had ordered this unprecedented act. Nervously rubbing the fingers of his right hand, he hurried to his wedding as quickly as his stoic façade would permit.

The gaudy city, which resembled a plastic toy from a distance, was enclosed in a net of ever-moving yellow gold bolts. Flash marveled at the power the Mongians possessed, for the city lights behind the field had not dimmed in the slightest. He was tempted to make some kind of moral judgment, but he was too busy dodging laser blasts and keeping the warship relatively on course. The ship had been hit several times, and it required all his strength to manipulate the altitude controls. Consoles hummed; exposed wires fizzled; white smoke even rose from the digital clock counting down the time remaining to Earth.

Vultan climbed up a ladder leading to the second level and an exit hatch, but he paused halfway when he realized Flash was not leaving the controls. “What are you doing? It’s time to bail out.”

“I forgot to tell you. I broke my rocket cycle.”

“So come on. I’ll carry you.”

“Bail out, Vultan—quick, while you still can.”

The Prince of the Hawk Men both leaped and flew toward Flash. “Are you crazy?”

“The laser fire’s too heavy. You know we’ll never hit that field with nobody at the wheel.”

“You’ll blow to pieces, Flash! It’s suicide!”

Flash tried to keep his voice steady. “No. A rational transaction—one life for billions.”

When Vultan grabbed his arm, he fought off the Prince. “You loony bird, go on, get out of here! Your men need you outside!”

White smoke intermingling with an odorous gray fume entered the control room as a terrific explosion rocked the warship; even Vultan nearly lost his footing. He regained his balance, then contemplated the Earthling as he slowly caressed his beard. “So long, Flash,” he said quietly, though the volume of laser fire continued to increase. “It’s been . . .”

“I know. For me too, Vultan.”

The warship swerved to one side and a rear exhaust sputtered. Vultan moved for the escape ladder. He paused when he had reached midway, as Flash said, “Tell Dale I know it would have been good.”

“That must be one hell of a little planet you guys have,” said Vultan.

Flash shrugged. “Not too bad.”

By now the city resembled not a toy, but a crazy arcade. The warship thundered forward though it was struck several times, sending showers of sparks onto the barren landscape. It thundered forward as if its metal parts had somehow become infused with Flash’s tremendous will.

Behind it were the HawkMen. They advanced bravely, avoiding the streaks of burning light stabbing through the air. Though he was horrified as a Hawk Man near him was turned into a charred parody of a man, Vultan’s voice was joyous as he communicated to his men via his wrist radio: “Onward, my brave warriors! Don’t, falter! Let this be known forever as Flash Gordon’s day!”

General Kala was dealing with the many communication breakdowns hampering her defense of the city when Barin and Zarkov burst into the room. Holding his laser at the monitors, Barin said, “Freeze, you bloody bastards! Freeze!”

The monitors, who up until that point had still spoken aloud, quietly informing Kala what they saw and what they were doing, instantly complied. Their sudden silence was eerie.
Standing behind the central console, Kala withdrew a laser pistol from her black leather holster. Barin instantly spun on his heel and shot the pistol from her hand. It twirled on the floor until it stopped cold in a corner.

Zarkov advanced toward Kala. “Take us to Ming!”

Kala said indignantly, “We do not lead traitors to the Imperial Presence.”

“I’ve heard that story many times before,” said Zarkov. “Don’t worry; we’ll find a way. Barin, why don’t you grab an imager from one of those agents?”

“Certainly,” said Barin eagerly. He tore an imager off the nearest monitor. Sparks flew and static resounded throughout the room as the Prince recoiled in unexpected horror. For the monitor did not possess eyes; instead, frayed wires protruded from his empty sockets. The monitor screamed silently and lowered his head against the console; a moment later the remaining monitors did likewise.

Zarkov rubbed his beard. “I wonder why I didn’t know they were cyborgs. Guess that information must be Level Seven.”

Unseen by both the intruders, Kala moved around the console and withdrew a slim tube from her boot. She aimed it at Zarkov, pressed a button. A tremendous jet of flame roared from the tube, singeing the scientist’s head, before Barin spoiled her aim by firing his laser directly into her chest. Collapsing, having expired instantly, she slid partway down the steps that separated the main console from the monitors.

Before Zarkov could thank Barin, the colonel from Battle Control appeared on the screen. “Rocket Ajax is still approaching. We guarantee its destruction when it reaches the lightning field. Life-form scanners identify Earthling Gordon at the controls.”

“Holy Moley!” exclaimed Zarkov. “We’ve got to do something!”

“General Kala?” said the colonel. “Will you please show yourself on the screen?”

Barin fired the laser toward the image of the colonel, and the communication device exploded with a crashing and hissing.

“We’ve got to deactivate that lightning field!” said Zarkov, rubbing his hands, anxious to get to work. “Not only that, but we’ve got to save the Earth!”

“Admirable goals, both of them,” said Barin, “but how can we accomplish them?”

“Thanks to my Level Six indoctrination, I think I can override the field controls here. Your mission, whether or not you choose to accept it, is to destroy the control panel of the third atomic generator near the pits of radioactive material.”

“But they’re too far away. I’ll never make it!”

Zarkov tapped his forehead. “I know a shortcut. Listen now, I’ve only got time to say this once. Go down the hall, make a left . . .”

A definite shortage of oxygen in the warship began to affect Flash’s performance. He felt dizzy. He knew he was going to die, but he had hoped it would be quicker than death by suffocation. Nevertheless, despite the difficulties, Flash managed to keep the warship on course.

Though her heart was pounding, Dale felt numb, practically deceased, as the short, balding priest Zogi, who possessed wayward clumps of gray hair and an obsequious manner unrivaled in all Mongo, performed the barbaric marriage ceremony. Dale, flanked by guards, stared at Ming standing opposite her. She was mesmerized by an unwelcome fascination with the evil aura of his unrepentant personality. His stoic façade had crumbled, and his lean features struggled to contain the expression of his pleasure.

“Do you, Ming the Merciless, Rightful Ruler of the Universe, take this Earthling to be your Empress of the Hour?”

“I do.”

“I don’t!” said Dale, futilely trying to pull away from the guards.

“Do you promise to use her as you will?” the priest asked.

“I do,” said Ming. His anticipation was keen.

“Not to blast her into space?”

Ming raised an eyebrow and glared.

Zogi cleared his throat. “Until such time as you grow weary of her?”

At that moment, Barin exchanged fire with red-robed guards in the corridor. As he hid in a recess, there was a hubbub of confusion as the guards got their orders mixed up. Barin took advantage of the situation and blasted them. He retrieved a high-powered laser from a tripod and, carrying it in both hands, rushed down the corridor. His greatest fear was that he had run out of time.

“The ring,” Ming said sternly.

Zogi’s eyes widened as he glanced at his aides. The second aide finally produced a crystal ring. Wide-eyed and perspiring, the priest gave it to Ming, who held it before Dale. A guard roughly lifted her hand into position, and Ming forced the ring onto her finger.

“Repeat after me, Your Majesty: With this ring I thee wed . . .”

“With this ring I thee wed . . .”

The lightning field was but a few seconds away when Flash heard the final vow of the ceremony over the radio. He had thought he would feel anger or sorrow, but instead he felt nothing, not even regret that he was about to die. He bit his lower lip. “Poor Dale. What a damn shame.”

Barin fired into the door and kicked it down. Before the startled Power Men could react, he began shooting at all the regulating devices and other controls. The machinery coughed up red smoke. A soldier on guard aimed a weapon, but Barin cut him in two.

Meanwhile, Zarkov pressed a button at the smoking console in the monitoring room. He had worked feverishly for the last two minutes, but now he experienced an elation much like Barin’s.

Flash did not know the lightning field had been switched off until the warship had nearly crashed into the castle.

The wedding guests had realized it seconds earlier, and Zogi and his aides had realized it before they. The priest’s eyes practically popped from their sockets, something they always did when panic gripped his soul and he lost faith in his gods (which occurred with alarming frequency). Knowing that his subconscious would forever regret he had not kissed the bride, knowing that escaping the oncoming rocket was more important than a little sexual titillation any day, he hiked up his robes and ran from the altar as quickly as his stumpy little legs would take him.

Ming raised an eyebrow.

The Emperor of the Universe saw Dale fleeing into the doorway from which she had emerged onto the altar. He wondered why the guards had not detained her. He noticed the guards fleeing from the palace hall. In fact, the entire wedding reception was running amok in all directions; the caterers had overturned the tables of food in their haste to find an exit.
At this point Ming could not fail to perceive the warship bearing down upon the gigantic picture window of the palace hall. The huge tine fixed to the bow seemed to call for him as the warship crashed through the window with an ear-splitting noise future generations would say was heard ’round the universe.

Ming ran to the right, he ran to the left, but in the end he stood where he knew the Fates had dictated he stand: in the center of the wedding platform. He did not feel pain, he did not experience fear, he only stared in astonishment as he grasped the tine which had passed through his chest. He did not hate Gordon, nor did he curse the Fates. For he knew during those moments, as only one who frequently communed with the universe could know, that he had been destined to lose.

As the Ajax crashed into the palace hall, it propelled Ming with it off the platform; his weight tipped it over as it came to rest, and he eventually appeared to be standing on the lower level, though in actuality the Ajax was supporting him.

Ming pulled himself forward on the tine. He left it vibrating behind him, coated with blue blood and pieces of his internal organs. Tenaciously holding on to life despite the inevitable, Ming knelt, tried to stand, refused to fall.

The blond Earthling, pale and shaken from his harrowing experience, crawled from the wreckage and retrieved a golden sword from the rubble. He raised it, fully prepared to use it if necessary.

“You could have been ruler of a kingdom,” said Ming hoarsely, defiantly turning his ring on Flash even as his life ebbed away.

“Turn off the generators and I’ll spare your life,” Flash said.

Ming’s upper lip curled in a snarl. “My life is not for anyone to take.”

“Your power is fading,” said Flash. He was fascinated at how Ming was becoming transparent before him, though he knew he should have been occupied with other matters.

Closing his eyes, Ming turned his ring on himself. He sent his will to uncharted realms, he divested himself of his considerable ego. The cold matter of the universe called. The myriad planes and dimensions of space became easily accessible to him. And as he sent his mind to the aforementioned uncharted realms, his atoms loosened their mutual bondage and became a red gas that flowed into his ring as if it had been sucked up by a vacuum cleaner.

For a long moment the ring stayed in the air; then it dropped onto the floor.

Flash lowered the sword.

Dale emerged from the doorway. Running toward him, she exclaimed, “Flash, Flash!”

Vultan entered the palace through the rubble created by the Ajax. “Congratulations, Flash! You’ve won!”

Barin burst through a doorway directly opposite Vultan. He held his weapon high. “I’ve destroyed the generator controls! The Earth is saved!”

At that point, the globe which had disintegrated the Lizard Man and Zarkov’s pistol flew into the room and halted in front of Flash. The victors tensed, Flash stepping before them.
“Hail, Flash Gordon, conqueror of Mongo!” said the globe.

Shouting with delight, Flash leaped into the air, and pandemonium erupted throughout the courtroom.

To Be Concluded Tomorrow at Atomic Kommie Comics

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FLASH GORDON THE MOVIE Chapter 8 "Crashing on Arboria"

2026-09-02T07:00:00.000-04:00

Read the Previous Chapter HERE!

Crashing on Arboria

The inscription on the brass plate read:

FLASH GORDON, EARTHLING.

EXECUTED FOR DEFIANCE OF

MING THE MERCILESS.

The black glass coffin containing the corpse had been paraded by soldiers throughout the Mongian city, serving the citizenry an example of what happened to those who defied Ming’s rule. There was no indication of how the citizenry reacted to this; no one dared speak, not to his mate or to his closest friends or to his family, for no one was to be trusted and Ming rewarded his spies well. But Klytus’s underground network, which kept tabs on every event or word which might be of interest to the regime, knew this: While individuals had not taken a stand on the context of Gordon’s speech to the court, they had not been reluctant to report its occurrence. The information banks of Klytus’s computers contained the names and serial numbers of those who had inadvertently reported to spies.

The coffin rested on a metal stand in a small room near the stoves where the Mongian dead were cremated. Here the nobles and their families said farewell to their loved ones. A hunchbacked dwarf wiped the glass coffin clean of fingerprints with a handkerchief; he paid more attention to his reflection in the shiny dark panels of the wall than he did to his work. (In his strata of society, he was regarded as a handsome devil; all the available female hunchbacked dwarfs were warm for his form.) Consequently, he was quite surprised when Aura, daughter to Ming the Merciless, wearing tight red trousers and a complimentary red tunic, entered the private room. She brought with her the brown-haired doctor.

Aura snapped her fingers several times. “Get out, get out, get out!” She tossed a clothing bag on the coffin. Then she clapped her hands as if she was speaking to a disobedient pet.

The dwarf was so shocked at her unexpected appearance that he did not know which supplication to perform first; he merely bowed twice as he hurried out. Aura slammed the door behind him.

The doctor was late middle-aged; he was pockmarked but comely; his body was soft, but that was to be expected of a man of science. He wore a white smock. Around his neck hung a Mongian stethoscope, which basically consisted of two flexible rubber tubes attached to a living bug with forty-eight squirming, thin legs. He set his medicine bag on top of the coffin.

“No!” exclaimed Aura, taking both the medicine bag and the clothing, placing them on the floor. Avoiding the doctor as he attempted to capture her in a mad embrace, she opened the coffin lid with a red beam that emanated from her ring. She stared boldly at Flash’s body, covered with a black shroud. “Hurry!” she said.

Pursing his lips, the doctor took a loaded injection gun from the medicine bag. “Do you realize what happens to me if I’m found out?”

“You won’t be,” said Aura automatically. A pause. “I swear,” she added just as automatically.

“I’m a fool for you, Aura.”

Laughing, Aura pulled the shroud away; with a trembling hand, she walked her fingers down his body.

The doctor fired the injection into Flash’s arm. He casually tossed the gun back into the bag, then applied the stethoscope to Flash’s chest. The creature, sensing blood, sent several legs deep into the skin. While the legs absorbed the fresh blood the creature needed to survive, its body mysteriously communicated the sounds of the heartbeat via the rubber tubing. The creature would not harm Flash, though it would leave a temporary mark somewhat resembling a hickey. The doctor nodded. “There we are. I think he’ll be just fine.” He yanked at the stethoscope. The creature was reluctant to release Flash. The doctor pulled four times before the creature relinquished its hold with a loud pop. “Think it’s time to get a younger one,” the doctor mumbled. He looked at Aura; anticipation gleamed in his eyes. “Sybaria again? Same place, next weekend?”

Aura stifled a yawn. “I can hardly wait.”

Before she could resist, the doctor grabbed her by the nape of the neck, pulled her over the corner of the coffin, and kissed her passionately, his tongue practically caressing her esophagus. When he released her, she finally remembered why she liked him, and it definitely had nothing to do with his personality. Grinning like a maniac, the doctor retrieved his bag and left her, as she had instructed and as his fear of exposure demanded.

Aura looked at Flash. Her eyelids fluttered. She kissed him. Her fingers dug into his scalp as if they could take root there. When she had finished indulging herself, Flash whispered, “Where am I?”

She placed her hands behind her back. “You’ve risen from the dead. I saved you.”

Flash pushed himself into a sitting position. “My God! How?”

“By magic, of course. With a kiss.”

“You’re a brave woman. After an eight-hour sleep, my breath alone could stun Ming at fifty yards. Where’s Dale and Zarkov?”

“Don’t worry about them; they’re safe for now.” She began pulling the clothing from the bag. “Well, I hate to do this, but I have to cover you up.”

“What?” Flash fingered his leather briefs. He grimaced.

“Quickly, before the other dwarfs come to cremate you. Put on this uniform.”

Flash hesitated, staring at her and then at the clothing.

“Oh, you’re such a child,” said Aura. “All right. I won’t look.”

She turned around and folded her arms across her stomach. The uniform she had given Flash consisted of a red leather jacket with golden insignia, a red T-shirt, black trousers, and black leather boots. She watched him dress in the reflection on the wall in front of her. Poking her cheek with her tongue, she nodded. “I like you a lot. You know that, don’t you?”

Aura escorted Flash to a conveyer belt in a seemingly endless tunnel with walls that were white, smooth, and curved. They were forced to crouch because the conveyer belt took them past many soundproof windows which, Aura explained, enabled her father to inspect the labs quickly and, to some degree, surreptitiously. Aura made Flash uncomfortable for many reasons, not the least of which was her insistence on crouching close to him. The scent of her perfume intoxicated his brain; he felt dizzy, he needed someone to support him, his legs were falling asleep and he swayed from side to side, but he was afraid to touch her. He resented her because he could not think of Dale while her obvious appetite tempted him.

Unfortunately, he was unable to distract himself by looking into the labs. The possibility of exposure was too great. In addition, he was not certain he wanted to know exactly what was transpiring below him.

“Where are you taking me?” he asked, hoping they would leave this tunnel soon.

“To the moon Arboria.”

“Arboria? I don’t want to go to any moon. I’ve got to rescue my friends and save the Earth.”

“Isn’t it pretty risky telling that to Ming’s daughter?”

“Wasn’t rescuing me a pretty rash thing to do just for a thrill?” When he realized that Aura’s only reply would be a provocative smile, he asked, “What’s in Arboria?”

“People who’ll help you.”

“Why?”

“Prince Barin does anything I ask.”

I doubt it, Flash thought.

“Trust me,” she said with all the sincerity she could muster. In Flash’s opinion, it wasn’t quite enough.

Flash caught a glimpse of a cylindrical machine through one of the soundproof windows. The machine made him curious. He chided himself for being too cowardly to have peeked into the labs before. What he saw caused him to grip Aura’s shoulder and squeeze hard.

“You’re hurting me,” she said, not without some approval, as she removed his hand.

But Flash paid no attention to her. In the lab below, Zarkov lay strapped to a table, the tip of the cylindrical machine less than a yard from his nose. Green discharges of radiation danced between circular metal bands surrounding the lower third of the machine. With Zarkov were Ming, Klytus, a technician, and a busty woman who seemed to have a position of authority, if the manner in which she slapped her whip against her tight leather trousers was any indication. Though a large woman of an imposing height, she had a figure a Buddhist monk could not help but notice. Frozen with horror, Flash did not attempt to conceal himself as they passed by.

“It’s nothing,” said Aura, pulling him down. “They’re just conditioning him to our climate.”

“Right! You actually expect me to believe that!” replied Flash as he struggled to keep Zarkov in view as long as possible.

“Keep out of sight! Do you want us both killed?”

Knowing she was correct and resenting her all the more for it, Flash grabbed her by the arms; he restrained himself from shaking her. “Don’t you understand? I’ve got to help him.”

“There’s nothing you can do for him now. You’ve got to go to Arboria. What’s so important about saving him anyway?”

Flash released her, glared at her. “Life is pretty cheap to you people, isn’t it?”

“He is only a common scientist, no one to be truly concerned about.”

‘Let me tell you something about us Earthlings, Aura. Zarkov may be a weird bozo, he may have brought Dale and me here against our will, totally wrecking our lives, but his heart’s in the right place and he did what he thought he had to do. I have to stand by him because he’s my friend. With the exception of saving Dale and the Earth and a few other matters I can’t think of at the moment, saving Zarkov is the most important thing in the universe to me. You understand?”

Aura pursed her lips. “I must think about it.” Suddenly she smiled and her eyes glowed. “Have I told you I like you a lot?”

“Do your worst, friends!” proclaimed Zarkov. “Someday I’ll see if you can take it as well as you dish it out!”

Briskly slapping her whip on her calf, Kala leaned over and inundated the scientist with her hot breath. “I sincerely doubt it,” she said in a sultry voice. “And rest assured, we shall do our worst.” Kala had an oval face with classic bone structure, which she deliberately accentuated by concealing all her hair beneath her ornate gold headdress (Zarkov suspected she was merely bald). Her glittering black blouse had loose, slashed sleeves. Over it she wore a vestlike lamellar structure with wide gold borders that rose in curved peaks on her shoulders. In the black middle of the lamellar was a circular gold insignia. The leather of her knee-length black boots had been treated in a manner identical to the leather of the tassels creating the whip at the ferrule of a narrow black cudgel.

“Please, Kala, we should derive no personal pleasure in our work,” said Klytus, concealing his hands in his sleeves.

“I realize that is your goal,” said Kala harshly.

Why is she so hostile to him? thought Zarkov.

“But there are others who believe finding pleasure in one’s work is a virtue,” she continued.

“And what possible pleasure could there be in reprogramming this Earthling?” asked Klytus.

“The pleasure of serving Ming and the state of Mongo for one,” replied Kala, boldly exhibiting the note of triumph in her voice.

Klytus remained silent. Ming covered his mouth with his black glove. Seeing this, Zarkov scowled. Why would Ming suppress his unholy mirth about those two, why would he permit them to use his name openly in a petty disagreement unless . . .

Oh my God! thought Zarkov. She and Klytus must be rivals!

And Ming had no qualms against seeing Klytus squirm; Zarkov had noticed that during the audience in the palace hall. Their political situation must amuse Ming to no end. But it bodes ill for me.

Ming paced back and forth in an area where Zarkov could watch him between his feet and the tip of the cylindrical machine. He wore an ebony robe, highlighted and decorated in gold. “As one scientist to another, Doctor, I must tell you something I trust you will find interesting. Due to the curvature of space, time passes very slowly here in the eye of the cosmic whirlpool. Subjectively, it is the same, of course, but objectively, well, you’ve already been away from Earth for many weeks. Periodically, or every thousand years Earth time, I test each civilization our sensors have detected. I create structural disorder in its solar system, causing earthquakes, tidal waves, and unpredictable eclipses. If there is no response to speak of, I judge that system harmless; I spare it. But if the attack is countered in any way whatsoever, I conclude the civilization has reached a dangerous technological level. And then I call upon the vast spiritual resources inside me, my astral self contacts the ineffable oversoul of the universe, and I pervert it to my personal will. I destroy the civilization! I destroy its homeworld—utterly!”

“My God! I was the one who . . .” said Zarkov.

Ming smiled, nodding almost imperceptibly. “Yes.”

“You’re saying it’s my fault Earth is being destroyed!”

“You penetrate to the essence rather quickly, Doctor. I thought it might amuse you to know this before your mind is gone.” Ming turned to Klytus. “Proceed with it.” With a mock bow in Zarkov’s direction, Ming disappeared from view. Doors hissed open, then closed.

“What are you going to do to me?” asked the pale scientist. He feared the truth as much as he feared ignorance.

Perhaps there was a faint note of glee in Klytus’s voice as he replied, “We shall empty your mind.”

Zarkov tensed. He imagined himself sitting up and breaking his bonds with a strength born of adrenaline. But his appraisal of reality promised no hope. “What?” he mumbled, praying he had not heard correctly.

Kala’s note of glee was anything but faint. “We are going to empty your memory as we might empty your pockets, Doctor.”

“No! Don’t do that!” Despite the futility of it all, Zarkov struggled mightily against his bonds. “Please, I beg you, my mind is all I have. I’ve spent my life trying to fill it!” When he realized that the obviously unmoved Klytus and Kala perceived him much as the Nazis perceived the prisoners in concentration camps, he became angry and indignant. “All right, I’ve had just about enough of this. Your unoriginal emperor is going to treat Dale like a two-dimensional character in a spicy pulp story. You people execute Flash who was a little stuffy but was definitely a right Joe. Now you’re going to brainwash me! That is the last straw! I’m not going to lie here and take this any longer! And I must say that you Mongians are perhaps the rudest people I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter!”

Kala purred, “Yes, Doctor, you are most misfortunate.” Her voice froze him with horror.

Klytus nodded at the technician. “Begin.”

The green radiation dancing between the metal bands amplified. A loud crackling like a thousand chitinous shells being crushed underfoot drowned all other noises. A purple ray oozed from the tip of the cylindrical device like an ectoplasm escaping from a mouth; it absorbed Zarkov as he increased his frenzied struggles, it tightened about his skull, it seemed to draw substance from him.

Klytus and Kala looked to a screen where flashes and flickers from Zarkov’s life passed by like specters reborn. Though the pictures generally regressed toward his childhood, they were intermittently interrupted by sensuous visions of Zarkov’s liason with his second wife, perhaps the high point of his amorous adventures; for in an attempt to draw his attention away from the purely intellectual pursuits which, inevitably, demanded the greatest amount of his time, she led him down a progressively kinkier and kinkier path, eventually giving up in disgust and taking up with an accountant whose desires were as prodigious as her own. It was clear from the visual record unfolding on the screen that Zarkov’s memories of this time took precedence over his childhood impressions. An especially enticing scene from his point of view—involving black stockings, a whip, transvestism, half a lid of marijuana, Volunteers by the Jefferson Airplane, and a rocking horse—was revealed to his torturers just before the purple ray took him back to the womb, whereupon Klytus signaled for the technician to shut off the ray.

Breathing hard, staring at the screen as if it was still disclosing perverse delights, Kala said, more to herself than to Klytus, “Remind me to revise my opinion of these Earthlings sometime. Perhaps they aren’t so primitive after all.”

“I suppose that is true,” said Klytus, “if your definition of civilized creatures includes those with predilections for freely indulging in barbarous, sensuous, mindless pastimes of lust.”

“What would you know about it?” inquired Kala in a tone which implied that in her opinion, he knew nothing about it. When she received no reply, she calmed herself with an effort and asked, “Shall we reprogram now?”

“Yes, but don’t fill him with anything above Level Three. I doubt if the human mind could take it.”

“Is that a veiled reference to your Level Five and your so-called superiority since—the accident?”

“Kala, remember the chain of command. I am still your superior. And I said Level Three.” Putting his hand beneath her chin, he turned her face toward him.

“I understand,” said Kala, demurely closing her eyes. “Level Three only.”

“I will return after hearing reports from our spies among the people,” said Klytus, walking through the entry as the doors hissed open.

Kala stared at the closed doors for several moments. She cracked her whip on her thigh; she placed her other hand on her derriere. She thought of years past, of how she had openly declared her undying love and passion for Klytus after the accident that had increased his sexual potential even as it had squandered it, of the chemicals that had caused the glands regulating his emotions to go into a kind of hibernation that verged, if not on dormancy, than on deterioration, and of the many deaths that had befallen her when, after she had brazenly supplicated and humiliated herself before him, demonstrating in graphic details her proposals for their immediate future, he had matter-of-factly declared her body held no possible interest to him; even if he permitted her to touch it in the provocative ways she dreamed, he would be unable to feel the sensation. The rhythmic sting of her whip now caused her leg to throb with a stimulating heat. Her smile was cold and grim when she turned it on Zarkov. The indifference in her voice fully matched that of Klytus when she said to the technician, “Level Six.”

The ebony night of Mongo was ending when Flash and Aura walked onto the spacecraft dock nestling between the tallest towers of the castle. Seeing the size of the red tower nearly a hundred yards away, directly in front of him, Flash came close to comprehending, for the first time, the mighty fortress that was Ming’s. Beyond the tower, great shards of red-tinged and blue-tinged light broke through the thinning space clouds, exposing portions of the barrenness below. Though the scene was magnificent, it did not awe Flash. The Mongian landscape was a drab parody of sterility, and there could be nothing awe inspiring about seeing it stir to its vague half-life. Of course, a Mongian might discern a certain grim beauty in it, but none of the soldiers in the sleek uniforms of Ming’s space corps, who milled about and occasionally smoked a particularly odorous type of cigarette, noticed the concluding moments of the night.

The uniforms which most closely matched Flash’s red jacket and black trousers seemed to belong to men in authority.

Flash had already stood on the port for several moments before he realized what he was doing: coolly exposing himself to men who would surely recognize him. The muscles of his neck tensed like coils of rope, but he struggled to keep his mouth impassive and to quell the panic in his eyes.

One by one, the men saluted Aura. She returned their salutes and they smiled as they stood at attention. Flash saluted as few times as possible, as many men as possible at a time, in an attempt to avoid notice in case he was committing a grievous error. In addition, he realized that if he created a steady movement, more men would be predisposed to study his features.

“What are you trying to do?” Flash asked between his teeth as he and Aura walked toward one of the rockets. “I’m going to be recognized!”

Aura unfastened a button near the threshold of her bosom, and now her breasts strained desperately for freedom from her tight red jumpsuit. “I doubt they’ll be paying much attention to your face,” she said imperiously. “Fall three steps behind me. Only Ming himself may walk by my side!”

Flash resisted the urge to snap back at her. Of course she was correct. He could not deviate from custom. He could not permit his pride to be his downfall. He complied with her instructions.

He only glimpsed the larger fliers—silver or golden cigar-shaped objects, with fins and sharply articulated wings and huge tinelike protuberances fixed onto the bows. With their platforms bordered by thin low railings (at different places, depending on their design), the large fliers resembled Barsoomian vessels. Flash and Aura walked toward a bullet-shaped version devoid of platforms, containing a cabin with enough space only for a pilot and, if available, a copilot. Painted a dull red with glossy yellow half circles and bars highlighting its structure, the flier resembled a toy more than a functioning ship. Its bow protuberance was a little stub; a stylish silver fin stood on top of the cabin; its wings were hardly well-articulated. Standing about or leaning on the flier were three noncoms, wearing black trousers with red stripes and black shirts with red and yellow buttons and patches; they snapped to attention long before Aura’s whispers to Flash were within their hearing range.

“When they open the door for us,” she said, “get directly into the pilot’s seat.”

“Eh?” Flash replied. He was afraid the sudden, noisy wind blowing pockets of brown and black dust like crippled dervishes had caused him to misunderstand her.

But she did not have the opportunity to repeat herself. The soldiers saluted her; they squinted from the dust (the burst of wind was already dying) and they refrained with difficulty from overtly staring at Aura’s diversion. Flash realized his escape was as good as made.

“You promised me a lesson, pilot,” said Aura woodenly as an eager soldier opened the flier door. “Are you ready to, uh, give it to me today?”

Flash touched his eyebrow. “Never fear, my most illustrious lady. When you’re safe in my hands, you’ll soon enough overcome your fear of flying.”

Inside the flier, Flash was unable to conceal his consternation. The controls deviated from any design he had ever seen; they were positively incomprehensible, with panels that consisted merely of colored squares and others that were a morass of buttons, levers, and wires. Even the curved ceiling was layered with controls and apparatus, including two perplexing devices of three connected parallel bars vaguely shaped like a helmet, one above each seat.

“Don’t worry; it’s a lot easier than it looks,” said Aura, directing Flash to his chair. Sitting down herself, she passed a hand over a panel. The colored squares—red, green, blue, and yellow—glowed, and the ferocious engines buzzed like a slew of irate bumblebees. She pulled a microphone toward her face, pressed a button on its side. “Stand clear for blastoff!” Her voice echoed in the loud speakers above the dock. She passed her hand over the panel again.

Before Flash had the opportunity to fasten his safety belt, the flier was propelling itself toward the crimson skies above. Flash could not help but notice that Aura was pointedly leaving her diversion intact.

Dale lay on a luxurious, circular bed of silk pillows and silk sheets. Though a portion of her mind was still alert (she had estimated that the bed could comfortably hold twenty writhing bodies, so long as only five were reaching the most frenzied heights of ecstasy), she had never before experienced such an all-consuming numbness. She feared her impending fate with all her instinct, but all her intellect and emotional thought was focused on the loss of the great romantic love she had always yearned for. She had known it so briefly! Her numbness making her unable to distract herself with the smooth cool touch of the silk, Dale did not wonder about the chambers beyond this one (which was just large enough to contain the bed), she did not strain to hear the chatter of the harem women next door. She had been unable to arouse a flicker of interest when the women exchanged her red gown for this white one, an exact duplicate in all other respects. Apparently, Ming had changed his mind about what color would most please him. She cried for Flash, she prayed a part of his soul resided in her, she wished she had known him better, both socially and Biblically, she feared the cold merciless creature whose hands would soon caress her, who would demand that her (physical) passion match his, who would soon soil her private parts with his filthy seed, who doubtlessly would force her to engage in acts which if performed with Flash would be glorious statements of love directed toward the oversoul, but while performed with Ming would be hideous mockeries of Nature’s great gifts to humanity.

The door between the harem and the bed hissed open. Dale shivered, resisting the urge to cover her eyes; was it Ming? The question plunged her to the utmost depths of despair. She reluctantly turned, breathed an involuntary sigh of relief. It was Hedonia, an imposing brunette wearing a flimsy series of veils exposing an array of freckles on her shoulders and back. On a tray, balanced on her left hand as if she were a truckstop waitress, was a bronze chalice; the liquid inside bubbled audibly. Hedonia knelt beside her. “Drink this, Earthling.”

Dale peered into the chalice. She wrinkled her nose at the odor of the aquamarine liquid. “What is it?”

“It has no name. Many brave men died bringing it from Galaxy 6R-3Y. When the stocks become depleted, many more brave men will die. Here; drink it. It will make your time with Ming more agreeable.”

Dale lifted her hand to knock away the chalice, but then she reconsidered. “Will it make me forget?”

“No, but you won’t mind remembering.”

Dale took the chalice and drank from it. The final swallow nearly caused her to gag. She returned the empty chalice to Hedonia and waited for the liquid to take its effect. Before a minute had passed, she felt a curious warmth in her stomach; all her fears and tensions had been erased, and she was in tune with the rhythms of life and the mysteries of the universe. She perceived that nothing was evil and nothing was good, that everything was, instead, neutral. She accepted Flash’s death and her impending fate with an elated fatalism. In addition, her head spun, sweat beaded on her brow, and she had a vicious attack of heartburn. Her eyes widened. “Wow. That stuff isn’t bad at all.”

“That’s why men don’t mind dying for it. Listen: soon a slave girl will bring you a potion which will unleash your carnal desires. You will be absolutely pliable to Ming’s instructions. He will take you to . . .”

“Don’t tell me; let me guess. He’ll take me to undreamed-of sexual heights. Right?”

Hedonia was somewhat taken aback. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

Dale shrugged. “Lady, I’ve heard it all before, and I haven’t believed any of it. Does Ming always need this potion to get his women excited?”

Hedonia lowered her eyes. “I cannot comment on that.”

“You’d better tell the slave girl to bring me a double dose. I may not care what’s happening to me, thanks to this nameless drink here, but it’s going to take one hell of an aphrodisiac to get me aroused.”

Kala regarded the tiny eye-slits of Klytus’s mask. Perhaps more than Ming, she deduced his mood or thoughts from his eyes; she perceived the near-nonexistent with clarity. She drew information fraught with countless ramifications from the rapidity of his blinking and the movements of the pupils, not to mention all the other avenues of acquiring knowledge that were open to her in those six square inches. Thus far, his eyes had revealed no inkling that he was aware of her duplicities. Nevertheless, Kala scrutinized them with a dangerous transparency. Could it be he actually did not suspect she had given Zarkov a Level Six Indoctrination, reducing him to a mindless zombie? No matter, she thought, tingling with excitement, he’ll know soon enough.

As Klytus unfastened the last of the straps holding Zarkov to the table, he asked, “What is your name?”

“Hans Zarkov, Agent Number 2133 of the Imperial Anti-Insurgent Espionage Group.” The Earth scientist saluted with a raised fist, although he remained too weak to stand. “Hail Ming!” He lowered his arm, cupped his hands in his lap, looked at Klytus, and grinned like a child.

“What is your mission?”

“To seek individuals or groups who work to overthrow the Established Order of the Universe.”

“What is your favorite color?”

“Khaki.”

Klytus nodded. His hands, too, were cupped, and his shoulders were slightly slumped. “Good, good,” he said with a faint note of satisfaction that astonished Kala (for it was so uncharacteristic during circumstances such as these). “We must now proceed with the physical tests.”

Kala’s mouth twitched twice.

A technician handed Klytus a ball of ice soaked in a red syrup, standing on an inverted soy cone. Klytus inspected it as if he were about to consume it personally. “This is to test your reflexes,” he said. Then, with a professional, almost nonchalant air, keeping his elbow straight all the while, he gave the ball of ice to Zarkov.

Zarkov took it gingerly; he slowly, oh so slowly opened his mouth . . . and promptly shattered the ice on his forehead.

Aura’s rocket soared through veils of numerous hues in the sky. Though the flier felt sturdy to Flash, it was still like a gigantic toy, fragile in a few important places. As soon as it had left the docking area, Aura programmed navigational instructions into it; then she turned to Flash, crossed her legs, folded her hands over her knee, and began a spate of idle banter designed to lull Flash into a false sense of security. Incidentally, between remembrances and compliments, she taught him how to operate the controls. The complex system turned out to be simple; the automatic pilot did most of the work, and Flash did most of the little deviations from the course.

The veil lengths gradually became smaller; soon they were passing through a veritable kaleidoscope. The mesmerizing colors engulfed Flash in a hazy euphoria; time slowed, his fears for Dale and Zarkov receded into the background. And Aura sat through the cascade of beauty as if there was nothing unusual about it, as if one saw this sort of thing every day. For the first time, Flash envied the savage princess. Maybe she did.

Suddenly, they were awash in a green sky with a density that, however illusionary, equaled that of an ocean. The atmosphere nearly buoyed the flier. In the center of the mists floated a tiny world with thick white clouds—and with glaring streaks of charred land—carved into the light green surface.

“That’s Aquaria. Once it was the lovely Water Kingdom of the Lizard Men. They rebelled . . . and my father blasted them!” She grinned, speaking her last words with relish. She then realized that Flash disapproved. “It seems cruel, I know, but how else should one rule the universe?”

Flash bit back his reply as he bore to the left more sharply than the automatic pilot had intended. Aura watched his impassive face; occasionally a muscle in his neck twitched. She rubbed the upper crests of her breasts. She stirred deliciously in her seat.

The red flier burst into the cool blue sky as if breaking through the surface of water. Dropping his stoic manner for an instant, forgetting the intoxicating scent of his benefactress, Flash gaped at the moon of Frigia, a semicircular hunk of ice floating in a cold pocket of the atmosphere, with icicles fifty miles long, with bases twenty miles in diameter, hanging from the edge of the southern hemisphere. There were crevices and valleys like huge slashes made with a giant butcher knife, but they only served to increase the moon’s hold on Flash’s imagination. The Terran quarterback felt his heart drawn to this cruel vista of death; he yearned for the peace of its cold embrace even as he yearned to challenge it for the sheer glory of survival.

“Every moon of Mongo is a kingdom,” said Aura, continuing the conversational tack. She seemed oblivious to the glorious vision in the sky. “My father keeps them fighting each other constantly. It’s a really brilliant strategy.”

She talks like a surfer girl from southern California, thought Flash, resuming his impassiveness but surreptitiously orbiting the moon by overriding the automatic pilot. I guess when you’ve got her other attractions, you don’t have to talk like an adult. “Why don’t the moons unite their forces and overthrow Ming?” he asked, hoping to keep his mind off those attractions.

Aura giggled. (Flash’s stomach turned.) “You saw what happened to the Lizard Men,” she said. “Hey! Keep us on a straight course!” She quickly reset the flier on automatic pilot. Satisfied, she pressed a button; the three metal bars descended on two rods; Aura maneuvered them until they slipped over her head. Squirming, she closed her eyes and concentrated.

Before long, Flash blurted, “What’s that?”

Aura sighed like a martyr. She pressed the same button and the rods took the device to the ceiling. “A thought amplifier. I’m going to call up Barin. Don’t you have thought transmissions on Earth?”

“Sometimes there’s a telepathic incident, but I’ve never witnessed one.”

“You mean you can’t read my thoughts?” The manner in which she stared at him and fiddled with her open collar fully revealed them.

Sighing, Flash gestured with his palm upturned. “I came here with Dale.”

“She’s not here now. And you know the old saying: ‘If your baby’s millions of parsecs away, love the one you’re with.’ ”

In exasperation, Flash looked toward the ceiling. He saw the amplifier over his head. “Wait! Could I call Dale with that?”

Aura accentuated her perpetually pouting expression. “If I showed you how. But I’m not about to.”

Flash exuded friendliness and warmth; he had switched on the old Gordon charm. “Pretty please?”

“You’ll have to use more effective persuasion than that,” she said, leaning over to touch his hair.

He moved away from her and felt relieved when she sank into her seat and pondered her next strategy. Rubbing his hand over his mouth as if to wipe away an imaginary kiss, he studied the consoles. Why didn’t you watch what she was doing? He pressed buttons, passed his hands over panels, and flicked switches, but nothing happened. He scowled. Suddenly, he passed his hand over the flight control console with a determined, final air. Frigia began to grow ominously larger through the window.

“What are you doing?” asked Aura.

Flash ignored her; he did not even shrug. Aura scrambled for the controls, but Flash grabbed her arm; he roughly threw her to her seat. She stared at him with loathing. After a moment she stood up before the controls so it would be more difficult for Flash to restrain her. He, too, stood, bracing himself behind her and tightly holding her wrists, forcing her hands to rest against her breasts.

“Let me go!” she squealed. “We’re diving into Frigia!”

“So what else is new?”

Aura attempted to kick him. Wrapping his left leg about hers, he held her easily. She gave up, realizing his strength could incapacitate her with a mere second of effort. “We’re going to be killed!”

“Not if I tune in on Dale,” said Flash.

Dale lay on her stomach; her eyes were closed and she tried to block out the chattering harem women. She wished the minutes were longer, so as to delay Ming’s approach, and she wished they were shorter so the ordeal would be over that much more quickly. The nameless drug was unable to combat her ever-growing fear of the immediate future.

Dale—it’s me—Flash—are you—receiving me?

Her heart pounding, her breathing rapid, she sat up, verging on sheer panic for the first time since arriving on Mongo. Suddenly her greatest fear had become that of losing her sanity.

It’s telepathy. I’m inside your head. Just try to think of me!

Flash clenched his fist in front of Aura’s face; he was not threatening her, he was merely expressing his frustration. The amplifier bars around his head shimmered with a dull blue glow. “She’s not getting me!”

“I must reverse my earlier sentiments and tell you not to use your brain, but your mouth instead.” She straddled him, rubbing her groin and inner thighs against his legs. The heat of her body as well as the heat of the blue glow caused him to break out in a sweat.

I’m with you, Dale. Just concentrate hard and think to me!

Can this be real? I saw you executed. You sure this isn’t an instance of Jung’s active imagination?

I was saved, I tell you, thought Flash, desperate to convince her. I’m still alive. I never felt so alive!

Oh thank God! thought Dale, nearly swooning. Where are you?

In a rocket, racing to the moon of Arboria for help. Are you okay?

I’m terrific. Even in her thoughts, Dale’s sarcasm was like undiluted lemon extract. I’m a prisoner in Ming’s royal sack.

Flash did not know which development shocked him the most: Dale’s predicament or the fact that Aura was now kissing him, expertly nibbling at his lips and caressing his teeth with her tongue. Somehow she had divined every erogenous zone around and inside his mouth. Her fingers quickly unfastened his jacket; beneath his T-shirt, his chest smoldered with her heat, pouring through the material as if it did not exist. Flash tried not to pay attention to what her other hand was doing. Fake Ming out! he thought.

How?

Come on, girls know how. It’s been done to me before.

It has? Dale asked.

Just pretend you’re in high school, and fake Ming out till I get back.

It’s too dangerous for you here. You can’t come back. Stay where you’re safe and I’ll find Dr. Zarkov somehow!

God! This chick really knows how to turn a man on!

I didn’t quite get that, thought Dale. Think it again.

Flash shoved Aura off his lap; she landed on her elbow and her coccyx, her back smashing against the console. Forget I thought it. It wasn’t about you anyway!

What!? Dale heard a door slide open; the knuckle of her right forefinger in her mouth, she turned to look, expecting Ming prancing like a stallion, ready to shower her with the most personal and (in this case) repulsive attention. But it was only a slave girl, a tall, buxom redhead wearing a shimmering golden gown, carrying another chalice filled with a liquid.

Hang up, Dale thought to Flash. I’ve got to go!

Where?

Someone’s in here. We’ve got to stop thinking like this!

The slave girl bowed. “I am pleased to inform you that his Imperial Majesty shall grace you with his presence very soon. I have with me a potion which shall prepare you physically and emotionally for the ardors of love which will surely follow close upon his arrival.”

Dale patted a silk cushion beside her. “Come here, sit down.”

The slave girl shook her head. “I regret to inform you it is forbidden.”

“By whom?”

“No one in particular. It simply is not customary.”

“It is if I ask it. Now sit and chat a spell. Besides, I hate to drink alone.”

Sitting, the slave girl offered Dale the chalice. Dale took it, but did not drink; she said, “Tell me, what’s your opinion of Ming?”

“He is the Most Illustrious Ruler of the Universe.”

“Don’t give me that. I mean, what’s your opinion of him sexually?”

The slave girl paled. “I’ve never heard any complaints. No one would dare; she would be executed.” She paused. “I do not believe we are permitted to have an opinion, though of course if Ming the Merciless ever desired me, I would gladly submit to the rigors of his investigations.”

“So then you would enjoy it?”

“I would strive to do so,” replied the slave girl, demurely bowing her head.

“What attracts you to Ming?”

The slave girl looked toward the ceiling; a dreamy haze glistened in her eyes. “He is so forceful, so ready to order executed those who slightly displease him. Those who greatly displease him are tortured. When he personally slew Prince Thun today, I experienced a beautiful tingling sensation, as if my spirit had flown to the stars and back. Yes, I admit it; I would freely submit to the caresses of Ming. However, I fear I am unworthy, for he has never noticed me.” Again, she bowed her head.

“Would you care for a sip?” asked Dale, holding the chalice toward her.

The slave girl shook her head. “It is forbidden. This ration was selected for Ming’s Chosen, and I shall not receive my slave’s rations until the end of the week.”

“Oh go ahead. I can’t finish it all by myself.”

With trembling fingers, the slave girl took the chalice. She sipped it, then paused.

Dale nodded. “Quality stuff, isn’t it?” As the slave girl prepared to take another sip, Dale tilted the chalice, forcing her to take larger and larger gulps. “Bottoms up, sweety.” In more ways than one.

Aura’s pouting expression was uncharacteristically sincere as she sat with her arms folded beneath her breasts and her eyes straight ahead. Flash could not resist smiling to himself, but only because she would not see it. Extrapolating from hints about her past and what little he knew about Mongian society, Flash deduced she was confused and hurt, for surely she had never been so rudely and soundly rejected.

“You men!” she snarled, breaking a silence of several minutes. “You think your pride is so important that you must maintain your so-called honor because it somehow supplies you with your masculine attributes. I must inform you, Gordon, I know from long personal experience that all men give in sooner or later, regardless of their pride. In the end, nothing is more important to them than coupling with a woman like me. You’re no different, Gordon. You’ll succumb to my charms . . . eventually.”

Despite himself, Flash felt sorry for her. He sadly shook his head. “Aura, I’ll be frank with you. I get the itch every once in awhile, and I scratch it too, just like every other robust, red-blooded American male I know, but I don’t scratch it with just anybody. Honey, you just don’t understand what makes a man tick. There’s more to a satisfying relationship than physical beauty, sophisticated techniques, compatible perversions, and a ravenous sexual appetite. There has to be mutual respect, kindness, consideration, the desire to have a mature and meaningful relationship however long it lasts, and full acknowledgment of the male as a human being in his own right. Men aren’t cheap vessels you can use up and throw away. Men have feelings too, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner you’ll reach some of the more rewarding plateaus of life.”

Aura stuck out her lower lip. I don’t think she believes me, Flash thought as he suffered a long moment of despondency. It would certainly make things a lot easier if he reached the center of decency he sensed in her evil, perverted heart.

The red flier was hurtling through the verdant skies spotted with yellow droplets that warmed the moon of Arboria, trapping and holding the heat generated by the cosmic whirlpool. White mists swirling about, dissipating in the flier’s wake like fibers shorn by antimatter energy rays. Eventually, the tiny rocket created only a minimal disruption, for soon the intertwining strands of mist averaged a hundred yards in diameter. “Can’t we avoid them?” asked Flash. “Every time we pass through one, I can’t see a blamed thing.”

“Don’t worry; the automatic pilot sees better than we can.”

As they broke through an especially large strand into the verdant skies, Flash saw Arboria for the first time. Tremendous roots and limbs tapering into nothingness rose from the light green fog screening the moon. The realization of their size numbed Flash. They were like the legs of gigantic dead spiders, somehow trapped in an eternal milky liquid.

Flash stared at a weaving tan root with green veins as they descended into the thick fog which seemed to cling to their flier like an ineffective adhesive. Their instruments showed them to be nearing their landing site, and the fog quickly became thicker and more tenacious. Flash gave Aura a questioning look.

Aura shook her head to demonstrate her mystification. “The fog’s usually not so bad at this time of the year.”

“How far to the landing pad?”

“Six-point-four. I’ll just drop the flaps a little.” She smiled with wide eyes, genuinely amused, when Flash touched her wrist to prevent her from manipulating the controls. “Trust me.” She flicked a switch.

The electronic command could not have been completely transmitted to the flaps when the flier lurched and there was a scraping that sounded as if its underbelly was being torn off. The engines coughed; parts ground into one another; a shower of red and yellow sparks flew from a console to Flash’s left.

Not again! thought Flash. “Pull ’er up!”

But it was already too late. Branches snapped loudly in quick succession; one cracked the window in front of Aura before it broke; she covered her face and screamed. The flier grazed one huge trunk only to graze another; though its fall was gradually slowing, it was being battered around by nature’s indifferent creations as if it was a rubber ball that had been dropped from the limbs above the green fog. Flash’s seat belt and shoulder strap threatened to tear through his uniform as he bounced in his seat.

Suddenly the flier smacked head on into a trunk, throwing Flash and Aura then backward, as it careened into thick heavy vines. The flier rose and fell for several minutes like a yo-yo; the vines had caught it. When it finally ceased moving, Flash, pale and out of breath, smiled weakly at Aura. “Trust you, huh?”

To Be Continued Tomorrow at Atomic Kommie Comics

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FLASH GORDON THE MOVIE Chapter 4 "A Journey Through the Barriers of the Ether"

2026-08-26T07:00:00.000-04:00

Read the Previous Chapter HERE!

A Journey through the Barriers of the Ether

FORTUNATELY, the trio strapped in Zarkov’s space capsule was unconscious throughout the majority of their journey, for if they had read the data of their instruments and peered through the portholes, they would have learned how puny were the most grandiose concepts of the universe in comparison with the reality; and it is doubtful that even the analytical mind of Zarkov could have grasped the sheer vastness and the startling array of colors through which his capsule passed.

In the fuel compartments beneath the sleepy travelers, chemicals mixed and exploded, one releasing enough oxygen near the exhaust pipes so that a tiny flickering flame erupted into a bolt of fire behind the capsule. The fire died as the capsule, now an insignificant mote, neared Jupiter.

Unbeknownst to all but a few confused scientists who were scanning space for clues to the phenomena occurring on Earth, the vibratory patterns of the ether altered in unfathomable, subtle ways, through incomprehensible means.

The emptiness of space gave way to red and yellow and chartreuse mists borne from some unperceived location upon ghostly winds. Gradually the mists became tumultuous; gradually the capsule became ensnared in a swirling whirlpool of myriad colors, a whirlpool of such power and celestial force that no creature, whatever its species, whatever its resources, could realistically consider escaping. Nor could any creature, whatever its surveying abilities, hope to absorb all the minute shades of the infinite sea of colors writhing like the waters of an agonized planet. A man could liken it only to the fires of the primordial universe, save that this sea of colors radiated no heat. The capsule floated through mists formed not by atoms, but by the parts of atoms, parts searching for form and function and for the fulfillment of a balanced environment. It floated through mists of jasmine, platinum yellow, vermilion, salmon, and sapphire. It floated through scientific impossibilities made mundane by the true realities and physics of the universe.

Eventually, other conglomerations of matter joined the capsule on the journey through the mists. Charred husks, all that remained of burnt-out comets. Meteors. Tiny asteroids. Clouds of space gas. The corpse of an interstellar creature. Upon entering the mists, the capsule left the solar system. After it had traveled for a spell, it reached a location no Terran equation could account for. Perhaps there was no location, perhaps there were many. Or perhaps the capsule had arrived upon a dimensional plane where all concepts of space and time were meaningless abstractions bearing no relevance to these mists—mists of matter so dormant it could not even be accurately described as inert.

Inside the capsule, Flash, Dale, and Zarkov were bathed in a succession of colorful lights. Dale, caught in the throes of a passionate dream, sweated profusely, breathed heavily, and tossed her head about. Flash dreamed of expansive fields, a shirt slung across his bare back, and a blazing yellow sun. Zarkov blinked; for a fleeting instant (for an hour?) he glimpsed the swirling lights. In a dim portion of his numbed mind he comprehended what was happening, and he mumbled, “Space is a device to keep everything from being in the same place.” Then he returned to oblivion.

The forces attacking Earth inexorably drew the capsule upon its journey, refusing to relinquish their hold even as the husk of obsolete parts reached a section of space which was the threshold of the eternal past and the infinite future. Vast, superintelligent beings composed of nebulous matter examined the capsule from their vantage point near the time of the universe’s passing. They perceived its birth from the parts acquired from junkyards and they deduced its innumerable destinies. Then they deemed it insignificant and turned their attention to worthier matters. Probes from other races transmitted information back to computers founded on principles entirely different than those for computers on Earth. Before the alien scientists could decide if they wanted to deflect the capsule and examine it personally, the forces which had already ensnared it pulled it out of the probe’s reach.

The capsule moved past (and perhaps through) magnificent sights. Galaxies spun majestically, seeming to throw away the stars of the spirals like luminescent dust. The corpse of an alien cosmonaut—the size of an elephant, with tentacled legs and clawed hands, its body perfectly preserved in its gray spacesuit—floated above the capsule; it spun toward a swirling galaxy, on its remorseless way to a destination it could never know. A passing quasar cast the capsule into a pool of stark whiteness—but only briefly, for the quasar quickly moved onto a point in space that existed a million years in the future. A disruption in the fabric of the universe—perhaps the implosion of a planet accidentally destroyed by its inhabitants—created a startling array of rainbow colors that, however the duration was defined, was rather succinct. Later, or what must be randomly defined as later, a star exploded into a nova, creating what was (from the capsule’s point of view) the barest flickering of light.

The mists unerringly guided the capsule through another disruption of space and time, and suddenly the capsule was in a sky of blazing crimson clouds, above a magnificently barren world with an array of huge colorful moons beyond the reach of the howling winds.

The sleeping passengers in the capsule did not know it, but their journey through the cosmos had come to an abrupt conclusion. They had arrived on the planet Mongo, the seat of the ruler of the universe!

To Be Continued Tomorrow at Atomic Kommie Comics
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FLASH GORDON THE MOVIE Chapter 1 "Flash Gordon Scores"

2026-08-19T07:00:00.000-04:00

Read the Previous Chapter HERE

Flash Gordon Scores

FLASH GORDON would have gladly divided the thoughts and deeds of the world into two distinct and arbitrary categories, but like many young people of his age, he realized that throughout the course of history the distinction had never been an easy one. When he had seen the newspaper photographs of a South Vietnamese officer ruthlessly executing a prisoner by shooting him in the head, Flash noted that no honorable man would commit such an act without the formalities of due process. Nor did he believe the National Guardsmen who had slaughtered the student demonstrators at Kent State to be honorable, courageous men; instead, he believed that protesting the senseless brutality of war was an act every bit as “American,” if not every bit as brave, as fighting and dying for the ideals of the United States. He did not understand why a former President had not simply admitted he had lied. He did not understand the concept of executive privilege; executives had no more privileges than other men, and to be honest, however belatedly, was certainly no shame, even if one were surrounded by the liars and sycophants of Washington, D.C. He could not understand why the delegates of the United Nations, who professed to be waging a bloodless war for peace, allowed a terrorist, a murderer of innocent children, to brandish a machine gun at the podium, whatever the merits of his cause. The distinction between good and evil seemed irrelevant in a world which routinely permitted such events to occur. Flash Gordon never pondered these matters to the point where they grew tedious, but they affected him all the same.

Flash’s mother had died of internal hemorrhaging three hours after she had given birth to him in a Tuscaloosa hospital. His father was a janitor at the University of Alabama in Tuscaloosa, and one of his duties was sweeping a section of the stadium after a football game. Flash watched all the games for free, with the inevitable result that he dreamed of one day playing quarterback for the college team. He dreamed of nothing but football. During the week, he spent all his free hours playing it with other children. (Baseball bored him practically to tears, though as he grew older he acquired an intellectual appreciation of it.) He never confided his dreams to his father.

Maxwell Gordon

Maxwell Gordon had named his son “Flash” for reasons he could never quite recall. The name was a joke he had made while in a drunken stupor the night of his wife’s death. If Maxwell was both father and mother to his child, it was only because he felt it was his duty, never because he truly loved the boy. When Flash was five and capable of taking care of himself without getting into too many fights and making too much of a mess, Maxwell left him alone to play sandlot football or to listen to the football games on the radio. After a time he acknowledged the boy, only to condemn him as the killer of his wife. Maxwell often threatened to kill Flash. He raged at the youth between drinks from his bottle of Southern Comfort, but Flash endured the cruel words with an infuriating compassion. Flash never hated his father; he understood that Maxwell carried within him a tortuous grief time could never heal, and that Maxwell dealt with it in the only fashion he knew.

Sometimes Flash heard his father making love to waitresses in the bedroom or in the kitchen, but he was not upset or confused. His father’s escapades inspired him only to turn up the radio a little and to lean forward on the couch, to be closer to the speaker. He imitated the announcers of New York, Chicago, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, sometimes pretending to be them rather than the quarterbacks. He whispered their words, he strove to talk like them in all respects. They became more real than the friends he made during the sandlot games, and, as a consequence, his southern accent became subdued. As he grew older, he lost it completely. The environment had not molded him; he had molded himself.

Maxwell Gordon died when Flash was twelve. Maxwell had gotten in a fight with a young lady in a bar. It turned out the lady was fifteen and her father had taken exception to her plans for the night. The perpetrator, a county clerk as well as a lifelong Democrat, pleaded self-defense. Since all the customers in the bar had been so involved in their own affairs and so uninterested in the fight that they had not seen who had pulled out the knife, Maxwell’s murderer was put on probation for six months. Flash bore the county clerk no malice; he believed the man would still have to face the justice of his conscience.

It was only at the funeral that Flash realized just how alone his father had been. The pallbearers were employed by the funeral parlor, and the services were attended by Flash, Maxwell’s superintendent, another janitor, and Flash’s maiden aunt, the twin sister of his mother. They listened to a slightly inebriated Baptist preacher speak of the great spirit and noble heart of Maxwell Gordon. Flash could not help but notice that the preacher offered no specifics.

His aunt Candace took him to a small farm she owned in the northern part of the state. When Flash wasn’t at school or helping the hired hands, he threw a football through a limp tire hanging from a gnarled tree in the backyard. For his birthday, Candace gave him a brand new football, and now Flash was able to throw two before retrieving them. When he became bored throwing with his right arm and needed a challenge to sustain his interest, he learned to throw with his left arm. At night he studied and read the paperback mysteries Candace was addicted to. Although the young Flash never fully comprehended the passions that drove a person to commit murder, he could not deny his fascination with the individual who guildessly defied the most important law of society, and he could not deny his relief when the detective finally exposed the culprit.

During the summer, when the work was done or could be easily done without him, when the heat was unendurable and each breath made the lungs seem fragile and weak, when his aunt was sitting in the living room and sweating so much that her bra showed plainly through her dress, when everybody else was dead to the world or wished they were, Flash walked through the high brown grass of the fields and climbed the lonely wire fences with rotting posts the dry wind had beaten down over the years. He squinted in the harsh sunlight radiating from a blue sky so deep and pure that he felt it wash over him and cool his skin. His shirt slung over his shoulder, his back and chest and underarms dripping as if someone had poured a bucket of water over him, he stared at the distant shanties of the blacks and the tenant farmers. He heard the children’s dim laughter as they sprayed each other with water from a hose. He heard the whine of a harmonica, the beating of hands and the stomping of feet. He climbed fences until he no longer saw the shanties, until he no longer heard the laughter or the harmonica.

He walked into the forest, into a peaceful world of shady trees. Part of his soul—he supposed that was what it was, he possessed no vocabulary through which he could analyze his spirit—embraced the essence of the silent trees. They became mysterious creatures somehow gifted with peace and long life and wisdom. The dark shadows eased the maniacal quality of his personality which forced him to throw footballs through a tire for hours. He was temporarily freed from the desire to excel and to justify the existence that had caused his mother’s death and had ruined his father’s life. In the forest, life and death mingled with the logic of the inevitable, and he pursued his communion with nature with his usual single-mindedness.

And the Forest in turn embraced him. Birds alighted on his shoulders. The coon and the possum did not fear him. Bucks ate leaves from his hand. Rabbits hopped behind him and the porcupine did not bristle as he walked by.

As he studied the silent, eternal battle of the plants, slowly strangling one another in the quest for growth and life, Flash realized death was not to be feared; nor was the death of those close to him to be mourned for years. During these trips to the woods, Flash exorcised himself of demons of which he had been unaware. And as he grew older, he always carried something of the tranquillity of the woods with him, a tranquillity never more potent than during those situations demanding the utmost of his physical skill, intelligence, and composure. This ability served him well during the months he played high-school football. He won a scholarship to the University of Alabama and eventually a position as starting quarterback for the New York Jets.

This inner peace served him when his aunt Candace died in an automobile accident, leaving him truly alone for the first time. It served him during the tumultuous political events of the sixties and during the gloomy aftermath of the seventies. It helped him to grow into a tall, strong man who carried his bulky muscles with the grace of a gymnast. His hair and eyebrows were blond. His dark eyes possessed a sensitivity and capacity for compassion one did not normally expect of a high-salaried football player; they marked a man who analyzed emotional and spiritual matters as well as the corporal. His handsome face, unscarred by the rough-and-tumble years of football, radiated something of the romantic poet, who perceived eons of evolution in the shape of a rose and who bowed to eternity beneath the canopy of stars. If it had not been for his childhood dreams, Flash never would have been a football player. He liked the game and his skill was unparalleled, but he disapproved of brutality for its own sake; he would have broken his contract and quit the team of a coach who said, “Winning’s the only thing!”

Sportswriters were not the first to notice these unusual qualities in Flash Gordon. Women from every walk of life noticed them at once, and they responded deeply, while men could but react with confusion. However, the unattached women who appealed strictly to Flash’s sexual instincts were invariably disappointed. Although Flash enjoyed the physical sensations of sex, its main attraction for him was the spiritual bond enjoyed by the participants. He had the reputation of being a playboy, a reputation fostered mainly by People Magazine and its ilk; he did little to perpetuate it.

However, the complex components of his personality and his convictions conspired to foster his reputation of having a temper which occasionally exploded.

“Damn it, Guiraldes!” exclaimed Flash. “You didn’t have to do that!”

There were two minutes and ten seconds remaining in the Super Bowl. The New Orleans air was warm, and a large bead of sweat singed with dirt rolled down Guiraldes’s nose. The guard reached below his face mask and tenderly wiped the bruised skin and cartilage; his nose had been broken twice in the last playoff game, and fists and elbows were constantly slipping into his helmet. “Do what?” Guiraldes replied, sounding like a barroom bully.

Flash merely stared at him; he reined in the anger which caused his hands to shake uncontrollably, blurring his vision with a red glare. For the first time he realized how exhausted he was, how the fans’ constant cheering and catcalling disgusted him, how his legs and arms hurt; there was also a constant throbbing in his bowels, the dull ache of gas. He tasted the salty sweat above his upper lip. The muscles around his rib cage hurt whenever he expanded his lungs, but his exhaustion would not permit him to inhale more slowly. He calmed himself with an effort. Unaware of his teammates gathering in a huddle, he returned the guard’s glare. Gradually his jaw relaxed, and he nodded to himself, knowing what he had to do.

The gun signaling the two-minute warning fired.

Without looking at his comrades or at the assistants carrying towels and buckets of water onto the field, Flash removed his helmet, wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his breakaway jersey, and strode toward the sidelines.

Pretending not to notice the coach’s wild-eyed expression, Flash said simply, “Replace Guiraldes. Put in Hank.”

Coach Hodges bit down so hard on his unlit cigar that he tore it. He threw it to the ground and stomped on it, once, planting his foot as if he were a soldier jerking to attention. Spitting flecks of tobacco from his mouth, he said, “What the hell do you mean?” The remainder of his inquiry was phrased in language much more colorful.

“Guiraldes deliberately spiked Bulgarella’s leg,” said Flash, indicating a giant on the defensive team, who sat with a bored expression while an assistant quickly wrapped a bandage around his bare calf.

“Oh the poor baby.”

“He’s been pulling that sort of thing the entire game. He’s caused at least ten injuries. I refuse to play with him any longer.”

Coach Hodges’s language lost its colorful appeal, becoming more direct; the essence of his statement was: “You what?”

“He goes or I go.”

Coach Hodges tore a fresh cigar from its plastic wrapper. “Flash, let me put it to you this way: This is the Super Bowl. I haven’t the time or the inclination to deal with this kind of manure.” He crumpled the plastic and tossed it into an empty bucket.

“That’s right,” Flash snarled, “this is the Super Bowl. There’re two minutes left, we’re behind by five points, we have the ball, but it’s third down and six yards to go on our own twenty-five. Now who’s got the best chance of pulling it out of the fire: Guiraldes or me?”

Coach Hodges bit down on his cigar. The tobacco spread throughout his mouth. He wiped his tongue with one motion of his hand, scraping off the debris on his jacket, and then yelled, “Hank, get in there and replace Guiraldes. Okay, Gordon, play clean if you have to, but get me that touchdown!”

Flash grinned. “Sure thing, Coach!”

Flash pressed his large hands on the center’s inner thighs. He took the snap and immediately lobbed the football over to Ricky Robur, the left end. At once Flash was brought down by a linebacker crashing through the line. Robur had not expected the ball so quickly. He caught it between his left arm and right hand and almost dropped it as he took a chance and moved away from the sidelines to avoid a defensive back; but he and Flash both knew that if the pass had come three seconds later, it would have been intercepted. Coach Hodges, who did not know this, threw down his cigar, stomped on it savagely with both feet, slapped his forehead, closed his eyes, opened them, groaned, waved his arms about like those of a spasmodic windmill, called upon the gods and the fates, in addition to the good wishes of the stars and the ether, and pounded his fists on the shoulderpads of an unsuspecting and unprepared substitute, knocking him to the ground. When Hodges saw that Robur had gained enough yardage for the first down, he began a dance that would have trampled the substitute if he had not rolled away just in time. Three men tackled Robur at the forty, not allowing him to fall out of bounds and automatically stop the clock.

Picking himself up despite an overwhelming desire to lie down and quietly expire, Flash signaled for a time out.

The crowd roared its support or disapproval, forcing Flash to ask for silence twice while the team was huddled. During these brief periods of lowered volume, a red-faced Hodges shouted incomprehensible instructions. The play Flash called was entirely expected under circumstances such as these: a long pass.

Upon taking the snap, Flash dropped back quickly, cocking his arm to throw but wary of blitzing linebackers. He saw that all his eligible receivers were covered by defensive backs, that the linebackers were watching for a short pass; his opponents did not care how much yardage the Jets gained, because a field goal would not give enough points to win the game; his opponents only wished to prevent the Jets from scoring a touchdown.

Flash was very much aware of the responsibilities of the moment; all the effort and the hopes of this season now depended upon his actions of the next few seconds. He had teammates who deserved the bonus money that came with winning the Super Bowl, the teammates who deserved the pride that came with victory. He was aware of the cheering crowd, of the millions watching television in their homes or in bars. How the millions would perceive him tomorrow would also be determined by his success or failure, but Flash did not give that final thought a moment’s consideration. Instead, he summoned the sensation of peace and calm he had developed in the Alabama forest, and he realized that regardless of what he decided to do, it would be correct.

Many a sportswriter had commented that Flash Gordon played football with the aplomb that only the spiritually whole could achieve.

A defensive guard slipped through the offensive line; he slipped past the offensive halfback. Flash tucked the football safely under his arm and maneuvered past a defensive end in such a manner that the end and the onrushing guard collided. Flash dashed past the offensive line.

His action was so daring and unexpected that for many seconds—about fifteen yards’ worth—all the players on the field were stunned. Even the crowd in the stands was awed and hushed.

And then it dawned on everyone that Flash Gordon was making a mad fifty-five yard sprint for the goal line.

The crowd roared, shaking fists and throwing trash high in the air.

Coach Hodges screamed for an assistant to bring his digitalis.

Network announcers were speechless, stunned at the sight of the exhausted quarterback making a run comparable only to that of the great Jim Brown.

Seized by an exhilaration he would later describe as unholy, Flash had never felt more alive. He instinctively side-stepped and stiff-armed tacklers. One crashed directly into him, practically knocking his rib cage from his chest and causing a ringing in his ears that would not go away for ten minutes, but Flash shrugged him off, lowering his head and butting into the stomach of another defensive back, sending him flying backward into a heap five yards away. He was vaguely aware of Robur diving before the legs of another would-be tackler, tripping him headlong into the Astroturf. Flash was certain other teammates had made key blocks during this play, and he was certain he would congratulate them next spring when they watched the game films together, but right now he was filled with the strength of his own spirit, with strength flowing into his arms and legs, strength molding his body and mind into one magnificent fighting machine, a true athlete!

Flash ran alone into the end zone.

He had scored the winning touchdown of the Super Bowl!

That night, while his teammates celebrated by carousing in the bars of the French Quarter of New Orleans, Flash sat beneath hot studio lights and taped an interview for a Saturday-morning children’s show. He wore white jeans and a white T-shirt with his name inscribed in red over the chest; the T-shirt had been a gift from an anonymous admirer, and he wore it in the hopes that she (the odds favored the pronoun) would know he appreciated it.

“Yes, Phyllis, I would say to children everywhere that if they want to be successful athletes, they should eat their breakfasts every morning and they should obey their parents and they should never tell a lie. Coaches don’t like liars.”

Phyllis Franklin, a prim former beauty queen whom the network had hired to add some glamour to their sports division, crossed her legs and folded her hands demurely over her knees. She raised her green skirt a half inch, ostensibly to straighten it, though its minor state of disarray would not be revealed on the home screen. A pretty woman, she had been recently divorced from an oil tycoon; her blond hair was cut short and made to rest immobile with a surfeit of concealed pins, but the effect made it seem as if she had used half a bottle of spray. “Do you think all children should aspire to be athletes, Mr. Gordon?”

Flash laughed. “Oh, of course not. Being fit and in shape is important, regardless of your profession, but playing pro football is just a job, and I would take the same amount of pride in my work if I was a newscaster, such as yourself, or an accountant, or an insurance agent. Or a janitor, as my father was.”

“Would you care to tell us something about your humble beginnings?”

Flash smiled, sternly, so she would not mistake his meaning. “No one has humble beginnings. No one should ever be ashamed of his parents or his parents’ work.”

Phyllis’s eyes widened and her mouth dropped open; for the first time she looked upon Flash Gordon as a human being and not as another dim-witted hunk to be interviewed. Most of the players she had met had been callous brutes, in her opinion. “What other advice would you give today’s youth?”

“Oh, nothing very remarkable, I’m afraid. Remember that hopefully is an adverb. Speed kills. Avoid festival seating.”

Noticing the director signaling her to end the interview, Phyllis impulsively reached out and held Flash’s hand. “Thank you, Mr. Gordon,” she said. She realized the gesture would play badly on the home screen, so she released the hand and sat up straight again; but the damage to her interview had already been done. A curse appropriate to her critics burst into her thoughts, and she immediately felt more confident. “It’s been a pleasure having you.”

“Thank you, Ms. Franklin,” said Flash.

Phyllis turned toward the center camera. “That was Flash Gordon, quarterback for the World Champion New York Jets. And this is Phyllis Franklin, thanking you for joining us and urging you boys and girls to tune in next week when our guest on ‘The World of Sports’ will be George Plimpton, telling us about his recent stint boxing a kangaroo.”

The camera pulled back; after a few moments the brightest, hottest lights blinked off. Sighing with relief, Flash wiped sweat from his forehead.

Phyllis said, “Mr. Gordon, that was one of the best interviews I’ve ever done. Thank you.”

“Call me Flash . . . Phyllis.” He could not help but notice the crew was ignoring her; the director had acknowledged her with a brief wave before turning his attention to someone else. And Flash would be ignored as long as he talked to Phyllis.

“They don’t like me very much,” she said, deducing his thoughts from the movements of his eyes. “They think I don’t know anything about football.”

“You’ve come a long way since you started, and I bet that next season you know three times as much as you do now.”

She laughed, covering her mouth with her left hand. “But three times zero is zero.”

“Oh, Phyllis, you should think more highly of yourself. The average female’s ignorance of professional football is due to another cultural exclusion sexist, male-dominated society foists upon women. To prove to them”—he waved his hand—“that you know your subject, you’d have to demonstrate you know six times more than they do.”

They were silent for nearly half a minute, looking into one another’s eyes. Flash felt a familiar emptiness in his chest, a yearning of his spirit to be cleansed of the afternoon’s violence.

“Would you care to join me for a drink?” asked Phyllis.

“Where did you have in mind?”

“There’s a nice bar around the corner.” She removed several pins from her hair.

“My hotel is just two blocks away, and we can call room service.”

“Let’s go to my hotel.” She shook her head so her hair would fall naturally; it wasn’t so short after all. “My room service is a company expense.”

To be Continued on Sunday at Secret Sanctum of Captain Video

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It's August 4, 2026...the day Ray Bradbury's "There Shall Come Soft Rains" occurs!

2026-08-04T07:00:00.000-04:00

Let's Start with a Little BackStory...

...now, we present an illustrated retelling (not a comic story) which appeared only once, in Bantam Spectra/Byron Preiss Visual Pubications/NBM's Ray Bradbury Chronicles #3 (1992).

Lebbus Woods, who illustrated this tale, wasn't a comic bool/graphic novel artist, but an archetect whose radical design concepts earned him a lot of attention as shown HERE!

But his pure illustration skills, as shown here, are undeniable!

Accompanying his fascinating re-imaging of the classic prose tale is a re-presentation of the only other visual version of the story, which originally-appeared in EC's Weird Fantasy #17 (1953), scripted by Al Feldstein and illustrated by Wally Wood.
Note that it has been recolored by Paul Rivoche, taking advantage of then-state of the art computer coloring.
This is in no way a insult to the amazing work Marie Severin did on the original coloring work, which extended what was possible with the primitive flat 64-color palate available to her!

Happy August 4th, 2026, everyone!

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Home to Stay!

The Complete Ray Bradbury EC Stories

(including "There Will Come Soft Rains" with Marie Severin's Coloring!)

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Friday the 13th Frights HAND OF FATE "The Night of Friday 13"

2026-03-13T07:00:00.009-04:00

For centuries, this date was 24 hours of sheer terror...

...amazingly, there are relatively few comic stories about it, and most of them are humor tales!
But not this one...

This bit of pre-Comics Code fun is from Hand of Fate #22 (1954), illustrated by Lou Cameron, who did over 200 stories and covers in every conceivable genre during his time in the comic book business!
His best-known work is a number of genre tales for Classics Illustrated including War of the Worlds, Time Machine, and Dr Jekyll & Mr Hyde!
He gave up illustrating and became a Western novel and non-fiction writer.

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Taylor Illustrated History
Horror Comics
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CRYPT OF BRONTE "House-Keeper's Tale: The Heights! & The Depths!"

2026-02-13T07:00:00.199-05:00

Since numerous reviews of the new movie Comment about the Horror Elements of the Flick...

..and since we've received several complaints that the Classics Illustrated version we've been presenting is a bit too...staid...we hope this retelling of the story is a bit more your...dare we say...cup of blood!

As you can see, combining the text of Bronte with the visual vocabulary of Al Feldstein, Bill Elder, and Jack Davis produces a most...visceral...retelling of the tale!

But this isn't the end, by any means...as we go from the Heights to...

Of course, condensing the novel to only 14 story pages (not including cover) as compared to the 48-page Classics Illustrated edition required a lot of editing and eliminaton of sub-plots and even characters!

But Sikoryak took another EC Comics concept, the letters page where the editors casually-chatted with the fans, to explain that...

Now ain't that a kool Valentine's Day present, kiddies?

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Masterpiece Comics

by Robert Sikoryak
Graphic Novel adapting Great Works of Literature in the Styles of Various Comic Books and Comic Strips...including Wuthering Heights!
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Classics Illustrated WUTHERING HEIGHTS Conclusion

2026-02-12T07:00:00.082-05:00

What's Happening with Heathcliff, Catherine, and Hindley ?

If you missed the previous chapter, just click on the link above, then return here and continue...

And so ends the (far more accurate than the movie) adaptaion of the classic novel!
Bonus: Here's some biographical material about the authoress...

You thought this was the end of our presentation?
Hardly!
Since some reviewers have mentioned the horror elements of the new movie, We're going to present a (admittedly-condensed) version of the tale...in the style of the classic 1950s Horror Comics...the ones your grandparents wouldn't let your parents read!

Dare You Miss It???
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Classics Illustrated WUTHERING HEIGHTS Part 3

2026-02-11T07:00:00.017-05:00

When Last We Left Heathcliff, Catherine, and Hindley...

If you missed the previous chapter, just click on the link above, then return here and continue...

The Tawdry Tale Concludes Tomorrow!

Adapted by Bronte's novel by writer Harry Miller and artist Henry Keifer,

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Classics Illustrated WUTHERING HEIGHTS Part 2

2026-02-10T07:00:00.107-05:00

We Have Already Seen...

First Edition Cover

If you missed the previous chapter, just click on the link above and read the tale of young Heathclidd, Hendley, and Cathy, then return here and continue...

The Tantalizing Tale Continues Tomorrow!
Adapted by Bronte's novel by writer Harry Miller and artist Henry Keifer,

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Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
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Classics Illustrated WUTHERING HEIGHTS Part 1

2026-02-09T07:00:00.050-05:00

Emily Bronte's only novel is one of the greatest stories of all time...

...but is it a tale of romance, a gothic horror story, or a deconstruction of both with elements of class conflict tossed in?

The Tempestuous Tale Continues Tomorrow!
Adapted by Bronte's novel by writer Harry Miller and artist Henry Keifer,
Bonus: CBS' Vicks' Matinee Theatre's 1944 half-hour radio adaptation of the novel starring Victor Jory as Heathcliff!
Click HERE to hear it!
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Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
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Christmas Creepiness WEB OF HORROR "Santa's Claws"

2025-12-14T07:00:00.007-05:00

Besides traversing the Earth distributing gifts, Kris Kringle protects the innocent...

...from threats both real and imagined!

Story and art for this tale from Major Magazines' Web of Horror #3 (1970) were by Frank Brunner, who would go on to major successes in sf/fantasy including acclaimed runs on Dr Strange and Man-Thing comics, and character design work on the 1990s X-Men animated series.

BTW, the spider-like host of the book was named (what else?) "Webster"!

We'll be back in 2026 with more stuff your grandparents didn't want your parents to read...

Merry Christmas

and

Happy New Year!

Fantastic Four: Doomsday Parts 26 & 27

2025-08-08T07:00:00.021-04:00

Twenty-Six
You Can Read the Previous Chapter HERE!

Anna sipped her tea and listened as Johnny spoke. It was difficult to listen to the handsome young American, for her heart was leaping with joy at the news he revealed.

“We don’t know what happened to Doom. He just vanished within the mist. But he’s gone, and I guess that means your people are now free.”

Erich stood by the window, watching his fellow Latverians pass by outside, passing the word of Doom’s disappearance one to the other. He could sense a reluctant happiness out there. The people were happy Doom would no longer rule them, but they were also unsure what would happen to them next. With Doom they had more food than they ever had before. He supplied them with medical facilities that were far in advance of any other nation. He had made their life simpler than had the Barons who had ruled them for centuries. And now that they were free, they wondered if they really wanted their freedom.

“The people are confused,” Erich said sadly. “Latverians have not known freedom for so many years they have forgotten what the word means. Perhaps they fear they will now have to struggle to get what Doom gave them, but they will have earned their benefits; they will not have traded away their lives for a serving of vegetables. I have confidence we will succeed.”

Ben lumbered into Anna’s small home, slapping his hands in satisfaction. “I just polished off a couple o’ Doom’s robots. Now they ain’t nothin’ more’n a scrap heap o’ junk. I just wish they coulda been Doomsie himself. Stretcho, ya think he’ll ever come back?”

“I wish I knew, Ben. We only heard his part of the conversation. From everything I could garner, he had opened the door that separates life and death and then had the door slam shut behind him. Frankly, I don’t know what that means. I’m not sure if he’s alive, or what.”

Ben grinned. “Hey, so ya ain’t the big-brained genius I always thought ya wuz. That makes a gargoyle like me feel better. C’mon, why don’t we split now? I wanna get back ta the Big Apple an’ take Alicia out fer a big juicy steak.”

“I agree with Ben, Reed.” Sue walked toward the door. “I don’t like leaving Franklin for days at a time. It isn’t healthy for a child to grow up without his parents.

“Johnny, you coming?”

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Sis. Let me just say good-bye, please.” He waited until the others left. “Anna, I hope you can understand what we did and why we did it. I wanted to help your people, but I couldn’t—not the way you wanted me to.”

Anna put her hand to Johnny’s lips. “I can understand, John Storm, and now I can even agree with you. You see, now it is up to my people to make Latveria into the land we have always wished for. If we can be a strong people, we will survive. If not . . .” She allowed the thought to fade.

“But you have helped us so very much, John Storm. We will never forget you. I will never forget you. You have given us hope. What more could we have ever asked for?”

Without a word, Anna pressed forward and her lips touched Johnny’s. He drew his arms about her, held her firm in his grasp. Then they moved apart and Johnny smiled, then turned to join his friends. “Good-bye, Anna,” he said simply. “I will never forget you, either.”

Reed, Sue, and Ben were already in the limousine ready to take them to the airport and home when Johnny opened the door and stepped from Anna’s small home.

He knocked on the door and waited. There was no answer, but he could hear the shower running upstairs and knew she would be home. He sat on the stoop and thought about the past several days, thought about Anna, thought about Frankie Raye and wondered if she would be interested in going out with him again, but no longer on her terms. He would not disguise who he was, he would not pretend his super-hero side did not exist any more than he could pretend his powers did not exist. He was who he was, and there was nothing he could or wanted to do about it. He wanted Frankie Raye, he was still in love with her, yet if she was unable to accept him without special conditions, then he would have to say good-bye, and he would be alone and not at all happy, but he would not have compromised himself. He would not have thrown away who he was to pretend he was something else.

The door opened. Frankie peered through the narrow opening and smiled at Johnny. She undid the chain and opened the door fully. “I thought I heard the bell ringing. Johnny Storm, am I ever glad it’s you.”

“Huh? I thought you never wanted to see me again.”

Frankie Raye nodded. “You’re right, I thought so, too. But I’ve gone mad these past few days. I’ve called you every hour. I went to the Baxter Building but I couldn’t get inside. Johnny, oh, Johnny, I’m just so happy you came back. You didn’t know what I was thinking, how I was punishing myself for everything.

“You have to understand something about me, Johnny. I get very afraid sometimes. I’ve been alone for too many years, and when you walked into my life I thought I’d never have to be alone again. But then, well, when I learned who you were, what you were, I knew that someday you might go out and never return, and I’d be alone, and I just wasn’t able to cope with that.

“It wasn’t your problem, Johnny. It’s mine. And I don’t know if I can change, but, oh, God, Johnny, I want to try. I don’t want to lose you, and I don’t want to change you into something I don’t want. If you’re willing, if you’ll have me after everything I’ve said, will you come back?”

Johnny paused and said nothing. He just stared into her beautiful eyes for a long while. Then finally he grinned.

“How about a burger and some fries, kid? It’s not fancy, but it’s me all the way.”

“That sounds good to me, Johnny Storm. Sounds just great to me.”

Twenty-Seven

Boris sat in the darkness of the castle for a very long time, rocking in the old chair his master had given him many years before. Muffled through the windows he could hear the singing in the streets, the shouting of happy people. It had been so long since he had heard his people laugh.

He thought of his master and remembered him when he was young. He was always such a bright child, yet even then his destiny could be read in his dark, brooding eyes. His end would come by his own hand. That had been the prophecy, he remembered. His great pride would ever be his downfall.

Boris forced himself to stand. Then he rested a moment on his staff before moving on. He heard the rocking chair slowly creak to a halt, and he thought he heard his name being called, but when he turned he knew the sound he had heard was only the howling wind.

At the doorway he paused to catch his breath. He smiled, remembering his master standing young and proud in his Latverian lab months before fate first brought him to America. His mother’s diary was open on a table before him, his bright brown hair rolling in the gentle breeze.

“Nothing shall ever stop Victor Von Doom,” he stated then.

“With my diary and my resolve, all secrets will be revealed.

Not even death itself will be a mystery to me.

Indeed, faithful Boris, I swear to you now, the dark region of the shadows will never claim my soul. When the time comes, when the other world seeks me out, then I shall face my greatest challenge. Then I shall prove that Dr. Doom has even conquered Death itself.”

Boris turned from the room and hobbled down the long stone corridor tapping his cane before him. The wind rushed through the winding hall and Boris slowly walked to the window and drew the shutters closed. He paused and wondered what he would do now, where he would go, how he would live. This castle had been his home for so many years, it would feel strange not to live here still.

All his friends had died many years before; now he was alone, old and crippled.

He left the chamber and entered his small room. From the closet he withdrew a bag. It was small and torn, but there wasn’t much he wanted to take with him. He stuffed one shirt in the bag, folded in a pair of pants, and zippered the bag shut.

Wistfully, he smiled as he left the room, walking down the long corridors to the main entrance. Upon the walls were paintings of Doom: standing proud, hands on his hips, riding horses, greeting his subjects.

So tragic, so very tragic.

He paused again in the main chamber and stared at Doom’s empty throne. There will never be another like him again, he thought. Such strength, and such arrogance. Such brilliance, and so little compassion.

Doom could have been a great man, but now he would go down in history as a villain, one of the infamous in the same league as Khan, or Hitler.

Boris heard the wind howl his name again, but the shutters were closed tight, and no curtain rippled. He thought he could see Doom sitting in his chair, his heavy iron hands outstretched, beseeching him to come closer.

Boris shook his head. I am an old man, too old. Much too old. I should find a place to stay tonight, then lie down.

Then he heard his name called again, softly, like a shadow’s whisper.

And this time he knew he had not heard the wind.

The End???

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Fantastic Four: Doomsday Part 24

2025-08-06T07:00:00.005-04:00

Twenty-Four
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Doom arced forward and Reed saw a stream of smoke appear from under his long green cape. Blast! He has a jet pack. I should have realized he’d be prepared for this. He’s been waiting for this moment, waiting to do whatever it is he’s planned.

Reed watched as Doom alighted on a floating asteroid. Then he removed his cape and spread his arms upward toward the center of the Negative Zone. Tiny suction devices lined Doom’s armor; intricate circuitry crisscrossed his chest beneath his tunic. Good Lord, he’s absorbing the negative energy—that’s a “power drainer” he’s wearing.

The iron Monarch laughed. “You understand what I’m doing, Richards?” he shouted at the tumbling figure rushing past him. “Do you understand? I needed to tap this dimension’s power. I’ve reconstructed my armor for this very moment. Even as we speak, even as you rush headlong to your death, negative power is being absorbed into my power condensers. I feel my strength increase, my very body changing, growing.”

“It isn’t gonna grow for long, Doc.” The Human Torch unfurled half a dozen fireballs at Doom as he fought the tremendous suction grabbing him. He would get Doom, stop the iron madman, then find a way back into the Baxter Building.

But Doom was ready. His fingers were spread apart and the air pulsed around him. The fireballs skidded off the energy shield Doom created. “You are a moron, child. This negative energy has given me powers you cannot even dream of. There is nothing I cannot do. Observe, you dolt—observe!”

He held his hands high, then asteroids suddenly altered course and circled Doom. He began to grow; he was more than one hundred feet tall when he paused and stared into his iron palm. Light danced across his fingers, changing shape, forming duplicates of the Fantastic Four. “With my new cosmic powers I can recreate life . . .” suddenly the figures burst into flame, then withered, ash slipping through his fingers—“. . . and I can destroy that life just as simply.”

Doom glanced at Ben, falling toward the destructive core. A glow surrounded the orange monster, then faded, leaving not the powerful Thing in its place, but the slimmer, human, Benjamin Grimm. “You despise your monstrous body, Grimm. It makes you little more than a mindless beast. It keeps you from the woman you love. ‘How could a monster marry a human?’ you cry to yourself each night. With little more than a thought, I can make you human once more. I can make your miserable life happy. You could return to your loved one not as a lumbering monstrosity, but as a human . . . as a man.”

Ben Grimm gasped. It had been years since he was human, since he had become the Thing. And Doom was right—it was only his monstrous orange hide that kept him from proposing to the blind Alicia Masters . . . kept the two of them from finding happiness. But now—now he was human again. Now he—his flesh faded; it turned pink, then orange. His skin hardened, became thick, brickish. He was no longer Ben Grimm. He was the Thing again, and he was mad as hell.

“Why’d ya do that, ya slimy little filth? Why’d ya make me this monster again? If I gotta die, lemme die like a man!”

Doom’s voice was like a madman’s: shrill, oblivious to his surroundings. “I want you to suffer, monster. I want you all to suffer. I want you to feel pain, to know failure, to realize you will soon die and there is absolutely nothing you can do to—” Doom paused; his eyes grew narrow. “NO! The Negative energy is changing me . . . taking over my mind. It would have driven me mad, but now I have mastered it. You four will simply go to your destruction, while I leave this dimension, and wield this energy as I had long planned.”

Reed saw Doom rise from the asteroid and fly back toward the Baxter Building portal. He breathed a sigh of relief. Doom would shut the door behind him. When the Negative Zone exploded, at least the Earth would be safe.

He wished he had time to explore this dimension to unravel its mysteries, to probe its special properties. On his scanner he had seen worlds populated by strange alien creatures. There was so much he could learn, so many cosmic secrets to unlock yet there was no time. Soon they would all be dead. Soon this dimension would be destroyed. It was such an utter waste.

Johnny’s voice pulled Reed from his thoughts. “I think I can fight the force, Reed. If I can just get some push, that’s all I need.”

“Lemme toss the matchstick, Stretch. I used ta be a great pitcher back in my little-league days.”

“What can I do, darling?” Sue asked. She desperately wanted to be next to Reed. If she was to die, she wanted to die alongside the man she loved.

“There may be a way, Johnny. It’s risky, but it’s the only chance we’ve got. Ben, I’m going to stretch between two of these asteroids. You pull me back like a slingshot. Johnny, I’ll stretch into a pouch shape, then you douse your flame, and fit inside the pocket I form. Sue, use your force field to surround Johnny. It might not eliminate the gravity pull on him, but it will reduce the pressure. It may make it possible for him to get close enough to the Baxter Building portal to flame on and make it all the way back. Once there we can communicate by radio. Got that?”

All three nodded as Reed stretched into position. It was more than three hundred feet between the hurtling asteroids, a greater distance than Reed had ever stretched before. He wasn’t sure he could make it, yet he said nothing. He had to try, even if it tore him apart. At least one would be safe. And once safe, Johnny could rescue the others.

He stretched, farther and farther. At last his hands gripped the far asteroid. He was in place, but he could feel his back aching. His arms were weak. He didn’t know if he could hold on for long. Pain cut through him, but he wouldn’t give in. “All right, Johnny, fly in, then flame off. I don’t want you burning me."

Johnny increased the flame behind him, rocketing him toward Reed’s outstretched body. He counted the seconds. Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . He doused his flame and a moment later Reed caught him. “All right, Ben, get behind me, and pull me back as far as you can. Sue, cover Johnny with your force shield”

Ben pulled Reed backward, bracing his legs on the asteroid. He didn’t see Reed wince with pain, didn’t see his friend lose consciousness. He continued to pull back, wondering how long it would be before Reed cried out. But the leader of the Fantastic Four said nothing. “Awright, ya ready, kid?” Ben waited for an answer.

Johnny shouted back toward the Thing. “Yeah. See if you can get a hole in one, Ben. I don’t think we have the time for another try.”

Ben released his grip, and Reed snapped forward. Johnny shot out, curving his body slightly to correct his path. The door was rushing toward him. He felt himself slowing down; the initial momentum was wearing off. He kept his eyes forward, but shouted out as loudly as he was able. “All right, Sis, lower your shield—NOW!”

Instantly, he flamed on and fired all his energy behind him. Once again he shot forward like a rocket. The door was directly ahead of him now. Doom had closed it: he would have to melt a hole through—it was the only way, his only hope.

He paused, concentrated, then lifted his arms before him. Wait a second, he thought. If I blast open the door, I won’t be able to shut it again. There’s gotta be another way.

The lock—I’ll burn through the lock. I can always reseal it after they’re safe. The lock melted and the door swung open again. Johnny flew on through and welded the door shut behind him. Just hold it tight . . . tight enough for now, yet loose enough to blast it open to let the others through. We’ll permanently reseal it when everyone’s safe.

Johnny flicked the radio control on his belt. “I’m safe, Reed.” He waited for an answer, but for a moment there wasn’t any. Then Sue’s voice came over the receiver. “Reed’s unconscious, Johnny. The strain must have been too much for him. But thank goodness you’re safe.”

Then Ben’s voice crackled over the radio. “Kid, ya gotta find us some kinda rope or somethin’ ta grab onta. Send it through that doohickey Reed set up ta explore the Neg Zone without openin’ the door.”

Johnny smiled. “Good idea, big man. Hold on tight, will ya? I’ll be right back.”

He ran through the lab door to the stairwell. “FLAME ON!” he shouted. There wasn’t time for the elevator. He had to fly up to the next level, then get inside the storage room and find some heavy cables.

A moment later he was back before the Negative Zone computers. “I’m here, Ben. Is everyone all right?”

“Sure, sure. We always get off on hurtlin’ ta our deaths. C’mon, punk. Move yer butt.”

Johnny’s hand reached for the computer, and his fingers danced over the controls. He had seen Reed work these dials a dozen times. He knew them by heart.

Using the controls, he could create a small opening to the Negative Zone, connected to the computer by an equally narrow airlock. Johnny could then feed the cable through the computer and it would emerge somewhere in the Zone. Using the scalar grid on the computer terminal, he could arrange it to appear by the entrance back into the Baxter Building.

At the same time Johnny knew the cable would be drawn to the Negative Zone core just as Reed, Ben, and Sue were. But it, being lighter, would soon overtake them. They, in turn, could grab the cable, and Johnny, using a hoist, could draw them back home.

If it worked, of course, and Johnny wasn’t sure it would. They never had to use pinpoint accuracy in the Zone before, and without such accuracy, his teammates would surely die.

Johnny shut his eyes and activated the airlock. On the viewscreen he could see the cable unfurl, one end still in the Baxter Building, the other unwinding into the Negative Zone.

“The creep did it, Susie! He did it!” Ben was shouting with joy as the cable floated toward them. Reed was still unconscious in Ben’s arms. Why didn’t he say he was hurtin’? ’Cause he didn’t want us ta make ’im stop. He knew if we suspected he was in pain, we’d never’ve let ’im go through with it. Reed may be a big-talkin’ scientist who seems kinda cold now an’ then, but the guy has a heart that just never stops.

“Ben!” Sue’s voice was filled with horror. Then Ben saw the reason why. The cable was veering off, away from them. They wouldn’t be able to catch it.

Ben shot a glance at Reed. If he were conscious, there would be no trouble. He could stretch to the cable, bring it to them, but he was barely breathing.

Then Ben saw Sue move. Her temple was glowing. Although he was unable to see her send out an invisible coil of force, he knew what she was doing. He watched the cable suddenly twist toward them, as if grabbed by an invisible hook. “Susie, yer a dream gal. Ya did it.” He remembered the early days of the Fantastic Four. Sue had often wondered if she contributed her share to the team. Her powers of invisibility seemed useless. But since those early days she had learned to harness her force field, and now she was probably the most powerful member of them all.

“C’mon, Sis, grab the cable.” Johnny was shouting into the radio as he watched the drama unfold. He saw her stretch out a hand and bring the cable to her. Ben Grimm leaped off his asteroid and grabbed the cable in one hand, still holding Reed with the other.

“All right, hold tight. I’m using a winch. You should be safe in a few minutes.”

Johnny watched as they floated closer to him. He could see the stress on their faces. The terrible forces within the Negative Zone still lashed out against them. It took all their strength to grasp the cable and not let go.

They were coming closer. Johnny strapped himself to a steel post, then tied steel cord around it, the other end ready to lasso Ben and Sue as the Neg-Zone door opened. They were by the outside portal now.

Once more he blasted open the door. It flew open, and an overwhelming force cut through the room. Johnny felt himself being drawn into the Zone, but he was held tight to the post. Unknown energy contorted his face as he shouted. “Grab the cords . . . tie them around you, then pull yourself in! When you’re safe I’ll shut the door, again. Just hurry! HURRY!”

Sue faltered, and her fingers slipped from the cable, but Ben caught her with his free hand while gripping the cable with his legs. “C’mon, Susie, ya ain’t gonna go fallin’ back inta that mess after all o’ this.”

Sue shouted to be heard over the roar of energy whipping past her. “I can’t hold on, Ben! I haven’t got the strength! Save yourself and Reed! Forget about me!”

Ben shook his head violently. “No way, lady. I save us all, or I don’t save any of us. Got that? Ya want yer hubby breathin’ again, ya gotta try ’n’ pull yerself in, too.”

Through the portal Ben could see Johnny. He was helpless, tied to that post. If anyone had to make a move, it was up to Ben, but both his hands were tied. “Awright, lissen ta me, Susie. I’m holdin’ onta ya real tight. See if ya can slip that cord around yerself and Stretcho. If ya can, I can toss ya back inside. Then I’ll follow. Got that?”

Sue nodded, saying nothing. She could barely think. Her hands reached out and grabbed the cords. She pulled one around her; the other she tied to Reed. “All right, Ben. I’ve done it. Now what?”

Ben said nothing as he threw back his massive shoulders, then pitched Sue forward as if she were little more than a baseball. Reed followed a moment behind. Good, Ben thought. At least they’re safe. Now ta get me outta this revoltin’ development.

Arm over arm, he pulled himself along the cable. It vanished into a small hole, but the hole was alongside the gateway back to safety. If Ben could pull himself close enough, he could grab the door and drag himself through.

He felt the raw energy lash into him, sting him, whip him. He was in incredible pain, but he kept moving forward.

Suddenly the door was in front of him. His right hand grabbed the edge and he leaned forward. His left picked a handhold, and he slowly pulled himself through. “Hot head, shut the blasted door behind me, or I’ll go sailin’ right back out.”

Johnny shouted back, trying to keep his balance in the fury of the Negative Zone wind. “Pull yourself all the way through, Ben! You’re still sticking out! C’mon! Get through, you big buffoon! Hurry!”

Ben was through. Johnny freed himself from the post and he was forced toward the Zone door. If he didn’t time this perfectly, he would go back through, never to be found. Neither Ben, Sue, nor Reed had the strength to search for him. He had to make his move now.

He reached the door and slammed it shut. The door fought to stay open, but Johnny welded it in place. Suddenly the pressure stopped and Johnny fell to the ground, his chest heaving in pain, his lungs desperate for air.

He allowed himself to rest for a moment. Then he completed the welding job. The door to the Negative Zone was sealed, and Johnny thanked God for that.

He didn’t want to go through hell ever again.

Continued...Tomorrow at Atomic Kommie Comics

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Fantastic Four: Doomsday Part 22

2025-08-04T07:00:00.002-04:00

Twenty-Two
You Can Read the Previous Chapter HERE!

As they watched the Fantastic Four running down their main avenue, Doom’s robot sentries on their tail, firing their dreaded laser rifles, the frightened Latverians ran into their homes, bolted their locks, and prayed that this battle, like the ones before it, would pass them by. They had often been caught between Doom’s troops and runaways. Over the years they came to realize no harm would befall them if they simply minded their own business, locked themselves away, and came out again when the church bells chimed, indicating all was once more clear.

A miniature missile exploded on the road before the Fantastic Four. “We ain’t gonna make it, Stretch. Let’s stand still an’ fight ’em. Runnin’ won’t get us anythin’ but killed!” Ben Grimm shouted; his voice rang like cannon fire.

Johnny Storm circled and fired at the onrushing army. A wall of fire sprang up before them, but the robots braved their way through. “I think Doom prepared these guys for us, Reed. They’re fireproof.”

Reed leaped at a tree, his hands grabbing its trunk. He saw another oak across the narrow street. “Ben!” he shouted. “Grab my legs! Tie them around that other tree!”

“Huh? What’re ya doin’ now, big-brain? Gonna pretend yer a clothesline an’ hope they’ll pass us by?”

A volley of missiles was fired at them. Reed relaxed his body as he stretched into a wide sheet. The missiles hit him, three in the chest, two in the stomach. Sue shut her eyes in horror. Ben’s fingers, firm on a tree stump, closed tight. The stump shattered under his grip.

The missiles stretched Reed’s body backward. He seemed to elongate almost to the end of the block. Concentrating, Reed snapped his body forward like a rubber band, shooting the missiles back at Doom’s robots. Four were instantly destroyed. The shattered fragments lodged in two others. All six were useless.

“C’mon, let’s go!” Reed shouted, his long legs leading the four of them. He stretched upward toward Johnny, saw three divisions of robot sentries approaching from varying directions. There were just too many of them. They’d never make it out of Latveria alive.

“Come, this way, hurry. You haven’t any time.” It was a girl’s voice that called out to them.

Reed shrank back to normal height. “Who are you?”

The girl shouted at him angrily. “There isn’t time for introductions. If you want to live, follow me. Hurry.”

Reed turned to the others. “There’s no other choice. Let’s go.”

They ran down a side street and ducked through a low door. Johnny landed behind them and followed. A dark tunnel appeared before them, but the girl held a small candle which she had picked up at the door. “Follow me. Be quiet,” she whispered softly.

It took several minutes, but they soon found themselves in a small wine cellar. Large casks sat on heavy wooden shelves. There was barely enough space to breathe in. But Johnny saw the girl who had led them to safety, and he gulped. “Anna? You?”

The dark-haired Latverian glared at Johnny. “Perhaps now you know what I meant when I said Doom was evil. You refused to help free Latveria, but I will still help you.”

The others looked on in confusion. Johnny grinned sheepishly. Introductions and explanations were definitely in order. “I met Anna while you three were getting yourselves captured. She and I sort of had an argument.” He shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.

Then Anna spoke. Her words were bitter, yet without hatred. “I wanted, I pleaded, with him to help us overthrow the despot who rules us. He refused.”

Reed understood. “Johnny was right, Anna. As much as we would like to see Doom done away with, we can’t enter any country we wish to just to overthrow its leaders. That would be an abuse of our powers, and, worse, that would force us to become the decision-makers between who is right and wrong, who should live and who should die. If Doom hasn’t that right, we can’t claim it, either.”

Reed saw the girl was beginning to complain. He continued, not letting her speak. “What would happen if we, on our own, decided the government of America was unjust, or England, or the Soviet Union? We know, we can feel for those who live in oppressed nations, but we dare not use our powers to destroy their leaders. You have to fight for yourself. That’s the only answer.”

The girl was angry; the words sputtered from her lips. “That is the coward’s decision. Doom is evil. He subjugates his people. We have no freedoms. We want to be free, and to be free we need your help. Cowards. Liars. That’s what you people are.”

From the distance they heard an old man’s voice call out. “Anna, come up here quickly. His sentries are at the door. I want you by my side.”

With a sneer on her lips, Anna mounted the steps and vanished. “Yes, Grandfather. Hold on. I will be there.”

“Awright, Reed, whadda we do now? That gal thinks we’re lower’n scum. She ain’t gonna raise a hand ta save us, and we’re trapped down here.”

They eyed the large casks of wine. Reed studied them carefully.

“I have an idea,” is all he said.

“Have you seen the Americans?” The robot pushed its way into the small house; its scanners analyzed the room’s interior. No excessive heat patterns. “Speak!” Its voice was cold and mechanical, deliberately designed to instill fear.

“No. I haven’t seen anyone,” the girl said. Her eyes grew narrow, her hateful expression lost on the steel sentry.

“You lie. Perspiration rate has increased. Heartbeat has increased. You have lied. Where are the strangers? Take us to them or face immediate elimination.”

The old man hobbled toward the robot sentries, his cane tapping on the wood-planked floor. “My granddaughter said she saw them earlier, when they came. Yesterday. She is not lying. Check me if you think so. I have not seen them.”

“You tell the truth, yet you lie. There is something amiss. Is this your only cluster of rooms?”

There was no point in lying. The robot sensors would discover a lie. “No. We have a basement, a wine cellar. I make the wine myself, from the grapes I grow in my garden. I have permission.”

The robots pushed passed the old man, knocking him back. Anna caught her grandfather and helped him to his seat as the robots descended the stairwell to the cellar.

Light beams glowed from their eyes, turning the dark basement into daytime. There were only large casks, nothing else.

Suddenly their arms lifted, and their laser rifles slid into place. With a wide arc they circled the room, blasting each cask. Wine spurted out from half the casks, yet the deadly rays slashed through all. Anna cried out in horror. She understood what had happened, but it was too late. There was nothing she could do.

The robots paused. Their leader turned toward the girl. “We did not detect the presence of outsiders, but our computer tapes indicated you have not yet made this year’s payment for your wine-merchant license. You have been operating illegally. Tomorrow you will appear in Municipal Court number three and pay your fine. In the meantime, all illegalities have been removed.”

The girl was silent, struck numb, as the robots left without another word. Wine flowed everywhere; it formed puddles around her feet. Then she heard one cask shudder and open. Johnny Storm slipped safely outside. Her eyes grew wide with astonishment.

The other casks opened. Reed Richards, Sue Richards, and the orange-skinned monster called the Thing eased their way to safety. “Yer plan worked perfect, Stretch. How’d ya know?”

Reed eased a pain in his back as he answered his friend’s question. “We passed through Doom’s robot control room during the tour, remember? I knew the frequency he operated on. I was sure a minor adjustment in our belt radio would block out our heartbeats. Fortunately, I was right.”

Anna couldn’t hold her shock in any longer. “They shot you. How did you live? I saw them use their terrible rays. I saw it.”

“Each of us,” Reed began, “has special powers. You must know that by now. Sue’s force field protected her.” Reed nodded toward Johnny. “The Human Torch’s flame helped to deflect the light beams. I was able to stretch out of the way, anticipating their moves, which wasn’t as difficult as you might suppose.” They stared at him, confused. Reed grinned. “There was a small hole in the cask. I saw where they were aiming and shifted my body to the opposite side.”

“As fer me, there ain’t no laser built that can put the ol’ kibbosh on yer’s truly.” The Thing grinned a wide, toothless grin that seemed distinctly out of place. Behind them they heard Johnny begin to giggle, then laugh, then convulse. “What’s so funny, hot-head?”

It took more than a minute for Johnny to control himself, to clear the tears from his eyes. “You know why you survived, Benjamin, my orange buddy? You know why? The blamed robot missed you, that’s why. But if you want to see what the laser hit, take a peek behind you.”

Ben turned his massive head, and if it were possible for his orange-hued body to turn red, it would have. He backed into the corner, behind a cask still emptying its wine. The others saw his consternation. Then Sue noticed the reason and she broke into fits of laughter.

Ben was fit to be tied. “Awright! Awright! So what’s so funny, lady? Ya never seen a orange butt before? Sheesh! Hey, wot’re ya all starin’ at me fer? Ain’t ya got no courtesy? C’mon, get movin’. Get movin’!”

Laughing, Reed turned to Anna. “You wouldn’t have any material we could alter for Ben, would you? I think my friend here is a bit embarrassed.”

Ben squarked. “This is another one I owe Doom fer. Burnin’ off my britches! That’s a new low, even fer him!”

It took fifteen minutes before the laughter stopped.

Continued...Tomorrow at Atomic Kommie Comics

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Fantastic Four: Doomsday Part 21

2025-08-01T07:00:00.006-04:00

Twenty-One
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There were five guards waiting for them at the end of the corridor. Their guns were drawn, ready to fire. Ben shot a glance at Reed. “Want me ta take care of them, Stretch?” He cocked his fist in gleeful anticipation.

Reed shook his head. “I want them stopped, not crippled. Sue—?”

Sue nodded and stepped into action. Five separate energy bubbles appeared around the astonished guards. They tried to fire their guns, but the bullets wouldn’t emerge from their chambers; Sue had clogged them with separate energy bursts.

Reed approached them with confidence. “Where is Doom?” They didn’t know.

“I don’t believe ’em, high-pockets. Gimme a chance ta work ’em over a bit.”

“No, Ben. They’re telling the truth. Doom wouldn’t bother telling any lackeys his plans. C’mon. I want to get to his central complex.”

They rushed through the corridors, Johnny flying behind them. “Reed, what makes you think Doom isn’t here? You seem to think he’s left.”

“Our escapes wouldn’t have been possible if Doom was monitoring us, Johnny. In every case he could have made some adjustment, held us back, possibly have succeeded in destroying us. I think he’s left, but I don’t know where he’s heading, unless—” His eyes grew wide with realization.

“Blast it! Of course! Why didn’t I realize it? This was all a setup to capture us—to take us away from New York. Whatever Doom is after, it’s back in the States. And unless I miss my bet, it has to do with our headquarters. Doom wants something inside the Baxter Building, and to get it, he had to get us out of the way.”

They entered Doom’s main control room, and Reed saw Boris sitting in a wooden chair next to Doom’s throne. The old man looked weak, and not at all surprised to see his master’s enemies standing there, still alive.

“I am pleased you lived. Death can be so horrible,” he said, his voice soft.

Ben plodded toward him. “I didn’t see ya tryin’ ta stop Doomsie, little man. Ya just stand right next ta him an’ do everythin’ that blasted walkin’ can-opener tells ya ta do.”

Boris let his fingertips run across his face. He was old, perhaps too old. He should have died many years ago, but his curse was continued life. “Doom is my master. I must honor him. I cannot disobey him. But you cannot understand that. You do not know me, our people, our ways. I may not approve of his actions, but long ago I swore to his father that I would remain at his son’s side until I died. I have kept that promise for many, many years. I intend to fulfill that promise until I am relieved.”

Reed interrupted. “Where has Doom gone to? America? The Baxter Building? Please, you’ve got to tell us. Many lives depend on your answer.”

Boris shut his eyes and welcomed the darkness. “He has gone to claim his destiny. He has lived his entire life for this day. At this moment, his jet is nearing your homeland. Soon he will enter your headquarters. It seems, sir, that you and my master have been competing with each other for years. Both of you are brilliant men, equally brilliant, I would say. For each discovery you have made, my master has made an equally ingenious discovery. But you have succeeded in one area that has always eluded my master, from before the days of the explosion. Time after time he has met failure trying to uncover what you already had learned. At last, he felt, he could wait no more.”

Johnny felt the anger overcome him. He grabbed the old man by the collar. “So he tries to kill us and take what he wants. What kind of madman do you serve? How can you accept him? Don’t you have any gumption, man? How can you just sit there and serve that maniacal killer?”

“Leave him alone, Johnny. We’ve got what we came for. Let’s go.” Reed put his hand on the youngster’s shoulder and urged him away. “We’ve got a long trip back to America.”

They ran from the castle into a band of robot sentries. Laser pistols were drawn and aimed at them. Johnny took to the air, flaming on as the Human Torch. With his arms outstretched, he unleashed a volley of fireballs at his targets.

Ben Grimm leaped at one robot and squeezed its base until the mechanoid shuddered and blew apart. A second robot fired at him; the blast grazed his shoulder. Ben fell forward, tumbling behind a massive rock.

With a herculean effort, he hefted the twelve-ton boulder and hurled it at the steel assassin who had shot him. He grabbed another robot and tossed it more than half a mile away into a small stream.

Reed Richards felt the laser blast skim by him, missing by a fraction of an inch. He was still weak, but these robots were not about to stop him. Not now. He stretched thin and wide and oozed beneath several robots. As the sentries adjusted their rifles, he came up around them, enveloped them. His fingers stretched toward their controls, broke open the control box, and ripped the main fuses from their housings. The robots fell dead to the ground, useless piles of metal junk.

Sue Richards faded from view and ran toward a rocky area. Three robots pursued her, their radar picking up her electronic heat pattern. Laser blasts flashed on all sides of her as she ran for shelter. They homed in on her with deadly accuracy. Instantly, she became visible again, with a force shield formed before her. Laser blasts splayed off it, then vanished.

With a massive display of power, she threw the force field toward the sentries. Like a battering ram, it knocked them off their pins, sent them scattering.

She sensed another robot approaching her from the rear. A second robot was at her side. She dived between them, they fired, but she rolled out of the way. Then she smiled briefly.

Sue paused, allowed the robots to adjust their aim. Without moving, she turned the robot behind her invisible. She had to time this correctly. If she was a fraction of a second off, she would be caught in their crossfire.

As one, they fired their lasers as she dived from sight behind a wide oak tree. She heard the invisible robot scream as its companion blasted it apart. A moment later she saw its scattered fragments littering the ground.

Reed stretched toward her, grabbed her hand, and tossed her to Ben. Johnny Storm flew in low. “I got this one, Reed,” he said, firing his concentrated heat blast at the sentry. The robot halted instantly, shimmered, then flowed to the ground as molten steel.

Johnny flew high again, then stared at the area around them. “Some more sentries headed this way, Reed.” Johnny pointed north. “Let’s intercept the buggers.”

Reed shouted in protest. “No. We can’t take the risk. Let’s run the other way. Besides, we have to reach the airport. It’s our only way out of here.”

Johnny flew above them, scouting the area as they ran. Suddenly, he arced low and flew toward them. “Several dozen sentries are closing in on all sides, Reed. These look bigger than the ones we just fought.”

“Any way out, Johnny?”

“Yeah. They’ve left an opening, but it takes us through the village. If they catch us there, innocent people could be caught in the fighting.”

Reed grimaced. “I’m certain that was their strategy, Johnny. They’re leading us on like cattle.”

“Big deal. We can stay here an’ clobber ’em.” Ben Grimm was ready. “Or mebbe yer too chicken ta face ’em again.”

Ben, Johnny, and Sue waited for Reed’s reply. “We can’t let them fight us here. There are too many of them, and I can’t be sure we can take them on. Our only hope is to make it through the village and head directly for the airport. It may be dangerous, but it’s the only choice left to us. You with me?”

Sue grabbed Reed’s arm. “Of course, Reed.” She stared at Ben. “Ben? Are you coming?”

Ben nodded reluctantly. “Well, I ain’t got anythin’ better ta do. Awright, so we paint the town red. Big deal. Hoo-hah! Let’s go, awready!”

“Then, let’s move,” Reed said, trying to be hopeful, but failing miserably. “We make it through town, and the next stop is home.”

To Be Continued...Monday

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Fantastic Four: Doomsday Part 19

2025-07-30T07:00:00.048-04:00

Nineteen
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Reed Richards was running for his life. He heard the sulfuric acid roaring along behind him. The corridor came to an end. What do I do now? he asked himself. I’ve got to remember the pattern. He had seen the intricate maze for only a moment before the ceiling forced him downward, but a moment was all he needed. His photographic memory would do the rest.

If he had time to think, which he hadn’t. And if he could see the maze, which he couldn’t.

He stretched his hands out, as far as they could go. One hand took the right tunnel, the other the left. The left met resistance fifty feet up. He ran toward the right.

The acid gushed toward him, filling up the left-hand chamber and flowing through the right. If he had taken the wrong turn, he would be dead at this moment.

He kept the fear from gnawing at him. Just concentrate. Think before you take any step. Sort out all the confusion and just plunge on.

The tunnel continued, but there was another tunnel branching off to the left. He stretched his hands out again. The left tunnel branched into two more tunnels. There was no way to know if they continued on or met dead ends. The right tunnel circled a bit, then veered sharply to the left. Reed couldn’t stretch his hand any farther. And he was unable to remember the twisted route. Whatever he did, it had to be by instinct.

Two tunnels to the left, one straight ahead. How would Doom construct the maze? He heard the acid gushing toward him, slapping against the corridor walls. The right tunnel circled around. All three tunnels were longer than Reed could stretch. He made a decision.

He headed toward the corridor on the right. With all his speed he ran, his hands feeling the path before him. Doom would round one tunnel to make it seem it was coming back on itself. But Reed, in his anxiety, was able to stretch farther than Doom had expected. He had felt the tunnel veer sharply toward the door at the far end of the maze. This had to be the correct way. If he were wrong, he wouldn’t suffer long.

His pulse rate increased; he felt his heart pounding. Reed Richards was not a young man any longer. Perhaps Johnny could keep running at top speed, but Reed would soon slow down, and the acid would soon engulf him.

Reed thought of his son Franklin, born just five years before. He might never seen him again.

Once more the tunnel branched off into two. The right corridor was blocked fifty feet up. He had to take the left. Reed ran, puffing, his heart tripping. Pain cut through his lungs. He found it hard to breathe. But he continued. Step after step after step.

Then he remembered. He turned back and ran toward the right-hand cutoff. He could see the maze clearly in his mind. Halfway down the corridor he felt a small opening on the left. He had seen it when he had stretched over the maze. The tunnel opening was two feet off the ground, and a hole only one foot wide. He hadn’t felt it when he checked this tunnel because his hand stretched toward the end, down the center. It didn’t snake along the sides.

Like a snake, he slithered though the hole and found another corridor. He paused for a moment. It would take a few minutes for the acid to fill the tunnel he had just run through. A few minutes before it would reach the hole and seep on through.

He desperately needed those few minutes to calm his heart, to slow down his hurried breathing. At last he heard the wave of acid crash down the tunnel behind him. He had to begin running again.

Three more tunnels appeared before him. One, he knew would lead to the exit door. The other two would bring him closer to death. The corridors were too long to stretch forth his arms. Once more a decision had to be made. Which corridor? Which?

No way to decide. He anchored his legs at the wall and stretched down the left corridor as swiftly as he could. It circled to the right, then the left. It cut back on itself. Reed snapped his elongated body back to the starting point.

The wave of acid crashed down the corridor. He didn’t have time to try testing the next tunnel. He had to make his decision. He ran down the center tunnel. He veered first to the right, then the left.

Then, for the first time, his face contorted in horror.

Before him was a blank wall. He had made the wrong decision.

Sue Richards felt her force shield fading. It could last only a few moments longer. The laser beams flashed by her, picked up speed, richocheted off walls. They glanced off her force bubble, arced up toward the ceiling, bounced back and skidded off the table.

“The table?” Sue was astonished. “How in the world did I miss the obvious?”

She ran toward the table and ducked under it. She allowed her force shield to fade, and slipped a smaller one over the candle. She could maintain control over that force bubble with ease.

A laser ray hit the wall and flashed toward her. She fell back and pulled the table on its side. The ray hit it and glanced off. Doom had made the table impervious to lasers. Sue could use it as a shield.

She backed herself into a corner. Can’t let a ray hit me from behind.

In the center of the room she saw the candle on the floor, still burning within the bubble of energy. “Got to snuff that damned thing out. Don’t want to waste any energy.”

The force bubble contracted. It slipped under the wick and cut it. The flame sputtered for a moment, then died out. Sue breathed easier. “Now what do I do?” she asked, uncertain.

For a few minutes she rested, the overturned table reflecting dozens of laser blasts. “Could try to blast my way out of here with a massive force bolt at the door, but if it’s not strong enough, I’ll be trapped. I couldn’t budge the door when I tried earlier, but then—” She remembered. The candle had made her drowsy. It’s possible that she was unable to use her full power.

But she was still weak. It still seemed so hopeless.

She saw Franklin playing in the field outside their country home. He was such a bright boy, so eager, so filled with joy. She wanted to be with him now, she wanted to hug him, to smother him with a mother’s kisses.

Agatha Harkness came into view. The tall, thin, gray-haired old woman with the craggy features and harsh eyes was actually a warm, loving housekeeper. She saw Franklin running toward the cliffs. How many times had Sue warned him away from there? He ran; then he tripped and he fell.

Below him, Sue could see a long mountainside and a river flowing past its base; rocks lined the river. Franklin’s body would be dashed on those rocks. He’d die.

Then she saw Agatha standing by the cliff. She waved her hands above her head, and twin bolts appeared which flared out and formed a circle of light around Franklin’s falling body. The boy hovered for a moment in the lights; then he rose in the air, and the light brought him to safety. He came to rest in Agatha’s scrawny arms.

Sue winced. She should’ve been there. She should have stayed with her child. It was her duty. Why did she abandon Franklin to run around the world? How could she show him the love he needed? She should be at her son’s side.

But how could she be? She had been given these powers. They made her different. Long ago, when the four of them learned how the cosmic rays had affected them, they had sworn to use their powers to benefit mankind. To not use them would be to waste them.

They had been given abilities that made them more than human, but to use them properly meant they had to make certain sacrifices others were never called upon to make.

More than human and less than human. That’s what they were, and that knowledge bothered Sue. She wanted to be with her son, but she was unable to abandon her duty.

Yet, Franklin was happy. He was astonishingly intelligent, ready to help, willing to do anything. He read voraciously; his imagination was limitless. Perhaps Sue hadn’t failed him. When they were together, they had a more intense relationship than any other family. They could pack more into those hours and days than other families could accomplish in weeks.

Was it the time one spent, or the quality? Sue didn’t know, but she understood that the question demanded answers. When they returned home. If they returned home.

She felt her powers increasing again. She was almost at full capacity. Just a few minutes more . . . all she had to do was hold on tight. A few minutes . . . that’s all.

The time dragged on inexorably. Sue’s forehead was slick with sweat. She bit her lip waiting. She wondered what had happened to Reed and the others. Was Johnny all right? Did Doom get Ben?

Not knowing hurt her more than she could realize. The Fantastic Four was a family unit. They lived together. They battled together. If one of them died, what would happen to the others?

She fought to control her breathing, to calm herself down. Behind the table she would be safe.

Now she was ready. Sue steadied herself, pressed her back firmly to the wall to brace herself. She would have to use every ounce of willpower she could possibly muster. She would have to use her energy powers as she never had before. She counted backwards from ten . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . Sue felt her veins tighten, her body grow tense. Six . . . Her head pounded. Five . . . four . . . three . . . What would happen if she failed? she wondered. Would there be time for a second chance? No way. One try. Blow out the door. Run. Find the others. Two . . . She prayed. She had never been religious, but she prayed now. ONE!

She fell back against the wall, her eyes wide, unfocused. An almost invisible ball of pure energy grew from her temple. It moved slowly at first in the direction of the door. It grew larger, it picked up speed, larger, faster, larger, larger, larger . . . faster, faster—

IMPACT!

A moment of silence, then the door shuddered and creaked and groaned, then blew apart into so many atoms. The wall now held a gaping hole.

Sue was momentarily dazed. It took several seconds for her eyes to focus, to realize where she was, what she had just done. She felt the blood drain from her. She was weak, yet she forced herself to stand, lifting the table above her, and she ran.

Toward the gaping hole she ran as if her life depended on it.

She ran because her life did depend on it.

She dived through the hole and sat in the long corridor, and was terribly, terribly weak. And then she allowed herself to cry.

“Awright, ya two-bit tin yahoos. Ya may not have known it before, but right now it’s CLOBBERIN’ TIME!” Ben leaped toward the horse and rider. He didn’t seem to care as his body shuddered with electricity. He was The Thing. He could fight the pain.

“C’mon, baby, let’s see what ya can do.” He was taunting the knight, knowing it was only a machine, incapable of reacting to Ben’s sarcasm, but it made the burly ex-football player feel just a bit better.

He tossed the robot knight from the horse, then threw it at the other robots slowly marching toward him. “Lemme see, strike or spare?” Two knights blew apart under the impact. There were still eight more. “Not bad. Not good, but not bad.”

He leaped over one knight, his monstrous body incredibly agile. He glanced upward and grinned. “All right, ya bozos, this is where we separate the monsters from the robots. Ya ready, tin-heads?”

The second horse and rider lunged at him. The lance struck Ben’s shoulder, and he collapsed in pain. “Blazes, ya think ya’d give some sorta rallyin’ cry before ya struck. Ain’tcha got no manners?”

Can the jokes, gruesome. This ain’t no game. They’re after me. They got the power ta cut me inta little orange ribbons. Play it safe.

The Thing forced himself to stand. The horse was rearing. It would charge again. To his side, on the wall, he saw a fancy tapestry. Doom had said it was worth more than thirty thousand dollars. Tough!

The horse charged, and Ben ripped the tapestry from the wall. “Ya look cold, tinny. Mebbe ya better cover yerself with a blanket.” He heaved the tapestry over the two, and the horse thrashed blindly. The knight ripped at the tapestry; he tried to pull it away from his sensors. But Ben was already atop him, pummeling him with his massive orange fists.

“Ya ain’t gettin’ outta this, creepo. There ain’t nothin’ the ever-lovin’ blue-eyed Thing can’t clobber if he’s got a mind ta.”

Ben saw the other knights approaching him. He’d have to leap from the horse, get to cover. But first—

He swung his right hand back behind him. His blue eyes glowed brightly in the dim-lit arena. His wide, brutish mouth was turned in a sneer.

Then, in a wide, powerful arc, his hand flashed forward. His fist rammed into the robot knight. There was a loud mechanical explosion, and Ben fell off the horse as the rider found himself blown into useless rubbish.

“Yer not doin’ too bad, blue-eyes. Keep this up an’ somebody’ll probably pin a medal on ya, providin’ they can find a place ta do the pinnin’.”

Like a human dreadnaught, Ben smashed his way through the robots. Their lances smashed against his brickish skin, but he submerged the pain. Ain’t good for a monster ta cry. Ain’t no good fer my rep.

He felt his back explode with fire. Two knights were behind him, their lances still embedded in his rocky hide. God, can’t take the pain; it’s rippin’ me apart. Tearin’ me up. Gotta fight it. Gotta fight it.

Gotta pull the blasted lance outta me. Can’t cry . . . there, got it. But it’s burnin’ up my hand. Burnin’ me up real bad. Gotta hold on . . . gotta keep strugglin’. Keep on fightin’. Can’t fall. Sue an’ Reed an’ even the kid may be in trouble. Gotta help ’em. They’ll need me. Gotta help.

He staggered forward, the electrified lances still in his hand. His vision was blurred, his legs weak. He could barely think, yet there was only one thing he could do.

He fell back to the wall and saw the remaining knights marching toward him, their lances firm in their armored hands. He tilted his head upward and he said, “It ain’t gonna be easy, but I don’t do anythin’ the easy way, do I?”

With incredible power, he heaved the burning lance. It cut through the chain high overhead. The chandelier swayed for a moment, uncertain whether to fall or not. Then it made up its mind and plunged downward atop the marching knights.

Electricity sputtered wildly; sparks flew everywhere. There was a single corruscating squeal, and then silence.

Ben fell back, breathed heavily, and just stared. “Brush my buns. It worked. I don’t believe it, but it worked.”

With powerful hands, he ripped the heavy steel door from its hinges and tossed it aside. Now ta find the others.

To Be Continued...Tomorrow at Atomic Kommie Comics

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Fantastic Four: Doomsday Parts 15 & 16

2025-07-28T07:00:00.037-04:00

Fifteen
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The Americans waited for the buses that would take them to the airport. The room was buzzing with excitement. Their trip had been everything Doom had promised and even more. They would have stories to tell their children and their grandchildren. Latveria may be a small country, but it was virtually a paradise.

Dean Collins felt humbled by everything he saw. Doom had used his genius to help his people. His castle was a veritable museum, a treasure-house of art. Perhaps, he wondered, had he been wrong about Doom all along? The man had been conceited once, but he was much younger then. Perhaps he had outgrown his earlier attitudes. After all, his deeds seemed to prove he had.

He glanced around, then saw Doom standing in the doorway. “Where are Reed Richards and the others?” he asked, worried.

Doom nodded. “My friends have decided to stay here a while longer. Dr. Richards wished to work in my laboratory. He decided to work with me on some personal projects.”

Collins was suspicious. That didn’t sound like Reed, not the Reed Richards he knew. “I’d like to say good-bye to him, if you don’t mind.” Something was wrong, Collins felt.

Doom bowed. “Dr. Richards asked not to be disturbed; however, I am sure he will not mind if you speak to him.” His hand pressed a button beneath a television screen. “This should buzz in the laboratory.”

The TV screen flicked on. Reed Richards’s face appeared. He smiled. “What is it?”

Doom gestured toward Collins. “Move closer to the screen. Otherwise, the camera cannot pick you up.” Collins moved in and felt relieved. Reed seemed to be all right.

“I wanted to say good-bye, Reed. Doom said you were lagging behind?”

Reed smiled. “His laboratory fascinates me, Dean Collins. He has several devices here that I’ve never seen before. I can’t leave yet, not until he shows me how they’re used. Ben, Sue, and Johnny are staying here with me. By the way, how’d you and Mrs. Collins enjoy the tour?”

Collins returned Reed’s smile. “We loved it. I’d stay behind myself if I could. But duty calls. Tomorrow I’ve got to be back on the golf green. Ah, retirement.”

“Enjoy your trip, Dean Collins. I’ve got to go. Good-bye.” The television screen flickered for a moment, then went gray.

Dean Collins turned to the others and said, “All right, what are we waiting for?” He put his arm around his wife and led her toward the first of the buses.

He hummed. He had misjudged Doom. A tiger can change its stripes.

Doom wrung his heavy iron-bound hands in satisfaction. The contemptible fool had bought it all.

In another room of the castle, technicians removed the Reed Richards rubber face mask from the faceless robot programmed to mimic Reed’s voice and mannerisms. It had functioned as perfectly as designed. But then, Dr. Doom had built the robot, and Doom never failed.

Sixteen

“Are you leaving now, sire?” Boris asked. The old man was seated in a chair next to Doom’s throne. Doom activated four viewscreens mounted to the wall of his private chambers. On the first he saw Johnny Storm, still unconscious, in a specially designed room which would prevent the youngster from using his accursed flame. When Storm revived, he would have a surprise in store for him.

The second screen revealed Sue Richards crouched in a corner of the catacomb, the lasers cutting a destructive path in every direction. Her energy powers would soon fade, and she would either be cut down by the death rays, or by the fumes from the poisonous candle.

Reed Richards’s plight was more amusing. He rushed blindly through the darkened maze, a torrent of acid about to engulf him at any moment. It would not be long before Doom’s longtime foe was little more than a burned-up cinder.

The final screen revealed Ben Grimm battling one of Doom’s robot knights. The monstrous Thing grabbed an electrified lance and tossed it aside, his hands burning with pain. The mounted knights chased him across the long courtyard. He wouldn’t escape. He couldn’t. Even if Grimm defeated his robots, as unlikely as that might seem, there were dozens more. Each one he destroyed would be instantly replaced. They would never tire, but already Grimm’s massive hands rose slower than they had before. His punches were less effective than they had previously been.

Doom flicked off the screens. His foes would be dead very soon. No need to linger. “Yes, I will be leaving, Boris,” he answered finally. “Is my private jet prepared for my trip to America?”

His old servant nodded slowly. “It is, sire. All is in readiness.”

Doom rose and left the room, and Boris hobbled after him. Doom was surely after something terrible, Boris thought. His actions these past several days had been carefully planned for months. But what was it Doom wanted? Not even his faithful servant Boris knew the answer. Doom wouldn’t reveal his plan, only that he was going to America, and that what he wanted was somewhere in the Baxter Building—the headquarters of the Fantastic Four.

And that is why he spent millions in luring the fabled foursome to his country under the guise of a tour for his old classmates. That is why he spent millions more preparing very special traps designed to capture and destroy his old foes.

But what Doom’s final objective was, only Doom knew.

Boris glanced at the calendar on the wall. Doom had said he wanted success on Walpurgis night—his birthday. That was tomorrow night.

Whatever it was Doom had planned would occur tomorrow, May 1.

Boris shuddered in horror. He intimately knew the details of Doom’s origin. He was able to guess at Doom’s secret. If it was what Boris suspected, even the heavens would roar in horror.

Doom turned toward his old friend. “You will look after the castle for me, Boris? Only you can I trust.”

Boris bowed reverently. “I will look after everything, sire. To serve you is my only desire.”

Doom left and Boris waited until the dull thud of metal boots striking stone steps finally faded. Then, when he could no longer hear anything save the crickets, he closed his eyes and fervently prayed.

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Fantastic Four: Doomsday Part 14

2025-07-25T07:00:00.001-04:00

Fourteen

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He hadn’t heard them flying up behind him until the first missile streaked past him. He dived and arced back. Three interceptor jets were on his tail, even as a second set of missiles was launched at him.

Johnny Storm flew downward, and the missiles instantly changed their course. Heat seekers. He strained to speed up, to fly faster. He had to evade the missiles, no matter what.

Doom was attacking him. That meant he had probably done the same with the others. They may have been captured or killed by now. He flew in a tight circle and sent a concentrated blast of heat toward the first of the three missiles. It made contact and the explosion knocked him back for a moment.

Two missiles closed in on him as he arced upward toward the jets. The missiles were on his tail, closing in now. He was incapable of increasing his speed. He couldn’t spare the time to fire another blast at them. He’d get one, but the final missile would surely find its target.

Abruptly, he dived again as a plan was formulated. He watched the missiles spin. There was a several-seconds delay between his actions and theirs. Good enough.

He formed a wide circle and saw the missiles closing the gap between them. It would only be a matter of seconds now.

Straining with all his power, he streaked toward the jet closest to him. The missiles closed in. They were less than thirty feet behind him. In ten seconds they would hit and he’d be blown out of the sky. He pushed on, strained as he had never strained before. He had to pull ahead, just briefly, just for a moment.

The jet was directly above him now, the missiles directly below. Inside the fighter, the pilot saw a blue-red bolt of flame heading directly toward his fuselage. For a moment he panicked; then he remembered—Doom had outfitted the jets with a new flame-resistant asbestos.

Johnny was mere feet from the fighter. Then, suddenly, he arced up and back, flying as far as he possibly could. The missiles began their turn. But they were a moment too slow.

The jet incinerated on contact, destroyed by the very missile it had fired.

Two more jets pursued the Human Torch. They had seen what Johnny had done. They wouldn’t fire their heat seekers until they had him dead in their sights.

Bullets exploded from their mounted guns. Johnny heard them rushing toward him and he extended his heat field. It would slow him down a bit, but the wide heat pattern would melt the deadly lead long before it could hit him.

How to get rid of two fighter jets was the only thought running through the Human Torch’s mind. Deliberately, he flew up and wide, circling the jets and coming down behind them. He fired a concentrated heat blast at them. The jets were sprayed with fire, but they rocketed on undisturbed. Doom had obviously protected them. He expected a battle. Everything to date had been planned.

But what did Doom want? Why did he lure the Fantastic Four to his kingdom? What was he after? Johnny didn’t know, and at that moment he didn’t much care.

Leaving a long stream of flame behind him, Johnny headed toward the mountains. If he kept low and flew between the peaks, he’d lose the fighters. They weren’t as agile as he, couldn’t maneuver as well, and certainly couldn’t land as quickly.

Determined to evade the fighters, Johnny pressed on. The high peaks were several miles off. He could make it and then rest a bit. His flame wouldn’t stay ignited for much longer, not with all the energy he’d expended. He’d flame out in ten minutes and would then have to rest almost half an hour to be at peak capacity again. If he could survive that long.

The mountains were topped with snow. That wouldn’t help him. The cold would make it take that much longer for him to be able to flame on again. But he had no choice. His time was running out.

He flew low over the peaks and cut between two jutting rocks. One jet veered off; the other stayed on his trail. Johnny landed for a moment, caught his breath, then flamed on again. They aren’t going to leave me alone, are they?

There was a deep canyon on the other side of the twin peaks. He dived low. The jet followed him and fired a volley of bullets at its flaming target. If only one got through the burning red glow that surrounded the Human Torch, that would be enough.

Suddenly, Johnny turned right and came up behind the fighter. He matched the jet’s speed and caught onto its tail. It took all his strength to resist the winds which mercilessly battered him. He had to hold on, just a few minutes more.

The twin turbos were directly to his side. The jet may be flameproof, but if he could get in one good shot at the turbos, that would be all he needed.

The jet jerked to the left, and Johnny was almost thrown from it. His hands grabbed the tail wing and he held fast. He braced his back against the wing and with all his power he aimed one full heat blast into the left turbo.

Instantly, he flew up and off as the plane exploded in a massive purple and black cloud of smoke.

Johnny tumbled back from the impact and he saw the final jet circle toward him. He was dead, he told himself. No way to survive this one. His flame was almost exhausted. He had only enough power to land and keep himself warm. There was nothing he could do to attack.

He let his flame fizzle out and he fell groundward. Conserve all his energy, free-fall until the last moment, then flame on again and land safely. It was his only hope. If he could hide himself in the caves, he might make it. Unless the cold killed him first.

He tumbled downward, spread his arms and legs wide, as would a parachutist. He began to glide along the wind currents; he felt the cold breeze invigorate him. He felt alive and fresh and momentarily distracted. Up here he was a different man; nothing could bother him. Nothing could disturb him.

The ground seemed to take its time moving up to meet him. The expanse of whiteness made it difficult to judge distances, but Johnny didn’t care. He would float and float until there were only feet left to fall.

The bitter wind stung his face, and cold froze his open mouth. His eyes began to water and tear, the world became blurry, and all he could hear was his body rushing headlong toward the ground.

How much longer before flaming on? he wondered. He couldn’t see through the tears, he couldn’t make any judgment, yet the thrill of free-fall still clung to him.

Then there was softness and he was no longer falling. He hadn’t flamed on. He hadn’t landed. Where was he? With his hands he cleared the water from his eyes. There was whiteness everywhere he looked. Reality gripped him; then terror overtook reality.

Where was he?

His arms jutted out and felt a plastic softness all around him. He was encased in something, but what?

He tried to flame on, but found he couldn’t. There was some sort of gas in here, something that made it impossible to use his power.

What the hell was going on? What?

He felt tired, his eyes smarted from the gas, his head became thick and cloudy. He struggled to keep open his eyes but found them closing against his will.

He jerked back and forth, trying to rip through the softness that held him prisoner, but he was unable to lift his arms. They fell heavily to his sides as his legs crumpled under him.

He fell to his knees as his eyes shut totally.

And in a moment he was asleep, quiet as a babe, and just as helpless.

The pilot glanced at the monitor to his side. The camera mounted beneath the jet fighter showed part of the cable that hung from the bomb-bay door and the white plastic bubble that was attached to the cable. He could imagine his prisoner asleep inside the bubble.

Dr. Doom had been right. The fool would waste his power battling two fighters, but the third would hang back until he was tired and weak. And then they would have their fourth and final prisoner.

The pilot pressed a button next to the monitor.

Doom paused before the great iron door. Behind him, the Americans waited anxiously. This had been a tour they would long remember. “My friends, I am about to show you my collection of art. No Westerner has ever before seen its magnificence. I do hope you find it as pleasing as do I.”

His iron glove glanced over the electric eye and the door creaked open. Doom stood on the side as his visitors entered. He could hear them gasping with delight. What beauty! What wonders!

Above the door a red light flickered for a moment. No one but Doom saw the faint glow. Beneath his great mask Doom allowed himself a rare smile.

The last of the Fantastic Four was now his captive. And soon, they would all be dead.

Doom entered the expansive gallery and watched the American fools moving from one painting to the next, their eyes wide in appreciation. This was all booty the Nazis had stolen during World War II. Treasures Doom had stolen from them in turn. There were Rembrandts, Goyas, Cézannes, Michelangelos, Da Vincis, Monets, Manets, Picassos, and dozens more. His collection was worth in the tens of millions, and it genuinely pleased him that the Americans appreciated its value.

Tomorrow he would return the Americans to New York. For years they would talk about their journey here, how magnanimous Doom had been, how wonderful was his great castle, how much the people of Latveria loved their Monarch. The time and expense were worth it, Doom felt. Let the world believe I am a merciful ruler. It will only buy me time.

The time I need to garner the power I must have, if I am to accomplish my true objective.

No one heard the soft, sinister chuckle that echoed through the gallery.

To Be Continued...Monday

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Fantastic Four: Doomsday Part 12

2025-07-23T07:00:00.007-04:00

Twelve
You Can Read the Previous Chapter HERE!

Johnny Storm yawned as he circled the Latverian village. Borrrring! He had come with the others, hoping to get into action. He wanted to do something, anything, to forget about Frankie Raye. But he couldn’t shove her beautiful face from his thoughts. She haunted him every moment. Wherever he looked, he saw her.

Below him, he could see the Latverian farmers staring up in horror. Was he a demon? One of Doom’s treacherous devices come to spy on them? They turned from their flaming visitor and returned to their work. If he was with Doom, he would see them working hard. That would please their iron-clad master.

What I need, Johnny concluded, is to find someone my own age. Not everyone here is old. Or are they?

He flew lower over the small huts and saw a teen-ager tending a small private garden. The boy felt the heat on his back and turned to see Johnny Storm standing behind him. “Who are you?” He stared at Johnny questioningly. Latveria was a small country. No one was permitted entrance; no one was allowed to leave. Soon you learned who everyone was. This blond stranger was not one of them.

“Who are you?” he repeated. “How did you get in here? The gate was locked.”

Johnny flashed a smile. “My name’s Johnny Storm. From America. I was, uh, brought here by your leader.” The boy stared at Johnny. Then his eyes grew narrow.

“Go away. Leave me alone. I do my work. I do not want to be bothered.” He turned and ignored the stranger. If he came here with Doom, he belonged to Doom. It was best not to consort with Doom’s men. You could die that way.

But Johnny was persistent. “C’mon. I’m not with Dr. Doom. You don’t have to fear me.”

The youth turned again and studied Johnny. He was not like Doom’s men. He had an easy smile; his eyes showed no signs of evil. Perhaps he had been too hasty.

“I am Erich.”

Johnny extended a hand, but when Erich failed to take it, he let it drop to his side. “Erich, you wouldn’t happen to know where I could find any girls around here. My age?”

The Latverian youth smiled. His fears vanished. With a nod, he bid Johnny to follow him.

Doom continued: “. . . and this is my royal chamber. The bed has been created especially for me. The linens are sewn here in Latveria by my handmaidens. The women among you will appreciate the finely spun cloth and the expertise of the seamstresses. Please, all of you, as you return home accept from me a sample of their work. I insist on it.”

Reed hung back, Ben at his side. “All appears to be normal, Ben. Too normal.”

The Thing nodded in agreement. “Hey, Susie ain’t come back yet. Ya think somethin’ happened?”

Reed suppressed a grimace. “Let me try to raise her on the belt radio.” His fingers fumbled with the switch as he moved from one frequency to the next. He clenched his teeth as worry overtook him. “She’s not answering, Ben. I don’t like this. None of this.”

Ben was ready to move. “That tears it, Stretch. I’m gonna squeeze that tin-can’s neck till he talks.”

“No, Ben. Doom won’t miss us if we split off from the crowd. Let’s check this out first. If we don’t find Sue, then we’ll confront him . . . and we’ll do it away from the others. I don’t want anyone hurt.” He saw Ben was grumbling The big man would love to tear Doom apart for any number of reasons. “Do you understand that, Ben?”

Ben hissed his answer. “I understand it, Mister. I just don’t have ta like it. That crumbbum an’ me go together like salt an’ a wound. Whenever I see ’im, I just wanna clobber ’im but good.”

“If we don’t find Sue, you’ll get your chance. I promise you that. Now, come on, we’ve got work to do.”

They ran through the corridor to where Sue had left them. Reed glanced down the hallway and said, “She could’ve taken either of those doors. We’ll split up. First one to find her, contact the other—immediately. And that means no fighting, Ben. I want the three of us together before we decide what to do.”

“Sure, sure. No scrappin’. I gotcha, Reed.” ’Course, if I just happen ta knock a few heads together ’fore I give ya the signal, what the heck, right?

The door Ben opened took him into a wide courtyard made of stone. Suits of armor stood in the wide archways. Long spears were at their sides. At the far end of the court, there were two mounted knights on stone horses.

Above him was a wide balcony, and a carved stone fence ran the whole distance around it. Directly over him a crystal chandelier hung in place.

To his back was the door he had just entered, and across the courtyard was the door he headed for.

“Blasted place looks like a blamed museum. How can that tin-plated tyrant live here? Ya can’t put yer feet up on a table when the blamed table’s prob’ly worth more’n you are.”

He heard a creaking sound come from behind him. He whirled in time to see a steel door slide in front of the wooden door he had come through. Another steel door slid in front of the door at the far end of the courtyard.

“So, we wuz right, Doom, wuzn’t we? Yer playin’ games with us? Well, yer crazy if ya think a little piece o’ tin’s gonna stop the ever-lovin’, blue-eyed Thing.”

Ben lumbered toward the far door. No use going back. As he reached the center of the court, he heard the squeak of steel grinding against steel. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what was making the sound.

“Kiss my fanny. It ain’t possible.” The suit of armor closest to him creaked off its pedestal, its lance in its hand. “I ain’t asleep, and this certainly ain’t no knightmare.”

Stiffly, the armored form plodded toward the orange behemoth, its limbs moving more smoothly with every step it took. A second suit of armor leaped off its pedestal and lifted its lance for an attack.

Ben saw three more such suits move and approach him, slowly at first, but as each became more accustomed to movement, it speeded up, stepped more naturally.

“Awright, ya bozos!” Ben shouted at no one in particular. “Lemme see what yer made of.”

With astonishing speed, he grabbed the first suit. His powerful fingers closed vise-like on its arm. Silently, the living armament thrust its lance into Ben’s stomach. The steel crackled with raw energy. One thousand painful volts of electricity jolted their way through the Thing’s massive hand.

Instinctively, he fell back and dropped to the floor, grabbing his burning hand with his other. “Blasted thing’s hot-wired. Now what’ll I do?”

Ben heard the footstep behind him and he whirled as two lances smashed into him. His rocky hide sizzled and he yelped in pain.

Scrambling, he made his way to the far end of the courtyard. His deep blue eyes grew wide and horrified; ten suits of armor marched toward him, their lances ready for attack, their expressionless faces seeming to leer in ghoulish delight.

They paused and turned their armored heads toward the two corners of the room. At once, the two massive suits poised atop their stone steeds came to life. The horses reared, their legs clawed the air, and then they leaped from their pedestals and galloped toward the Thing.

That was the signal to begin.

They moved in.

And Ben felt the stone wall press against his back.

The door Reed Richards opened revealed a large, seemingly endless series of corridors that crisscrossed each other, came to abrupt dead ends, led back to their starting point, and proved to be nothing less than an intricate maze.

Reed stretched above the maze and saw at the far end an open door beyond which was a one-way mirror. Through the mirror Reed could see Sue. She darted in terror from flashing red lights that appeared for a moment, then vanished, only to reappear from another direction. He saw a beam flash across Sue’s forehead. She grabbed her head painfully. Blood oozed through her gloved fingertips.

“Don’t worry, Sue, I’ll help you. I swear I will.” Reed was frantic. Those lights were undoubtedly lasers. Doom was attacking her, but nothing could keep Reed from reaching his wife’s side.

Instantly, the ceiling buzzed with an electronic hum. Reed saw it lowering. He ducked back into his corridor and the ceiling came to rest atop the maze walls.

This was a game, then. A test. Doom had allowed Reed to see his wife facing almost imminent death. Reed would be anxious now, frightened for his wife’s safety—mad, perhaps to the point of throwing all caution to the wind. He wanted Reed’s veneer of scientific logic stripped away. He wanted Reed Richards dead, but he wanted him to die crawling like the peasant Doom thought him to be.

Reed Richards the scientist was now a trapped rat in a maze. His wife’s safety was his incentive to reach the end of the maze.

And now, to add some impetus to his efforts.

A gurgling sound like water rushing through pipes came from behind Reed. He saw a small grating in the wall of the maze about ten feet up from ground level. Then the water came gushing out.

Only it wasn’t water. Reed recognized the heavy overpowering stench, and it flowed slowly, viscously.

There was no doubt about it.

The liquid that came gushing toward him was—sulfuric acid!

He stretched instantly toward the far end of the corridor and followed its turn to the left.

Three corridors branched off before him. He remembered seeing them from above. One turned back upon itself. A second was a dead end. The third continued to another corridor and another and another. But, which was which?

Then the maze was plunged into darkness.

To Be Continued...Tomorrow at Atomic Kommie Comics

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