Bully's Fantastic Christmas, Part 11

I hope you have your Christmas shopping done. Now boil up a pan of milk and make some homemade hot chocolate—not the kind in the little pouch, but real old-fashioned rich creamy hot chocolate with milk and marshmallows. Did you get your big mug full of delicious, creamy hot chocolate? You can have a cookie too. Now you're all ready to settle and read Part Eleven of "Bully's Fantastic Christmas." And if haven't already, you should first read Parts 1-10, right here! Now read on...

Part 11: It's in every one of us to be wise

It was cold in the tunnel, so cold that Effie's breath condensed in the air in front of her, two little steam-spouts huffing out of her snout. Frost formed little crystals on Bully's nose ring as he sat beside her. But the piglets apparently had no trouble keeping warm: while Effie rested, Bea, Dee and Vee bounded around like rubber kangaroos, their springy tails propelling them off of the floor, the walls, each other, and occasionally Bully; but they were so soft and bouncy, almost like little orange rubber balls, that Bully didn't mind at all. Together he and Effie caught their breaths from the long run, and Effie stretched out her legs and sighed in relaxation.

"Santa's coming tonight, Bully!" declared one of the piglets in excitement. "Santa's coming! Santa's coming!"

"Yay!" All three chimed in, and danced around, nearly tipping over Bully.

"Yes, dears," Effie said tiredly but patiently, "but you know that Santa brings nothing to naughty piglets who don't go to bed on time and who dance about all night." Immediately the three piglets stopped bouncing and stared at their mother as if to challenge the very notion that they were the sort to dance about all night. "It's long time you three were in bed. I'll take Bully home and be back before you're awake. And Santa will have been here by the time you get up."

"Awwwwww, Mom!" the three piglets sighed in dismay, but they reluctantly, slowly trotted off to a bare corner of the tunnel and huddled together. Bully watched as they snuggled against one another and Effie kissed them all goodnight.

"I'm c-c-c-cold, Mom!" Bea (or maybe Dee or Vee) said sleepily. "Hush, sweetie," Effie said softly. "Cuddle up by your sisters. They'll keep you warm." Bully watched in silence, and thought about his snug cushy bed in the bucket on the shelf back home, with his soft warm washcloth blanket and puffy marshmallow pillow, and his tiny hot water bottle when he was cold and his little slippers when he wanted to get up in the middle of the night to get a cup of water, and he felt suddenly guilty. He was cold even in his sweater and coat, and the piglets were...well, naked was the kindest word.

But in less time than it takes to tell it, they were snoring away, whistling through their snouts, visions of sugar plums almost visibly hanging over their sleeping little heads.

As he and Effie stood back and watched them sleep, Bully finally asked the question that had been nagging at his mind since he first set foot into the tunnel pig's cave. "But how ever, way down here, does Santa manage to find you?"

And the look Effie gave him, solemn and wise and very sad, answered his question before she even could.

"Santa doesn't go everywhere," Effie said simply.

"He has to!" Bully argued. "Santa is supposed to go everywhere!"

"He doesn't," Effie said quietly, "come into subway tunnels."

Nothing can shock anyone—most of all a little stuffed bull—more than the point-blank admission that someone who is supposed to do everything, simply can't. Effie sighed. "Santa Claus does not come and leave us presents," she said. "It's just the way it is. I imagine he can't be everywhere at once, or maybe he only comes to people who live above ground. Or I heard something once that makes a lot of sense: Santa brings you exactly one gift just one time in your lifetime. But he give it to when at that time in your life when you most need it. I've always liked that thought." Effie fell silent for a long time, staring at her piglets, and Bully stood beside her, sucking on his hoof.

"But you told them Santa was coming." Bully finally said, very quietly. "They believe in him. They believe he's coming."

Effie nodded. "there's nothing more precious than that belief. But what it all means is that I will simply have to go out, as I do each year, and find a present that I can bring home for them. Some gift I might find and tell sweet Bea, and Dee, and Vee, that it came from Santa." She tilted her head sideways at Bully. "Don't be shocked, Bully. Sometimes that's what you have to do for those who you love."

"What can you find at this hour?" Even Bully knew that it was quite late, certainly long past the time when the stores were open.

Effie smiled slightly. "You'd be surprised at what people leave on the subway. Sometimes they drop gifts or food. Last year I found a whole bag of bagels. And the year before that a pretty pink umbrella. My," remembered Effie, her big eyes growing distant as she remembered, "how they loved looking at that umbrella."

"What about something to keep them warm?" Bully asked. "Don't they ever get a blanket, or little coats, or a big soft bed?"

"People don't usually drop bedding," Effie said. She sighed deeply and then turned. "Bully, we had better get you home, dear. It's getting late and I don't want your friends to worry about you. And it'll be quite late before..." She cut herself short and did not finish the sentence, but Bully realized with a gulp and an uncomfortable sense of guilt that if he hadn't taken up Effie's time carrying him home, Effie would have been long since home with a present for her piglets, spending her Christmas Eve as she should have—with her family. He remembered how much he had been looking forward to his Christmas Eve, safe at home in the warm, warm apartment on Eighth Avenue, sipping cold eggnog and gobbling warm cookies, lying on a soft pillow and gazing up at the beautiful tree with its sparkling ornaments, rainbow lights, and wonderful aroma of pine.

What happened then to Bully, he could never quite explain to anyone, even when he had been thinking quite hard about it for minutes at a time. He could never put it into words, but what happened made him almost gasp in realization. He suddenly, almost immediately, stopped feeling so very sorry for himself, and then, almost instantly afterwards, he felt the plastic Jim Hanley's Universe shopping bag he held in his hoof suddenly lessen in weight, as if he were no longer carrying such a heavy burden.

He held out his hoof without hesitation, without regret, without apprehension. "Here," Bully said, offering the Jim Hanley's bag to Effie. "I wish you'd give them this for Christmas. And say it came from Santa."

Effie blinked momentarily at the bag.

Bully opened it, and took out the three comic books in their Mylar bags, and held it them so that Effie could see.

Even in the dim, dull light of cave, the covers of the comics shone in their brilliant seventies Marvel-color. The bags sparkled like diamonds, and Bully turned them towards the gleaming light from the grate above to reflect it against the walls of the tunnel. Across the walls of Effie's and her piglets' home colored lights slid like rainbow fireflies as the covers of Marvel's Greatest Comics #35-37 picked up and magnified the light until it turned a small little pig cave into a magic cavern of light, sparkles, and a big purple Galactus shadow.

"Oh," said Effie, very quietly, her eyes wide. "Oh. Oh, Bully. I think they will enjoy reading these very much."

"Ummm." Bully said. "Well, here's the thing. I think they could be more useful in a diff'rent way." And he held his breath as he carefully unstuck the tape on the back of the bag that held the first comic, slid out Marvel's Greatest Comics #35, and with a short shaking sigh...he tore the comic book in half.

"Bully!" exclaimed Effie in surprise. "Your beautiful comic book..."

Bully trembled as he tore the comic again, the bright soft newsprint shredding in his hooves. Ripppppp. "It's a pretty good comic book," he said. Ripppppppp. "They might like reading them, maybe." Ripppppp. "But I thought maybe..." Rippppppp. "...it might be a little more use as a nest." He held up his arms, now overflowing with long curly strips of shredded four-color comic book. "See, you rip 'em up enough...and they make pretty good soft warm bedding, see?" He began to tuck hoof-fuls of shredded comic around the piglets. "See?"

In her sleep, Vee (or Dee or Bea) stopped shivering and gave a little happy sigh of warm contentment, and snuggled in deeper in the nest of paper as Bully started shredding the second comic. Within a few minutes all three of the piglets were half-buried in a thick warm nest of Jack Kirby, piled up around their little orange bodies, their snorty orange snouts poking out of the pile. "And if there's anything that's better at Mylar for keeping things dry, I don't know what that is!" Bully explained, laying a Mylar bag as a blanket over each of the snoring little pigs. "There." He stood back with Effie to admire his handiwork. "Yeah, comics oughta be fun. But there are jus' some times that comics oughta be something more. "

As he looked at his precious favorite comics in the world ripped up into bedding, he did not feel as if he had lost a thing. In fact, his tired, weary, and guilty heart filled up with something—Bully wasn't sure what—but it was more wonderful than filling his tummy with cookies. He did not understand it—how could losing something he'd dreamed of for so very long make him feel so much better than having it? But even a little stuffed bull could realize that it didn't matter if he understood why it did or not.

It just did.

"Bully." Effie said, smiling, nuzzling his cheek with her snout. "They are so much warmer now. Thank you so much. This is the best Christmas ever."

"Yeah," said Bully softly.





The rest of the trip home flew past even faster than the run to York Street. Effie sprinted like she was a greyhound, and Bully felt so light and airy on her back as he rode that he wondered if maybe Effie could—like reindeer—actually fly him home.

She only spoke to him once during the trip. "Close your eyes, dear," she said, as they left Carroll Street, and Bully obediently squeezed them shut and held on tightly as Effie quickened her pace. A few seconds later a cold wind cut across Bully's face, and he realized that they were outdoors—the subway emerged above ground on elevated tracks several stories above the ground—but he held close to Effie and her warm skin kept him comfortable. He peeked only just for a second—and immediately regretted it, looking down through the open tracks as Effie effortlessly sprinted down the open railway bridge, five stories above the ground, that ran between Smitty-Nine and Fourth Avenue.

Bully gave a quiet squeak of alarm and squeezed his eyes shut again, more tightly than before. But sure-footed Effie did not miss a step, and only a few moments later Bully grew warm again, and even when Effie stopped, quickly but easily, without the screeching, sparking halt to their last run, he didn't open his eyes until he heard her say "Bully?"

He looked up and the first thing he saw was the big black subway sign: 7 AVE.

"Oh!" Bully exclaimed in excitement. "Oh oh oh oh!"

"Oh, yes, Bully," smiled Effie. "You're almost home."

She walked up the long deserted steps with him, around the tight turn in the stairs and emerging onto the corner of Eighth and Ninth near Dizzy's Café. Bully and Effie stood in the entrance to the subway, staring up at the sky. It had finally stopped snowing, and although it was cold, neither one shivered in the winter chill. Above the sky was unclouded and black as velvet, and for once the bright sparkling lights above them were not police helicopters over Brooklyn, but stars—huge shimmering crystal stars shining down on a cold clear Christmas Eve night.

It was very, very quiet. No one was out and about. "Well," said Bully, "I have to go now."

"Goodbye, Bully." Effie smiled.

"Goodbye, Effie." Bully turned and began hopping down the sidewalk towards home. But he had gone barely half a dozen steps before he turned around to see Effie still smiling at him, and with a whirl and a rush he was back beside her again, his sweater-clad fuzzy arms hugging her around the neck. "Thank you," he whispered, holding the tunnel pig tightly.

"Thank you, Bully." Effie smiled, kissing him with her warm moist snout. "Thank you."

"Will I see you again?" Bully asked.

Effie's eyes twinkled. "Next time you're on the subway, and it gets delayed in the station..."

"Yes?" prompted Bully.

"Well, then go to the front and look out the window. And wave hi hi hi to me." She cleared her throat, drawing a long sniffling breath up her snout as if she might be catching a cold in the winter air. "Goodbye, Bully."

Bully turned again. "Merry Christmas, Effie."

"Merry Christmas, Bully."

He walked down the street, and when he turned around one last time, Effie was gone, back down to the subway, back down to the tracks. He shoved his hooves into his jacket pockets to keep them warm...

...and discovered a small slip of paper in one pocket.

He took it out and examined it carefully under the street lamp. It was a small shred of a comic book page that obviously had fallen into his pocket as he made the piglets' bed. It was barely the size of a postage stamp. There wasn't even any pictures on it, just a word balloon in Sam Rosen's bold lettering:

"For here...on this lonely little world...I have found what men call...conscience!"

"Yeah," Bully said quietly.





The rest of the trip home was the easiest part of his journey that day. Though there was snow on the ground deeper than Bully was tall, the footsteps of hundreds of people on the sidewalk had crushed and tamped it down, so that Bully could stroll home with no more difficulty than he had running from the kitchen to the living room. He climbed the long steps of the apartment building and headed up to the second floor. He tiptoed carefully on the landing—he didn't want to run into Mister Victor tonight and tell him his ten dollar bill was gone. There would be time to handle that problem tomorrow. But there was no sign of the next-door neighbor, and by the time he opened the door to Apartment 6 and slipped inside, he was humming gently to himself.

"Bully!" exclaimed Snuckles when Bully slipped quietly into the living room beneath the big Christmas tree. "Where've you been?"

"Chee, kid!" Blackie declared. "We thought you'da bin moidered!"

"I'm home," Bully said simply, and that was all the explanation that his friends needed.

"But where's your Christmas gifts?" Snuckles asked, staring pointedly at Bully. "It's almost Christmas!"

Bully nodded solemnly as he climbed up onto the shelf and began dragging a cardboard box onto the floor. "Yeah, it is. So I don't have much time. I've got to get my Christmas gifts for everyone ready before Santa comes."

"Whatcha gonna do, Bully?" asked Blackie.

Bully just smiled at his friends and opened the box of crayons. "Go to bed, you guys. I'll see you tomorrow."





He worked hard and quickly, his tongue tight against the inside of his cheek as he drew with fierce concentration and fevered inspiration, his crayons sliding against the paper in elaborate, beautiful patterns and designs, as if he had swallowed a Spirograph. With his huge crayon set at his side and a stack of paper before him, he lay on his stomach beneath the Christmas tree and drew comics, in all the colors he could imagine, creating a little comic book for everyone.

For Blackie he wrote and drew the adventures of a tough little guy bear on the mean streets of Brooklyn, and called it Newsbear Legion. Marshall got a pink-and-lavender fantasy comic entitled Magic Pony Adventures. He hummed the theme to The Magnificent Seven as he carefully sketched and colored a gunfighter shootout in a western comic for Ox called Tex Ox, Cuddliest Gun in the West. Walt the Swimming Cow got an adventure of Aquamoo. Snuckles: The Amazing Adventures of a Pig in a Fancy, Fancy, Very Soft Sweater.

He only paused once, on smelling what surely must have been home-baked Christmas sugar cookies. Yes, they were! Bully's tummy growled—until that moment he'd forgotten he'd had nothing to eat since lunchtime.

Alongside a large glass of milk, there were three cookies arranged neatly on the Spider-Man collectible plate, sitting on the corner of the coffee table. Bully stared at the cookies for a few minutes, his nose peeking up over the edge of the table, and at last he decided that Santa, at least the Santa that Bully had seen in pictures and on television, could probably stand to cut down a little on his fat gram intake, and so Bully took one of the cookies and ate at it while he drew, nibbling on it so furiously that it wasn't until he looked up that he realized he had eaten a second cookie as well. He stared with just a little bit of guilt at the solitary cookie left—and with more will power that he had imagined himself capable of, he turned away. He would leave at least one cookie for Santa, he decided. Yummy though they may be.

On his last few homemade comic books his speed and pace slowed, and Bully found himself yawning and rubbing his eyes in between crayon-strokes. Just color in a few more lines, he told himself, then tie them all up with ribbon and label them and put them under the tree. Then I can go to bed. And then Santa can come. But as he finished the last comic, having to concentrate so very hard to try and sleepily remember how to spell "bamf," he decided he could close his eyes for just a few minutes, and then once he'd rested them for just those few minutes, he'd get up and cut up some ribbon and tie up his drawings in just a few minutes, in just a few...

Zzzzzzzz...


Tomorrow: Let's see if Bully can tie up all the loose ends in the conclusion of "Bully's Fantastic Christmas"!

She's got Betty Cooper eyes.

I like Archie Comics just fine, although I'm mainly a fan of the older ones—I haven't picked one up in years. Is Moose still slow? Is Jughead still obsessed with hamburgers? Is Reggie still a jerk? Ah, in the Riverdale of my mind, those things will never change.

What is changing, apparently, is the look of the characters. Following what I guess must be a successful mangazation of Sabrina the Teen-Age Witch (tho' does today's youth recognize Sabrina as anyone other than Clarissa Explains It All former-teen cutie Melissa Joan Hart?), Archie Comics has announced they'll begin changing (as Newsarama reports) "the art towards a more contemporary comic book style, more realistic, and less cartoony....a continuing experiment and exploration with the characters." (Also, here's some early comicsblogosphere commentary and detached amusement from Mike Sterling and Dorian Wright). First up: Betty and Veronica get a makeover, and it ain't just the same ol' competition to see who can be prettier for Archie to take to the Riverdale High Prom with the usual hiliarious results, oh no, there's some serious facialogical rejiggeration goin' on here:



I for one say "Cool!" Even though they're not always successful, it's always interesting to see different experiments with a comics icon or art style to shake up the status quo for the moment. Who knows, it might prove to be ultra-successful and this time next year all the cool kids will be readin' comics. Might fail too—who knows? But it'll be interesting to find out. If we don't like it, we'll at least have sixty years of big-eyed reprints to fall back on.

But for those nay-sayers, those whose heads are spinning, those who scream to the heavens that the new Archie designs are murdering the innocence of their childhood, for those who wet their underpants at the merest sight of a little evolution...well, here ya go. I whipped this up for ya. Enjoy:



See? It doesn't really matter. Big eyes, small eyes: all that matters is that Archie and Jughead will get into some crazy scheme that'll backfire and have them put into detention by the Bee. Oh Archie...will you never learn?

Ten of a Kind: Spirited Logos

In honor of the (totally excellent) return of Will Eisner's Spirit to comic books this week, let's take a look at some totally Eisneriffic cover logos:























PS: I didn't include any of 'em because they were too "easy pickin's," but DC's comics cover-dated February 2002 all had their cover logos integrated into the art. As an early Christmas gift, check 'em out at the always-excellent and informative Grand Comic Book Database:

Action #786 • The Adventures of Superman #599 • Azrael #85 • Batgirl #23 • Batman #598 • Batman: Gotham Adventures #45 (my tip-top fave of the February 2002 covers!) • Batman: Gotham Knights #24 • Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight #150 • Birds of Prey #38 • Detective Comics #765 • Doom Patrol #3 • The Flash #181 • Green Arrow #11 • Green Lantern #145 • Harley Quinn #15 • Impulse #81 • JLA #61 • JSA #31 • Justice League Adventures #2 • The Legion #3 • Nightwing #64 • Orion #21 • Robin #97 • The Spectre #12 (and a few months later on #20 they did a cool one too) • Suicide Squad #4 • Superboy #95 • Supergirl #65 (my #2 favorite of the February 2002 covers. Baffled? Bone up on your ASL!) • Superman #177 • Superman Adventures #64 • Titans #36 • Wonder Woman #177 (one of my fave Diana covers ever!) • Young Justice #40


(More Ten of a Kind here.)

What the Sam Scratch is goin' on here?!? #20

Or should we say, in keeping with the spirit of the season...What the Saint Nick is goin' on here?!?:


Famous Funnies #161, December 1947

A scene from the Rankin/Bass holiday special: The Year Without Santa Claus's Pants. Hmmm, Napoleon the dog seems to be rightfully scared out of his wits by a pantless Kris Kringle, but oddly enough Rudolph is a bit...if you'll pardon the expression..."turned on."

So, in conclusion: When you put out milk 'n' cookies for Santa, don't forget to put out some Aricept, too!

Cartoon advertising spokespersons from out of your nightmares, Miltary History Division

Not so much about comic books, although there's it is a bit about cartooning:

I'm not a military history buff myself, although there are lots and lots of people who are, which is all dandy and fine. I'm certain a very large majority of them are smart, intelligent, passionate about their hobby and very well informed in history and warfare. Likewise, collecting military memorabilia is probably an exciting and educational hobby. (Well, it's no weirder than collecting flimsy stapled books of superpowered fantasy, at least.)

Why then, target an ad to that potential professional market with a cartoon spokesperson who looks like a freakin' crazed lunatic?:



Really, does that hobby need a demented, barmy wacko icon who looks like one of DangerMouse's nemeses?

International Military Antiques (who I'm sure is fine, upstanding company) features an extensive and professional-looking mail-order catalogue (it's downloadable from their website) chock-full of many more military caricatures: as they describe it, famous "light hearted" military sketches by artist/historian Scott Novson. And those are actually quite good: expressive, vibrant, detailed cartoons, almost kinda Jack Davisy, of military personnel through the ages wearing different authentic uniforms and using gear you can buy from the catalogue:



I like Scott Novson's catalogue illustrations a lot. They should have used one of them in their ad. They've got that bold, brassy, Dan Dare/Battler Britton look to them, and while a lot of them have smiles on their faces, they're looks of military pride and confidence. That's the sort of illustration, the sort of look that will draw hobbyists and military buffs to your website and store. Not furrow-browed, eyebrow-arching, gap-toothed lunatic visages of we will burn your huts and salt your earth:



Gahhhhhhhhhh!

So, in conclusion, if you're in the market for military antiques, by all means definitely check out IMA. They've got some pretty cool lookin' stuff, and I have nothing but respect for their thoroughness, professionalism and dedication to servicing the fans of a popular hobby and field of scholarship. So please, military history buffs, don't aim that authentic military weaponry at this little stuffed bull, please! All I'm saying is...just watch out for the evil eye of Jungle Jim!


Awww, who am I kidding. Like my hobby should talk:

I can't draw worth beans...

But I still wish you a Merry Christmas!

Bully's Fantastic Christmas returns with two lengthy chapters on Monday and Tuesday.
PS: Dear Santa, may I please have some new colored pencils for Christmas?

Bully's Fantastic Christmas, Part 10

Previously, on Bully's Fantastic Christmas, young Bully the Little Stuffed Bull went Christmas shopping and has had all sorts of mishaps and strange meetings. Want more background? You should first read Parts 1-9, right here! Have you done that? Good! Now read on...

And now it's time for a very short installment in our Christmas serial, but don't worry, Bully-boosters—parts eleven and twelve will be much longer, and they're coming next Monday and Tuesday to finish off the story just in time for, uh, five days before Christmas. So, without further ado, it's today's chapter in Bully's Fantastic Christmas, the adventure that comes with this iron-clad guarantee: no publisher has been fired in the making of this story.

Part 10: These Little Piggies Went Bea, Dee, Vee, All the Way Home

Effie's trotters clattered as she zoomed through the East River tunnel at a speeds so fast Bully could swear he'd heard a sonic boom but which was probably just his heart beating. He let out a short excited squeak and his little button eyes opened wider in fright as a sudden blast of cold moist stale air hit them from behind—the rush of the approaching train. But like a breeze lifts a kite, that wind almost seemed to lift up Effie, and she broke into her fastest sprint yet, and before Bully could even notice the light at the end of the tunnel, together they burst out like a rocket into York Street Station.

Effie leaned back, her trotters skidding and sparking against the floor, and with a quick jerk and a whirl that would have thrown Bully off her back had he not been holding as tightly as she had told him, she ducked into a dark hole on the side that led under the station's platform, a hole barely big enough for them, only a good three or four seconds before the train blasted into the station, its huge wheels grinding to a noisy, screeching halt just inches in front of their noses. "Hmmph!" Effie shook her head in disgust at the train. "A terrible braking job! So sloppy. Who trains these kids anyway?" She turned around, deep into the hole, and trotted into the darkness.

"Where are we going?" Bully squeaked. "I want to go home to Brooklyn!"

"And so you shall, dear," Effie said wearily, "but you've got to give me a few minutes to catch my breath. And I have to check in on someone. Don't worry," she noted Bully's anxious expression, "I'll have you home in time for getting all your Christmas gifts."

Yeah, thought Bully downheartedly. But not for giving them.

They moved through the darkness for a long time, Effie walking in silence, still breathing heavily from her exertion. Just when Bully thought they must have been walking halfway to Queens or maybe even the Bronx, the tunnel widened out and they emerged into a small cave. It was cool in here, and Bully clutched his duffel coat around him and shivered a little. It was only dimly lit from a grate in the ceiling above, but the change in light was so dramatic to Bully after the darkness of the tunnel that he couldn't see anything at first, until at last his eyes adjusted to the point where he could see six bright pinpoints of light in the shadows.

He blinked at them.

"Mom!" A voice came from directly between and just below one of the pairs of pinpoints, and before Bully could blink a second time, three orange piglets, no bigger than Nerf footballs and twice as bouncy, leapt out of the darkness and crowded around Effie.

"Mom mom mom mom mom!" they squeaked, leaping and jumping and bounding and dancing, and Effie kissed each one of them and nuzzled them with her snout.

"Hello dears," she cooed lovingly, and nudged her snout at Bully. "I would like you all to meet our guest. This is Bully. Bully, these are my piglets: Bea, Dee, and Vee."

"Hi Bully!" the three piglets.

"Hi hi hi!" Bully said, from left to right.


The story will continue in the much-longer part eleven on Monday, and no fair revealing the ending in the comments about what's gonna happen! G'wan, don't ruin it for everybody!

Bully's Fantastic Christmas, Part 9

You can’t tell what’s going on if you’ve only just joined us, so catch up with Parts 1-8, right here!

Part 9: Faster, Piggypig! Run! Run!

New Yorkers pride themselves on their savvy and sophisticated ways, but many of them don't see the marvels underneath their own noses—noses they like to poke into businesses in all directions but which often miss some of the most amazing sights in the city. Especially in the subway, the rule is keep your eyes forward and your head down and rush rush rush to get to where you need to be (not necessarily want to be) as speedily as possible.

That's why when the rush of stale air blasting out of the tunnels and the rattle of the tracks sounded in the 23rd Street station, the passengers waiting for the arrival of the F train shuffled forward towards the edge of the platform, but everyone was so intent on looking for the train that no one actually noticed the orange blur zipping down between the tracks, zooming through the station in a wink of an eye and a bobbing curly tail. Papers whipped and scarves blew in the windy wake, but as the tracks stopped rattling, the crowd moved back again, focused on iPods and Sudoku and The New York Times just like before. It was the sort of moment that, in the movies, would have been capped by a double-take and a man pouring out his bottle of generic liquor onto the ground with a “never again” shrug. But in a Manhattan subway full of busy commuters, most everyone had tunnel vision, and if anyone actually saw the plump orange pig dashing southwards with a little stuffed bull on her back, they kept it to themselves: a private Christmas miracle.

Bully held on firmly to the pig, tighter than the grip of a wet lollipop stuck to his fur (and he knew from sad personal experience how grippy that was. He gaped upwards in amazement as stations flashed past him: 14th Street, West 4th, Broadway/Lafayette. As they passed Second Avenue Bully's thoughts fell upon a place he had once lived, above this station, a store he'd lived in before John had taken the little stuffed bull home to live, a shop filled with toys and games and all sorts of fun things—but Bully had never felt completely comfortable there, among the scary Mexican wrestler dolls and the naughty playing cards and the sarcastic t-shirts. It had never been a home.

Home was a cozy, crowded apartment in Brooklyn, and Bully had never missed it so much in his life.

"Hang on, Bully," Effie called breathlessly as they passed through the Yancy Street station, and he obediently grabbed harder at her neck and squeezed his knees tight around her back.

He leaned down close to her ear and asked her, "What are you, Effie? If it's not a rude question," he added hastily.

Effie laughed merrily. "Of course not, dear. What am I? I'm a tunnel pig." She nodded as if that explained it all.

"What's a tunnel pig?" Bully asked.

Effie smiled. "Tunnel pigs," she explained, "keep the trains from running into each other. If a train is going too fast, a tunnel pig will run in front of it and slow it down. That way it doesn't bump into the train in front of it. Haven't you ever heard of tunnel pigs? We're a vital part of the MTA workforce."

"I thought," Bully said thoughtfully, "that they had red lights to do that." Bully was quite a subway enthusiast, and enjoyed riding in the front subway car and looking out through the dirty window to the tracks ahead, spotting the signals that halted or coaxed the train on. No one had ever mentioned tunnel pigs to him before!

"Who told you that nonsense?" Effie said, scoffing but not cross, "Don't believe everything you hear, little Bully. There are more things under earth than are dreamt of in a little bull's philosophy! Luckily today the trains are running slow because of all the people, so they won't miss me if I take some time out to run you home. But I'd better stop talking and get a move on." She frowned worriedly. "There's a train coming up behind us. I don't want to be caught in front of that."

Bully's fuzzy ears twitched as he strained to hear something other than the rush of wind past his face and the clack of Effie's trotters on the tracks and the splash as she bounded through puddles. "I don't hear anything," he said, dubiously.

"When you've been on this job as long as I have, dear..." Effie said patiently, picking up the pace. "...anyway, there's an F train just leaving Yancy Street. And we're about to pass right under the East River. It's a very long stretch without stations and I don't want to be caught there by that train. Now hush, please, dear, and let me run." So Bully obediently shut up and held on tightly as Effie accelerated, the dim darkness of the tunnel flashing past him.

In a moment he thought he could hear something. "Is that it?" he asked, tilted his head to catch the distant dull roar behind them. "Is that a train coming?" But Effie did not pause to answer. If Bully had thought she was running fast before then she was virtually flying now. She arrowed straight and true down the space between the first two rails, never missing a step, never breaking her stride, her four muscled long legs moving in graceful and powerful balance as she and Bully rocketed down into the darkness. When Bully read his Flash comics he often daydreamed about tapping into the Speed Force and becoming the Fastest Bull Alive, zipping across the city in a matter of seconds. A few ill-advised experiments with his Radio Flyer and a balloon filled with baking soda and vinegar aside, however, Bully had never moved this fast without being in a car or plane before.

Bully suddenly felt a thick muffled pressure on his fuzzy head and a moment later his ears popped. He knew that feeling—they were under the deepest part of the East River, a little more than halfway across the long tunnel to York Street. But now the rush of the train was louder, and Bully found himself crouching forward on Effie's back as if leaning in that direction would speed her up.

Steam puffed from Effie's snout now in twin misty bursts as, on either side of them, the tracks began to vibrate—quietly at first, then a loud metallic hum, and then a odd, off-tone twanging noise like a cowboy balladeer tuning up his rusty banjo in one of the Roy Rogers movies Ox liked to watch. Bully gulped nervously as Effie rocketed onwards, the rush of air past them pressing the soft silky pink fur on her snout flat against her skin, and Bully was struck with a horrible, horrible thought: what if Effie wasn't fast enough to outrace a train because she had a little stuffed bull on her back?


Oh no! Will Effie be fast enough? Or will tomorrow’s Part 10 star a pig and cow pancake? (In the meantime, you can track their journey starting at 34 Street/Herald Square and moving southward very fast on the MTA F Line Map! And pay no attention to the fact that the MTA misspelled “Yancy” as “Delancey”…Yancy Street never gets no respect, I tell ya!)

Bully's Fantastic Christmas, Part 8

A short chapter today (but don't worry, Bully-fans, there's still plenty of excitement a-hoof!) And if'n you missed 'em, Parts 1-7 are here!

Part 8: Pigs Will Fly

Bully blinked and wiped his wet hoof on his sweater as he stared down at the pig. She was bigger than Snuckles, but not huge; a pretty orange pig about the size of the bathroom wastebasket, and it took Bully a few seconds to realize why, aside from the size, she looked so much different than his best friend Snuckles.

She was real. This was no stuffed animal (not that there was anything wrong with that); she was a living, breathing, real live pig. Except for being orange and in the subway, of course. Bully had never seen a pig in the subway before. That performing bear, of course. And the rat brothers: Ratsy, Chuckles, and Depravo. But never a pig. First time for everything, he thought, peering over the edge of the platform at her, careful not to lose his footing and fall over.

"Hello," she smiled up at him, crossing over the first track and putting her trotters up on the side wall to press her snout up near his hooves. "I'm Effie. What's your name?"

"Hi hi hi!" Bully said excitedly. His snuffles and sniffles were forgotten in his fascination with the pig and the attention she was showing. "I'm Bully!"

"Hello Bully!" Effie inclined her head, her ears flapping up and down. "And I repeat: what are you crying about? What's to cry about on Christmas Eve?"

There were a million things, Bully reflected miserably, but he was still so ashamed of himself that he didn't even want to mention that, even to a pretty and friendly face like Effie. "I want to go home," he sniffled. "And I can't even get on the train."

"My, my, my," Effie wrinkled her snout in concern. "It's an awfully busy day for you to be out and about, little stuffed Bully. No wonder you can't get on the train." Her tail twitched in a familiar motion—it reminded Bully of the same exact motion Snuckles performed when he was getting an idea: an amazing, wonderful, clever idea. "Where are you going?" she asked.

"Brooklyn," Bully said.

"Well, duh," Effie rolled her eyes, but she did it and said it with such kindness and humor that Bully didn't feel insulted at all. In fact, he giggled just a little bit behind his hoof. "Of course you're going to Brooklyn. Why else would you be on the Brooklyn platform? What station, silly Bully?"

"Seventh Avenue," Bully said.

"Easy enough!" Effie dropped down back between the tracks and lifted her head up to twitch her snout at Bully. "Hop on."

Bully stared in bemusement. "Huh?"

"Hop on!" repeated Effie, shrugging her back. "I'll take you to Seventh Avenue. And hurry up." Her ears perked and stood up on end. "There's a train coming. Hear it? Let's get a move on!"

Bully could hear nothing at all, but he shimmied down the dirty platform and plopped with a quiet grunt right onto Effie's back. "There you go!" she declared encouragingly, "Hold onto my neck tight now. And watch that your shopping bag doesn't bang into my legs. I need all the room I can get to move."

Bully secretly doubted, although he was much too polite to say it aloud, that a pig, even a friendly orange one, would be fast enough to get him home. But he was glad of the company and the kindness, and he leaned over and held tight to Effie's neck. "Okay, I'm r..."

Before Bully could even finish sentence, the pig's powerful back legs tensed like a pair of steel springs and they blasted ahead, running down the tracks, sprinting and dashing like a bullet out of a gun. Bully yelped and held on for dear life, wrapping his fuzzy arms around Effie's warm neck, and the station flashed over and past him and then behind, as Effie plunged into the darkness of the subway tunnel, dashing at top speed down the F Train line towards Brooklyn, her trotters raising showers of sparks on the tracks as she ran.


So why is there a pig in the subway? Find out in Part 9!

The unseen villainy

Like whipping us with a sharp snap across the face with a glove, albeit a glove transmitted over the internet, which come to think of it, would probably be some sort of theoretical glove, or at the very least an e-glove, Brandon over at Random Panels issues the challenge to the blogosphere assembled to "fill in the blanks" of a Thor/Cap panel.

Have at ye, then, sir!:

Truth in advertising notice: I'm not sure what issue this is from or indeed if Colletta was even involved. But who needs truthiness in going for the yucks? Not me, that's fer sure.

Bully's Fantastic Christmas, Part 7

Parts 1-6 are here!

Part 7: True Bulliever

He did not have very much time to feel sorry for himself. Now the subway was elbow-to-elbow with New Yorkers and tourists, jostling and hurrying on their ways home from their frantic last-minute Christmas shopping, and Bully had to use all his wits and instincts to keep from being trampled altogether. He darted from empty spot to empty spot on the floor as fast as he could, dodging a boot here, ducking a pointed shoe there, being sideswiped by a stroller and getting knocked on his fuzzy behind by carelessly swung shopping bags. He ran and ran and ran as fast as he could, weaving and rushing, through the crowd towards the turnstiles, making a broad leap onto the turnstile, tugging his MetroCard out of his purse and extending it towards the scanner.

But as he started to swipe, a careless commuter, swinging her hand wildly as she popped her token into the slot, knocked hard against Bully's back and sent him spinning head over heels off the platform and down onto the floor. Bully sat up dizzily and managed to roll to one side just in time to prevent being squashed under the enormous booted foot of a New York construction worker. He peered around wildly for his MetroCard, which had gone flying from his hooves when he fell. There it was—on the other side of the turnstile.

As if he weren't feeling bad enough already, Bully gulped guiltily as he ran through the legs of commuters beneath the turnstile to fetch is MetroCard. He'd never tried to dodge a fare in his life—he was an honest little bull—but he couldn't get anywhere without his MetroCard. But Bully hadn't counted on how far away the MetroCard had fell. It seemed like a mile away from him now, lying there bent and muddy on the floor as people walked over it, kicking it unknowingly until it slid away, disappearing under the feet of the crowd, far, far out of Bully's sight.

He gloomily hung his head and forlornly trudged down the stairs for the Brooklyn-bound F Train, his plastic Jim Hanley's bag with the trio of comics dragging behind him.

There was a train just arriving on the track as Bully leaped down to the platform, and he felt his heart soar at the sight of it. For just a second, he very nearly felt better at the comfortable thought of finally being on his way back home, but once again he was almost run over by a stampede of big clompy boots, stampeding into the cars the instant the subway doors whooshed open with a pneumatic hiss. Bully pressed and shoved—but even as small as he was, he couldn't squeeze into the car.

He held his breath, trying to make himself thinner, and straightened his neck upwards to make himself taller...

...just in time to see the big doors closing right in on him.

Bully shrieked and gasped as he leaped out of their way back onto the platform, the big rubber gaskets that surrounded the doors clipping at his scarf. For a moment he thought he was caught and would be dragged along beside the train down the dirty, dark tunnel all the way to 23rd Street (at which point the doors would open and Bully would fall down into the deep dark wet creepy gaps between the tracks...). He was so scared that he almost didn't notice at first that his scarf had untangled itself off from his neck. It was caught in the door but he was loose and free, and he gasped for breath as the train pulled out of the station, his beautiful scarf dangling from the door, roaring away down the tunnel, back towards Brooklyn, away towards home.

And Bully did exactly what you or I would have done if we'd gone through such a terrible day, even if that day was Christmas Eve: he sat down on the platform and cried.

"Why so glum, little chum?!" a cheerful, ebullient voice boomed above him, and Bully looked up in surprise at the speaker: an older man with a broad, expressive face, balding but grey hair (gone white at the temples) and bushy grey mustache, wearing shaded sunglasses that didn't hide the twinkle in his eyes. He bent down and kneeled on the subway platform next to Bully. "Face front, true believer! This is no place to have a bawl!" He pulled a large handkerchief out of his pocket and passed it to Bully.

Bully took the handkerchief and blew his nose with a messy snort, guiltily folding the cloth back inside itself so the sticky part wasn't on the outside when he handed it back. "Thanks, Mister," he said. He knew, of course, that he wasn't supposed to talk to strangers. He was alert and aware and ready to scamper away at a moment's notice, but something about the man was familiar and friendly, and while you all should remember just because somebody lends you a handkerchief it doesn't mean they're your pal, Bully suddenly felt just a little less stressed and upset.

"There!" The man smiled and gave him a thumbs up as he tucked away the handkerchief. "Isn't that better than causing a commotion, oh fearlessly frantic one?! It's a big fantastic, amazing, incredible, uncanny world out there, and a boisterously bullish bovine like yourself should be out having some Christmas Eve adventures, not sniffling sadly in the subway!" Bully realized that the man wasn't raising his voice, wasn't yelling, although every single sentence he spoke seemed to have an exclamation mark at the end of it. "No need to wet those baby blues! Remember, it's always darkest before the dawn, tiger, 'specially if you forgot to pay your light bill!" Bully started to speak, but the man was on a roll and there was no interrupting him. "Don't let a little setback stop that action! Stand a little straighter! Walk a little prouder! Be an innovator! Clap a little louder! Grow forever greater, frantic one!"

"I..." Bully started to say.

"Face front!" the man continued boisterously. "Lift your head! Make some friends! You're on the winning team! You're the ever-lovin' tip-top greatest, true bulliever! And always remember: with great power comes great responsibility! Well, I'm outta here!" He straightened up and strode away on his long legs. "Stay fearless, fuzzy one! Nuff said!" the man called as he disappeared down the platform, and then echoed after: "Excelsior!"

After the man left, Bully sat there for a long time. It seemed like hours to him, although it surely couldn't have been—but no more trains arrived and no people pushed and shoved at him to get on it. In the time that Bully had sat, shivering in the suddenly very cold subway, he thought maybe he had missed Christmas entirely, that it had gone past him just like the train, and that no one would ever see him there on the platform, and that would be where he always lived, on the B-D-F-V platform of the 34th Street subway, fighting sewer rats for bread crumbs, sleeping in a greasy old discarded Big Mac box, and never, ever again getting to sit in a comfortable puffy bowl of his favorite cereal.

Despite the momentary enthusiastic cheer the strange man had given him, that thought started him sniffling once again, and he had never felt so alone in his life.

"Hello!" said someone, a bright and cheerful female voice this time. "What are you sniffing about?"

Bully looked up in surprise in mid-sniffle. He saw no one at all.

"Down here, silly!" the voice said, giggling.

Bully wiped his nose on the sleeve of his duffel coat, sopping up the tears that had started to well up on his nose ring ,and looked down at the train tracks.

There, standing between the first two rails, staring up at him with big bright blue eyes and a curious smile, was a large orange pig.


Tomorrow night: Part 8! (Just the thing to settle down with after you've whipped through your Wednesday new comics!)

Bully's Fantastic Christmas, Part 6

Parts 1-5 are here!

Part 6: Last-Minute Purchases

FANTASTIC FOUR #49!

Bully felt light-headed and rocked back and forth unsteadily on his hooves. He examined the other two comics. Each was labeled. “REPRINTS FANTASTIC FOUR #48.” “REPRINTS FANTASTIC FOUR #50.“ His tail swished back and forth in involuntary excitement. Reprints! Reprints of the Galactus Trilogy! Hooray for reprints!



Bully climbed up onto the short box next to the books and stared, entranced, at the worn but glossy comics snugly sealed inside Mylar. The Silver Surfer soared, the Human Torch blazed, and the Thing clobbered their ways across the covers. That wasn’t Kirby art on the covers, for sure, but the labels promised authentic Kirby goodness inside, four-color treasures mixed into every shade of the rainbow, more brilliant and vibrant colors than even Bully could imagine (and he had the Crayola 64-crayon assortment box with sharpener). Glossy silver chrome, brilliant uniform blue, burning-hot red, pretty pretty blonde, hard rocky orange, and some colors Bully couldn't even begin to describe, exotic variations on the spectrum that he could find no words for and which actually hurt his head a little to look at. There were more colors here than the marshmallows in a box of Lucky Charms. The bright bold lettering on each comic read MARVEL’S GREATEST COMICS, and Bully realized that maybe this were the most aptly titled comic series after all: truly, he coule think of no better phrase to describe these miraculous comics than greatest.

He grabbed at the three bagged comics and held them closely to his chest, staring around nervously. Nobody better try to buy these first! he declared mentally, and his little black buttons eyes darted around suspiciously at the other customers. “Mine!” he squeaked, “Mine!”

THE GALACTUS TRILOGY!

And then Bully did something, a little thing, something he didn't expect to, didn't consciously intend to do, but so overwhelming was the allure of those comics—the comics he had been dreaming of for months, no, even better than the comics he'd merely dreamt of, because now he actually was this close to owning them—that later on he would admit, with a little bit of shame and holding his horns low, that he really didn't know what he was doing, even though he did.

No! He didn't steal them! Whatever are you thinking?! Bully could no more steal something than he could fly to the moon. (Shame on you!)

What he did was this:

He leapt down from the box, clutching the comics in both arms and, as deliriously happy as a clam who has escaped a fish fry, Bully trotted off to the cashier.

If it had been any other day than Christmas Eve, five minutes before store closing, maybe the girl at the cash register would have noticed that her customer was a little stuffed bull. But by this hour on the busiest shopping day of the year, all she noticed was that he customer was a little short and she had to absently reach down and pluck up the three back issues from his hands (hands? she thought a few minutes later, her forehead scrunching in puzzlement), and ring them up. "Cash or charge?" she recited wearily, and a shower of change tinkled down onto the counter as those hands (hands?) turned over a little red plastic change purse and shook it out empty.

She counted out the crumpled ten dollar bill and a small pile of change, mostly dimes, consulted the register read-out again, and then with swift, practiced gestures, swept most of the change into her drawer, pushed back a few lonely coins into the change purse, and plopped a plastic bag with the comics and the receipt into the customer's hands (ummmm...hands?), and turned to help the next in her growing line of last-minute customers.

Bully stared dumbstruck at the five coins that jingled meagerly in his purse. "Excuse me, miss!" he said, his voice squeaking in nervous excitement. "Excuse me!" But the noise of a shouting customer above drowned out Bully's plaintive cry, and he wandered dizzily over to a display of plush Spider-Man and Hulk dolls and plopped, confused, on a thick cushion of sateen that gave him no comfort at all.

No matter how many times he counted the five coins—and he counted slowly and deliberately—they always added up to a quarter, a dime, a nickel, and two pennies. He laboriously did the sums in his head—doing sums is much more difficult without fingers to count on—and each time he arrived at exactly forty-two cents left in his purse.

Forty-two cents!

He pulled out the receipt for the books and peered at it, scarcely believing what he saw printed at the bottom of the flimsy slip of paper:

BACK ISSUES: 3 @ $5.00
TAX: $1.31
TOTAL: $16.31.

Bully stared at the paper until the store lights flashed on and off rapidly. Even he could understand that forty-two cents would not buy him a single pog, much less a Christmas comic book gift for anyone.

He stared up in despair at a cardboard Batman with a Santa Claus hat decoration hanging over his head suspended from the ceiling, and suddenly little Bully felt enormously ashamed. He had spent his Christmas money—very nearly all his Christmas money—on himself.

On himself!

An even deeper and darker dread fell over Bully as he sat there, and it licked at the corners of his brain. He’d had $6.73 in his change purse. How had he afforded something that cost $16.31…

Uh oh.

Bully let out an audible gulp of shock and fear as he remembered Mister Victor pushing the ratty old ten dollar bill out the crack of the doorway at him. He was so overwhelmed with shock that he couldn’t even remember now what Mister Victor had told him to pick up, but he was fairly certain it maybe wasn’t comic books. Probably not.

He wondered briefly if Mister Victor would enjoy some Fantastic Four comic books. He wasn’t sure. Mister Victor didn’t seem like the sort of guy who liked fun stuff, especially classic comic books, but then again, nobody doesn’t like Reed Richard and company, right? Even that would be a delightful surprise for Mister Victor, wouldn’t it? The neighbor wouldn’t be mad at him if he showed up with some Ben Grimm-filled magazines, right? After all, it was Kirby. Kirby!

But even if he could placate Mister Victor with comics, he still had no gifts for Marshall and Blackie and Snuckles and Ox and John, and, to make it even worse, he'd gotten himself one instead. Bully now felt very small, and Santa-Batman glared down at him as if he were the naughtiest little bull in the world, a cowardly, superstitious thief. Which indeed he felt very much like.

The crowd in the store had thinned out; maybe now he could go up to the cashier, give back the comics, get his money back—but as he moved forward he was once more caught in a last rush of people moving towards the exit, and Bully found himself pushed and shoved and driven down and out until he stood on the sidewalk outside Jim Hanley’s, snow falling heavily on him. He made one last attempt to move back into the store, but the doors swung shut with a loud thunk and inside, Larry the Golden Age Guy locked the doors and hung up a sign: CLOSED: MERRY CHRISTMAS.

It was almost dark out now, but the bright Christmas lights of the Empire State Building did not cheer Bully as he slowly trudged down Thirty-Third Street back to the subway.


Oh no! Who will save Christmas now? Join us tomorrow for Part 7!

Ten of a Kind: All You Need is Comics

(More Ten of a Kind here.)

What the Sam Scratch is goin' on here?!? #19

Carl & Larry Christmas Special, December 1988

Bully's Fantastic Christmas, Part 5

If you're starting with Part 5, there's four fantastic chapters you've missed: Catch up here with the chapter index!

Part 5: Fantastic Find

Each and every time he stepped through the door Bully considered that there was no place he'd rather be on the island of Manhattan than shopping at Jim Hanley's Universe. The store was busy on Christmas Eve, but not busier than a Wednesday New Comics Day later afternoon, and Bully drew a breath of relief at being on familiar, friendly territory after the hectic streets outside.

He practically ran in excitement up and down the long aisles stocked with colorful comics, following his usual A-Z path tracking the titles alphabetically from The All-New Atom to Zombies vs. Robots—up and down, spinning with excitement, checking the "NEW THIS WEEK!" shelf-talkers to make certain there was nothing he had missed this past New Comics Day, or whether there was something he'd read about on Mister Church or Mister Sterling or Miss Tegan's blogs that he hadn't picked up but desperately wanted to read now.

The toy aisle was a specially exciting attraction this close to Christmas morning, and Bully sighed in longing at DC Direct and Marvel Legends figures of nearly just about character he loved and dearly wanted a plastic representation of. It was long past time, he decided, since he'd dumped all his action figures out on the living room rug, Marvel and DC and Image and whatever, and had Crisis on Bajillion Earths in and around the coffee table-slash-Darkseid and Dr. Doom's Fortress, constructing elaborate and death-defying scenarios of cliffhanging thrills all the way until bedtime, even after Marshall had wandered away with Wonder Woman to have a tea party. Such a massive universal crossover would definitely be improved by that foot tall Sentinel figure, he decided. I wonder if it's too late to send Santa another email?

As he did each week, he checked the t-shirt selection, seeing if maybe this week would be the time that Hanley's finally, finally got in stock an XXXXXXS Spider-Man or Daredevil insignia t-shirt that was just his size. No luck yet, but hope sprung eternal.

He sighed and looked up. Outside the big store windows, the shadow of the Empire State Building was falling across 33rd Street. It was getting later. Time, he regarded sadly, to brave the streets back to Macy's. Unless...

Unless...

Everybody likes comic books. Bully mused, sucking on his hoof in deep thought. Why don't I get everyone comic books for Christmas?

It was quite the best idea he'd had in a long time, and it made a logical sense to focus his Christmas presents into one-stop shopping. That was it! He'd be foolish not to buy everyone comics for Christmas! Why, Blackie would sure enjoy Newsboy Legion, and an issue of Simpsons Comics for John would certainly be appreciated, and why not a nice western comic for Ox...Marshall, hmmm, that was trickier. He well knew that girls liked comics too, but wasn't certain what book his kid sister might appreciate. Not one of those gloomy goth comic books, not Ms. Marvel, not even some manga. Hmmm, maybe Green Lantern...sure, why not? Miss Ragnell sure seemed to like that one. Perfect!

Bully practically giggled to himself in delight at his completely excellent idea. Comics for Christmas? Why, he'd be the most popular gift-giver around the Christmas tree tomorrow. And the very best part...he would be able to read them all, too! "Whee!" he declared aloud, and a couple customers glanced around in surprise at the high-pitched exclamation with no apparent source.

He thumped his hoof in impatience to get to his shopping task and whirled about, but the sight that met his little black button eyes almost instantly drove out any thoughts of excitement and pride to replace them with amazement and wonder.

He was standing in the back issue aisle. But his eyes were not caught by the multiple Spider-Men or Hulks or Force Workses but by something altogether unexpected and different. There, directly across the aisle, sitting unfiled on top of an open shortbox, exactly at eye-level to a little stuffed bull, were a trio of bagged comic books, three early-seventies Marvels tossed in a casual spread to show off each of their bright, brilliant covers. Bully blinked and stepped closer, standing on tip-hooves to look at the covers. He'd never seen this Marvel title before, never even heard of it: Marvel's Greatest Comics? Even Bully was familiar with the usual ol' Bullpen hyperbole and he internally scoffed to himself how great can they be if I've never even heard of this series before?. He picked up the comic in the middle and regarded it carefully. It had Galactus on it.



There were handwritten stickers on each of the comics with pricing and a small notation. Bully peered at the one he held and read the label:

REPRINTS FANTASTIC FOUR #49

In the next aisle over, Hanley's clerk Larry the Golden Age Guy looked up from his restocking task. It was the second time he'd heard a high-pitched excited squeak echoing through the store in the past few minutes. He hoped the store didn't have mice.

How's that for a cliffhanger, true believer? Join us on Monday for Part 6!

Blogs will live. Blogs will die. And the Bullyverse will never be the same again!

If you subscribe to my blog using a RSS feed, you may have been baffled by some recent massive Bully-posting...several dozen posts dated December 2005! Don't panic, bull-buddies...I've simply completed moving all the posts from my older, abandoned personal blog ("The BULLog") into this blog for posterity's sake. Before you get too upset, this blog will continue and stay where it is, so in the words of Chrissie Hynde, stop your sobbing!

Think of it as the Bullyverse equivalent of the mergings of Earth-1 and -2...except without all the headrolling, arm-ripping, and Krypto abuse. We here at "Comics Oughta Be Fun!" take abuse to Krypto very seriously and speak out publicly against any instances of kicking a small super-powered dog.

The vast majority of the newly-added blog entries concern my Christmas 2005 holiday in London, so if that's your cup of tea (ooh! I made a British pun!), then scoot yourself over to my December 2005 page, scroll down to the December 20th entry and then work your way up. And if you like those entries, I've got a treat for you coming up later this month...

Anyway, Bully-Crisis over, Bully-Crisis averted. The Psycho-Pirate is now apparently the only one who remembers the old blog. Well, and Grant Morrison. But that guy never forgets anything.

Are you ready for your Mystery Date?

"Bully's Fantastic Christmas" returns with a new chapter tomorrow. In the meantime...let's play Mystery Date!

Will she be a dream...

from Superman Confidential #2, script by Darwyn Cooke, art by Tim Sale

...or a dud?

from All Star Batman and Robin, The Boy Wonder #1, script by Frank Miller, art by Jim Lee

Need to take another turn? Go ahead!

Dud? (ewwwww!)

Or Dream? (oooooh!)

Open the door...for your...Mystery Date!

Say, anybody know what song Lois is singing? (Googling the lyrics turns up squat.)

Bully's Fantastic Christmas, Part 4

If you're starting with Part 4, you've already missed some of the Christmasy candy-cane-flavored fun: Catch up here with the chapter index!

Part 4: A Slight Detour

The city streets were even more hectic and crowded in Manhattan than they were in Brooklyn. Bully emerged from the subway, pushed and pressured in multiple directions at once. He let out a sharp squeak as boots and shoes clattered around him, and he ducked and weaved his way through the maze of shoppers, peering up at the flashing neon lights shining from shop after shop across the darkening of the late afternoon.

He looked up and spied right above him the familiar sight from his newspaper clipping, a store towering above him and billboarded boldly: THE WORLD'S LARGEST STORE. Funny, it didn't look as big as he'd pictured, but there it was. "Macy's!" he exclaimed aloud in excitement. "Macy's...Macy's!"

"It's only a model," corrected a passer-by, barely glancing down, and sure enough, as Bully blinked and rubbed his button eyes he could see it was no more than a window decoration, just a scale model of the World's Most Famous Store, surrounded by pretty mannequins perched on pedestals around it, and Bully craned his neck backwards until he nearly fell over staring at them. Most of the manikins were in skimpy underwear, and gosh, that was skimpier than most. Bully tilted his head back further and read the sign above the window: VICTORIA'S SE...but that was all he read before he covered his eyes and ran on a little quicker, a bright blush showing from underneath his white fur. He certainly didn't need to see that, he reflected, allowing himself only a little quick glimpse back at the pretty redhead one who seemed to be smiling at him.

He had come up on the wrong side of the street, up the wrong subway staircase, he knew that now. Bully could see Macy's just across Herald Square, but with the sea of people and cars and taxis and pedi-cabs it might have been a mile away. Even through the throng of pre-Christmas activity it was quite the most amazing view. Bully did not think he had every seen anything as wonderful and as magical as Macy's. The store towered above the Square, more impressive than any building he had ever been in, and, to a little stuffed bull, even smaller buildings are pretty darn impressive. Flashing holiday lights in long elaborate strands outlined the shape of an illuminated Christmas tree the size of the Jolly Green Giant, and every window was brilliantly spotlighted from within with fancy tableaux and dioramas that Bully could only imagine were salutes to famous Macys through the ages: Macy Gray, William H. Macy, Bill Macy (who was not the same person, Marshall had once passionately explained in great detail, more detail than anyone in the apartment needed or wanted to know). Bully rocked in excitement from hoof to hoof: so near, so far! He turned and pushed his way through the crowd, pressing against foot traffic, moving down the sidewalk.

The air was crisp and cold and smelt of roasted chestnuts. Bully eyed a "Nuts to You!" vendor carefully, sizing up his desire for delicious sweet candied peanuts or cashews in crinkly little wax bags, but with a shake of his head and a short sigh, he turned from the aromas and kept going. Shopping first, he decided firmly. Nuts later.

The stores along Broadway were dressed up in cheerful holiday decorations, and the crowd was busy and bustling, like something out of one of the old Warner brothers Hollywood musicals Blackie liked to watch on TV. Windows were bright and shiny, with flashing lights and tinsel strung from corner to corner. Carols played loudly but did not drown out the buzz of people talking and laughing and complaining and shouting. It felt like Christmas, and Bully thought he was only a moment or two away from Mister Bob Hope stepping out of the crowd and singing "Silver Bells" to him.

But Macy's wasn't getting any closer. In fact, it seemed to be somewhere behind him. Bully paused to catch his breath and to peer up at the street sign, wishing he'd thought to bring his opera glasses with him—that sign was immediately above him and a long way up, but Bully was fairly certain it said 33 STREET. He stood for a moment thoughtfully sucking his hoof and trying to remember, musing aloud: "Miracle on 33rd Street." No, that didn't sound right. "Miracle on 32nd Street?" Definitely the wrong direction. "Miracle on 34th Street?" Ah, yes, that was it. "And the original too, not the remake," Bully announced aloud, just in case anyone was eavesdropping and was in doubt about his taste in motion pictures. He needed to be on 34th Street to get to Macy's, not 33rd Street.

Except...

He peered down 33rd Street towards Fifth Avenue in the distance. On the left-hand side of the street the Empire State Building towered above, ape-free for at least one more night. But on the right-hand side, nearly three-quarters, oh, maybe even seven-eighths of the way down, Bully's eyes focused on a familiar shop, one of his favorite stores in all of Manhattan, the home of many a happy afternoon and many a shiny dime spent...

Jim Hanley's Universe. Quite possibly one of the best comic book stores in the city. Bully squeaked in recognition of the recognizable landmark. And it was so very close, too...

He turned and trotted down 33rd Street towards Hanley's. Macy's could wait...for a while at least.

Tomorrow, Part 5: Fantastic Find.

Bully's Fantastic Christmas, Part 3

Just joining us? Don't miss Part 1 and Part 2!

Part 3: "You can never be too careful."

It was a very cold day and the snow was falling heavily, so it took Bully longer than he expected to walk down Eighth Avenue to the F Train subway stop. Not every portion of the sidewalk was shoveled, and even on those that were, a thin layer of slick crystal ice had begun to form. Bully skidded and slid down the shiny patches, pretending he was Iceman. Though he moved slowly through the snow already packing the pavement, no one moving past him noticed him, and he often had to leap to the side or dodge to the edge of the sidewalk to avoid being stepped on or pushed. It was a very busy day, Christmas Eve. There were many people out and about, and no one had time to notice a little stuffed bull underneath their feet.

Aside from waiting for green lights to cross the streets, Bully only paused once, at the mailbox on the corner of Eighth and Eighth, to shimmy up the cold metal box and slide his letter to Santa Claus inside. He banged the door open and closed a few more times just to make sure, absolutely certain, that it had dropped to the bottom. Although he had already sent an email with his Christmas list to santa@northpole.com the week before (cc'd to santa@northpole.org just to make sure), Bully had since then thought of a few extra Christmas gifts he wanted. And anyway, he wanted to make absolutely, positively sure that Santa got his list. You can never be too careful, not with Santa.

He paused on top of the mailbox and peered into the darkness below, hoping that Santa would have time to read his letter tonight before he set off on his world-wide rounds. He was certain he was going to get wonderful things for Christmas, but there were a few things he wanted most of all.

At the very top of his list Bully had written "A PONY." And then, after sucking on the tip of his crayon thoughtfully for some time until his tongue had turned quite green, he had added, beside it, "(A REAL ONE)." You can never be too careful.

Right below that was his second most-wished for gift, and although Bully was especially looking forward to riding his little baby pony around the apartment even he had to admit it was unlikely that John would let him keep it. So he had done what Blackie called "hedged his bets" and added right below that "THE GALACTUS TRILOGY."

Bully had wanted Stan Lee and Jack Kirby's Galactus Trilogy comic books for so very long, so very badly. He kept a careful watch on eBay for used copies of Fantastic Four #48-50, even occasionally cautiously bidding in the first minutes of an auction when the price was measured in a few rather than hundreds or thousands of dollars. But the precious trio of classic comics were snatched away from him every time, sniped out from under his little ringed nose, and not for a few dimes more than his maximum spending price, but for what seemed like it would take one bazillion wastebaskets emptied to even approach. Each time one or two or even all three of those comics escaped his eager grasp Bully would go and sit down in the corner and count his marbles or suck on a Jolly Rancher or pet Gus the Cat until he had stopped shaking with overexcitement and disappointment.

John had pointed out that Fantastic Four #48-50 were among the most collectible of Jack Kirby comics, and it was unlikely that Bully would find them affordable at his limited budget, and anyway, he could read them on the computer screen with the big DVD of complete FF adventures. But it wasn't the same to Bully; he wanted to hold them in his hands, to smell the paper and turn the pages, and clicking at the mouse (which is difficult enough with hooves) to see what the Silver Surfer was up to next, oh look out Mister Surfer, here comes Ben Grimm! was not the same sensation that Misters Lee and Kirby had intended he read that story in, was it, now?

So the thought hit him: in the absence of a rich eccentric uncle with a magnificent comic book vault, who better to ask for FF #48-50 than Santa Claus? Bully doubted that the elves would have much problem getting their little hands on three slim comic books, and in fact they would probably see it as a delightful and refreshing break from making Playstation 3s.

Bully's horns quivered in anticipation of comic books under the Christmas tree as he slid down the side of the mailbox and trudged onwards, the last block to the subway station. He shivered in the cold. Bully wrapped his arms around himself and plowed his way through the snow, now nearly to his waist. He had bundled up when he left the house: his pair of yellow rubber boots, his bright red Christmas sweater and red felt duffel coat, his long colorful striped scarf, and his brilliant blue stocking cap with the big soft white pompom on the top and the name BULLY embroidered on the front. He was very glad he had worn all these winter clothes, and by the time he reached the long deep steps of the Seventh Avenue subway he was cold and shivering.

But the subway station was toasty, and he soon warmed up as he trotted down the long concrete corridors, gazing up at the bright colorful posters as he headed for the turnstiles. It was easier to stay out from underfoot inside, and Bully trotted alongside the wall as big galoshes and boots and shoes and sneakers clomped past him in both directions.

He had his MetroCard out when he reached the turnstile, and was lucky enough to have caught a momentary lull in traffic. It took only a blink of an eye for Bully, quite an accomplished climber, to shin up the side of the turnstile, and, with both hooves, swipe his MetroCard through the scanner. The little screen lit up in bright blue letters: GO—and Bully went, with a sprint and a leap, thumping down with a bounce onto the turnstile arm. It moved down with a heavy clunk under his weight as he landed upon it, and Bully landed neatly on all fours down on the floor, pulled himself up to standing position, and trotted off for the steps marked MANHATTAN TRAINS, stowing his MetroCard back safely in his little clutchpurse and holding it tightly to his chest.

For the very excited and anxious Bully, the subway ride to 34th Street seemed to take forever. At the best of times the F Train is leisurely and unhurried, and today, with each car jam-packed to overflowing with people loaded down with armfuls of brightly-wrapped parcels, it was even slower than usual. At each stop the conductor explained, at first patiently, then gradually losing his calmness, and then final with weary resignation, to RELEASE THE BOARS. At least, that was what it sounded like to Bully over the crackling intercom. He perked up and looked about him for giant hogs, but none were to be seen, if you didn't count the plus-size guy eating a dripping gyro sandwich as he sat in the seat reserved for the elderly and the handicapped. Bully fixed him with a particularly strong stare of disapproval, but the man buried himself in his sandwich, hot sauce dripping down his chin.

The longest delay of the ride occurred at Carroll Street. The train sat and sat and sat in the station so long that Bully was afraid the F Train was changing to a G Train, an exasperating but not unprecedented event that was less a magical alphabetical transformation, more a too-frequent commuter annoyance. But when the conductor finally came over the intercom, his voice drowned out by static and electrical hum, Bully could have almost swore that he said: ...BEING HELD IN (static)...UNTIL WE RE...(buzz, crackle)...NEL PIGS ON THE TRACKS...(hum, pop)...AND CLEAR THE DOORS, and then the intercom fell quiet once again and with a whoosh and the familiar friendly ding-dong of the closing doors, the train lurched forward again.

Bully stayed out of the rushing crowds' feet by sliding beneath a seat and curling up with his back against the rumbling car's wall, checking his Christmas list again and again and staring up at the subway advertisements far above him,. for such wondrous and magical products as Sprint, Cap'n Morgan's Spiced Rum, and Doctor Zizmor. So intent was he on reading a New School poster and contemplating taking a course in January, possibly theoretical philosophy, photography, or maybe cookie baking, that he very nearly missed it when the conductor announced IRTY-FOURTH STREE, and he leaped up excitedly and was pushed by the wave of the crowd out onto the platform and up the long stairs out into the cold Manhattan afternoon.

Tomorrow, Part 4: A Slight Detour.

Bully's Fantastic Christmas, Part 2

Did you miss Part 1? Here it is!

Part 2: Avoiding Mister Victor

Of course, whenever you declare your intention to go Christmas shopping, it's always hard to stay on schedule. Many minutes were lost while Snuckles and Blackie raced around in excitement, helping Bully find his warm red duffel jacket and boots and scarf, poking his change purse to make certain he still had his money, and pointing out exactly what color iPod nano they wanted. "I would like da black one, Bully," said Blackie.

"Pink for me!" declared Snuckles.

"Chee!" scoffed Blackie. "Pink is fer dames!"

"It is not!" Snuckles shivered in indignation. "Pink is for pigs!" He lowered his voice. "A pink cashmere sweater would be nice, too."

They bustled around Bully in tight circles, jumping up and down and giving him advice and instructions. "Don' fergit t' buy a sweater fer Marshall!" "Or anyone else who likes sweaters." "If some goon looks at ya funny, just poke 'im in da snoot!" "Be careful on the subway!" "Don't take no guff offa nobody!" "Look out for the tunnel p..."

Bully slammed the big apartment door behind him as his friends jabbered on inside, and took a deep breath. Shopping was harder than he thought, and he hadn't even left the building yet.

There was the quiet sharp sound of a metal shutter sliding open, and Bully looked up in surprise at the apartment next door. The ancient crystal spyglass eye mounted in the center of the door lit up dimly with a cold yellow glow, and Bully flattened himself against the wall to try and stay out of vision's way. He shivered a little. He didn't much care to run into Mister Victor from Apartment Five today.

"Bull!" came a cold voice from behind the door, and Bully started to carefully tiptoe towards the stairs-not easy to do quietly with hoofs on tile. "Bull!" the voice called, and the apartment door creaked open exactly two inches on its chain, and the cold gaze of Mister Victor fixed on him out of the shadow between the door and its jamb. "I know you're out there, bull! I can hear you skulking."

Bully froze. He had been trying to avoid catching Mister Victor's attention, but the man in Apartment Five was especially canny at hearing Bully's comings-and-goings. John had warned Bully not to bother Mister Victor, but Bully often inwardly sighed that he wished Mister Victor would stop bothering him. He never set foot outside his apartment—all Bully had ever seen of him was his eye, gleaming in the darkness. He kept to the shadows and Bully even though his face might be bandaged, but it was hard to tell. He spoke sharply and harshly and with a middle-European accent. Marshall had one announced out of the blue that the next door neighbor was a man of great importance and a refugee from someplace in Europe, but when Bully questioned her where she'd heard that Marshall pretended not to hear and kept on watching Winx Club. Certainly Mister Victor got the most interesting mail in the building: bulky, bulging parcels addressed in large letters of grease pencil to V. VICTOR, with a patchwork quilt of interesting and exotic foreign stamps in some unrecognizable language on them, but all of them featured a picture of some kind of iron robot guy. He also had a subscription to many, many magazines: Sky & Telescope, Military History, The Economist, Popular Mechanics, Everyday with Rachael Ray.

Bully knew this because Mister Victor never ventured outside his apartment while anyone was looking, so it was Bully's (unpaid) job to fetch the mail and place it on the rough doormat for the man in apartment five. Mister Victor often confronted Bully going in and out of his own apartment, and demanded various errands be run, so despite his better judgment, Bully often found himself running down to D'agastino's on Seventh Avenue to buy a pint of vinegar and some cotton gauze, or a half pound of rolled tempered aluminum from Home Depot, or a packet of transistors from Radio Shack. Mister Victor never, never let him keep the change from these ventures, and frequently even argued about how much he had given Bully.

"What are you doing, bull?" Mister Victor growled.

"Sissmus cropping, Mister Victor," Bully admitted reluctantly. Mister Victor always made him nervous.

"What?" Victor shot back. "Don't be impertinent, bull."

"I mean Christmas shopping!"

Victor's eye narrowed at him through the dark gap. "So you're going outside then, bull?"

Bully's face fell. He knew having to run a chore for his mysterious next-door neighbor was imminent, and he fixed Mister Victor with one of his especially strong-willed stares. "Very quickly, Mister Victor," he said, shifting from hoof to hoof nervously. "Barely a few minutes. In fact I'm coming back now."

"Then you can run me an errand, then!" Mister Victor's eye disappeared as he ducked back into the apartment, and Bully hesitated, wondering if he should high-tail it down the stairs and out onto the street before his neighbor came back. But Mister Victor was back in a flash, pushing a crumpled bill out of the shadows with gloved fingers. "Pick me up a packet of 470 ohm resistors, bull. The industrial kind, not from the grocery store. I'm giving you ten dollars and I will count every penny of the change, so don't get any ideas about candy!!"

"It's Christmas Eve, Mister Victor," Bully said plaintively. "I'm not certain the industrial electronics will be open when I get back."

"Then you'd best hurry! Don't just stand there, get a move on. Doo...I demand it!"

"Yes, Mister Victor," Bully stifled a sigh and took the ratty ten dollar bill, tucking it away in his change purse. "Do you want any eggnog or fruitcake or do you need any Christmas lights, p'raps? 'Tis the season, fa la la la la?"

"Bah!" the eye narrowed and glowered at Bully. "No Christmas trappings are needed."

"Okay, Mister Victor." Bully decided that if he and Snuckles and Blackie went caroling later, they would definitely skip apartment five. "I'll look for your transistors."

"Resistors!"

"Resistors." Bully sucked on his hoof nervously. "They should have them at P. C. Richard's, right?"

"Richards?" Mister Victor's voice rose in timber and volume. "Richards? Richards?!?"

Bully spun on the tile and scampered down the steps, his tail and scarf fluttering behind him, as down the stairwell Mister Victor's voice bellowed in frustration and rage: "Richards!!!!" And Bully didn't stop running until he was halfway down Eighth Avenue to the subway station.

Tomorrow, Part 3: "You can never be too careful."