#ive tried using clay on my dolls but they never really worked out

[firecrackerstein]

im working on a doll rn who im planning to have hot pink skin and a crystal theme (if u ever listened to taz she is 100% inspired by kravitzs gollum form in crystal kingdom) but i have no idea what outfit to do for her if any. shes gonna be on a g3 ghoulia body if anyone has suggestions for what to put on top of hot pink 🙇‍♀️

[rein-ette]

for @needcake's request, 5 times Engport died and one time they saved each other.

III.

Portugal finds him in the attic. The ceiling of the inn is heavily slanted, and through the drawn curtain hardly any light comes through. The room is musty and damp and smelled of — of rot, of festering wounds, of things falling apart.

England himself is still.

No one had bandaged his wounds, so lying on the bed infested with all manner of pests his body was a rich tapestry of reds and browns and mottled grey. Sickness cradled his spectral figure in its wings, perched on the headboard as it tore into its meal with abandon. For a moment, Portugal thought England was already dead.

Then he coughed, eyelashes fluttering weakly. Gabriel, he mouthed, voice long consumed by the illness — by the war, damn those things — that ravaged his body. Portugal saw the question in his eyes, anyways. Why are you here?

"To take you home," he murmured, brushing his knuckles over one bare cheekbone, rising from his pale skin like the spine of a great beast. "Did you think I could not find you? That I would not come for you?"

England only gazes at him. In the desolate landscape of his face, only his eyes remain a fevered green, too bright. Two jewels, set in clay.

He does not — cannot — protest when Portugal wraps his body in cloth, cradling his frail figure against his chest. Does not protest when Portugal carries him down the stairs, does not protest when he's forced onto the horse and Portugal rests his forehead against his and murmurs. It's not far. Hold on to me.

He does not protest, but oh — oh, how Portugal wishes he had.

England is dead now. Lying on a soft bed, cradled by linen and silk and velvet canopies, he's hidden away like some stolen treasure — an antique sword, a broken childhood doll — stashed in an opulent corner between Lisbon and the sea. This far away from his isles, the sun finally warms his skin, but his eyes are fixed and dark.

Portugal guards his corpse and regrets.

IV.

Tomás was — to say the least — confused.

He began getting a little disoriented when the first Dutch cannon struck their ship, and when the Dutch themselves boarded he was kind of lost — but to be confused in the chaos of battle was normal. Fights with the Dutch were normal. Even losing was pretty normal; their captain may fight like the undead, but the crew was only human, and they had been caught alone without escort.

At least, their captain had fought like the undead, until a tall Dutch sailor put a sword through his belly and a shot in his shoulder. Then he’d really just been dead.

That was when Tomás’ confusion really started. Because after killing their captain, the Dutch soldier had simply waved a hand and left, soldiers straggling behind as they made their way back to their own ship. The cannons fell silent moments later, and Tomás own battered comrades hadn’t tried to pursue. Watching their enemy’s flags disappear into the distance, Tomás had helped drag their barely conscious captain below deck as he pondered over this strange occurrence: in the middle of a war, a Dutch warship had just caught them, trounced them, and simply let them go.

But that had not been all. For just as he was leaving the sick bay, an officer had grabbed him in the hall and rasped, “Tell the navigator to set course for Dover.” Wide-eyed, Tomás had only managed to squeak out an affirmative before he’d been released, leaving him standing there with a bloody cloth with one hand and absolutely no clue why they were about to head into enemy territory after they had, uh, just been utterly destroyed by their enemy.

Still, Tomás had done his job and relayed the message, expecting that to be the end of the madness. He was only a rigger, he reasoned — if he just followed orders surely everything would straighten themselves out with time.

He was wrong. Now, a week later, Tomás still understood nothing. He had orders to find one Sir Kirkland, Lord of Canterbury, but he had no idea if he’s found the right one. When he’d asked the first mate what this Lord Kirkland looked like, the first mate had only shrugged and said, “Never met ‘im. Probably a geezer, since he’s a lord.”

Yet this young man standing in the doorway in front of Tomas, claiming to be Lord Kirkland, could not have been older than twenty.

“Are you or are you not one of Gabriel’s men?” The man demanded impatiently. His Portuguese was heavily accented, but clear.

“Yes. Yes sir.”

“And? What does the bastard want with me?”

“He’s dead, sir. My first mate asked me to come get you. Sir.”

The young man — Lord Kirkland — raised his eyebrows. His gaze seemed to skewer Tomás right through his skull. “Dead.” He repeated. Tomás nodded hesitantly. Lord Kirkland muttered something in his own language under his breath, then rolled his eyes and said, “Fine.” Fine? “Joseph!” He barked to someone in the interior of the manse. “Get this man a horse and ready the carriage. And call the doctor, for god’s sake, Gabriel’s gone and gotten himself killed again.” He whirled around and pinned Tomás with another look. “What’s your name?”

“Tomás Santiago, sir.”

“Thanks for your hard work, Santiago. After we put your captain back together, I’ll tell him to give you a bonus.”

Tomas stared. Put him back together? Bonus? Wasn’t the captain dead?

But this Lord Kirkland guy was still look at him expectantly, so he stuttered out a “Yes, sir” again and thanked him.

A few minutes later, Tomás left on a fine horse more confused than ever.

Notes

Scene 3 is set during the English Civil War (1642–1651). Portugal brings him to the Ribeira Palace, which used to be where the Praça do Comércio is now situated.

Scene 4 is during the Dutch-Portuguese wars. But it’s pretty much crack, so there’s really no need to say more.

[indirispeaks]

Nikki

1998 - 2018

“Read more” link because LONG.

I’ve always been a Siamese cat person ever since my dad surprised me on my third birthday with a tiny kitten hidden in his coat pocket.  I named her Smudge, and she was my cat from then until my first year of college 17 years later.  My parents don’t know what happened to her, and guessed she had slipped outside and gone off to die in private somewhere.  (When I was younger it was still acceptable to let the cat out to wander the neighborhood.  She’d always come in when I called for her.  

Our next cat wasn’t Siamese and it was my sisters who named her Smudge II.  I wasn’t as attached to her as I was to Smudge I.  She had horrible skin allergies and licked herself bloody so she had to wear a bib to let it grow back, she was on a special diet and everything but she only lived for 7 years and it was likely due to the medication she had to take.  

I had a snowshoe kitten at one point, but she died under anesthetic while being spayed.  I’d only had her 6 months so that didn’t hurt as bad. 

I left college and started working full time at the library and living on my own at  my coworkers farm.  In the chicken coop.  Whole other story, but I will say that it was utterly fantastic and appealed to my artistic nature.  I found a Siamese breeder nearby and went to see the latest batch of kittens. (Don’t worry, it wasn’t a kitten mill, it was just an elderly couple who loved Siamese and had four of their own, plus however many kittens were floating around.)  The kittens were outdoors when I found them and up til that point, I was set on getting a female...all my cats had been female. I had a little girl in my hands, baby-talking her, when a very determined little boy scaled my pants leg,velcroed himself to my chest, squealing demands.  My choice had been made for me, and I couldn’t resist those eyes and that “YeeeeeEEEEEeeeeEEEEEEEeeee!!”  like a little ambulance siren.  

I had to hide him from my mother until I found the best way to tell her.  She is NOT a cat person.  Poor Nikki had to spend a good hour with his head poking out of her purse that she’d hung on a fence during her tennis lesson...and then over the weekend at a friend’s house.  It worked out in the end, but he never forgave her for that.

Not him, but I don’t have any pictures from his kittenhood because cell phones with cameras hadn’t been invented yet and I didn’t have a camera of my own. That’s the image I found that looks the most like him at 6 months.

These are from last month.  I didn’t take any photos of him when he started deteriorating so quickly.  I don’t want to remember my sweet old man like that.  He would have turned 20 in four months. I wasn’t good to him in some ways.  My mother laid down the ultimatum that if he stayed in the house, he MUST be declawed.  (Which I will never go again to any cat of mine)  I left him for a month at my parents while I was off having a mid-life crisis 30 years early.  

But I fought for him.  He had kidney issues from age two?  Three?  I don’t remember, but he had to live at the vet’s office for a month so they could drain his bladder.  The surgery to fix it was 500 dollars, which isn’t as bad as today’s treatments that run up into thousands and thousands of dollars. I’d already spent 300 on tests and the bladder draining.  I was told that I shouldn’t “spend so much on a pet”  and I ignored that advice outright.  I put down my signed American Girl doll as collateral and he ended up having to have a full sex change.  Still my boy though. He’ll always be.

I said in an earlier post that he wasn’t doing well and was on medication for pain and thyroid issues...three weeks of treatment and he wasn’t showing signs of improvement....he was worse off.  Hunching and swaying, leaning against the wall when he walked or he’d fall right over.  Crab-walking, unable to groom the mats out of his fur and hated it when I tried to help.  God only knows how many times he fell off the bed.  I already had a lidded basket there so he didn’t have to try and jump from the floor, because that usually led to him smashing face first into the sideboard or slide, frantically trying to claw his way over the top, Indiana Jones style.  (His expression was hysterical and I fully admit that I laughed once or twice) I caught him almost every time, but I stopped letting him jump up on ANYTHING without my assistance.  

I made the difficult decision Saturday that the best thing I could do for him would be to give him a peaceful death, free of pain.  My sister Kelsey drove me back to the vet clinic in Derby, and I could not be more grateful.  I knew they would ask for his reason to visit when he checked in and if I opened my mouth to answer, I was going to lose it.  So Kelsey checked him in and then explained to the nurse and did most of the talking in general while I let Nikki explore the landscape in front of the building.  He always liked exploring every new place and watching out the window in the car to see what was happening in the world. I was numb and sort of going on autopilot and don’t remember what I said or if I said anything to anyone other than Dr Mork. I know I thanked her before we left. El Paso clinic were very professional and I am so grateful for that too.  The nurse took us back to one of the “Rainbow Bridge” rooms so we would have some privacy while we waited on the vet and she showed up just a few minutes later.  She was very patient and waited while I got and gave Nikki a drink of water and clipped off some fur to put into a vial.

She explained everything that was going to happen, that she would take him to the surgery and put an IV in, then bring him back.  I wish I’d gone with him, but I didn’t.  While she was doing that, Kelsey and I looked over the options they had as far as final services went.  I could afford everything, if the money from Ebay and Etsy had hit this morning instead of half an hour ago.  I’m going to reimburse her for that.  I chose to have him cremated and store his ashes in a carved wooden box, after having a paw print pressed into some clay.  I plan on keeping them together, probably on one of my shelves, until it stops hurting so much.  His ashes will then be buried in mom and dad’s back garden, under my window with my showshoe kitten, Watson, and Hibble. The pawprint will be hung on the wall to remind me of the good times we had.

She came back and I held Nikki in my arms while she administered an overdose of anesthetic. I told him how much I loved him and he was a good kitty and everything was going to be alright while he purred.  I watched him close his eyes.  I heard him sigh.  I felt him stop purring.

He’s gone.  I have had him half my lifetime, I would have done anything for him and he gave me so much.  He sat on my chest and purred when I came home from the hospital and was in such pain.  He would reach up and touch my chin with his paw until I smiled and told him I was okay.  He had a high prey drive and kept my place insect-free and routinely brought me severed cricket legs, half eaten spiders, and the occasional headless mouse.  He could knock flies off the wall.  I don’t know if he ate them or what but he sure whacked the crap out of them.  He volleyball spike-d a bird out of midair.  He was a good hunter.  He yelled until I let him in the bathroom when I was taking showers to supervise the process and then discovered the bathtub had the best acoustics for his 3 am impressions of the tortured, tormented wailing and howls of a thousand lost souls of the eternally damned.

I held him another few minutes, then wrapped him in a fleece blanket that had been provided, kissed him, and told him goodbye.  Then Kelsey and I left through the side door directly from the room...I guess so that we didn’t have to walk back through the small crowd of people in the waiting room.  I was still in a daze and disoriented and got completely turned around in the parking lot, unable to find where we’d parked.  I don’t even remember the drive back to Kelsey’s house.  She kept me distracted by giving me a make-over and take my one year photo for ‘before and after”  That’s another post entirely, but I was glad for the distraction.  It’s probably a good thing I have NINE different projects going, half of them needing to arrive at their destinations by FRIDAY.  That’s another thing I’m grateful for, it’s a really good way to keep myself distracted.  I don’t think I would have been able to sleep anyway....I really didn’t want to lay in bed and dwell on this.  Hopefully my hands hold up to the pressure, there’s tons of beading involved.

[rememberthe4th]

Tales of the Hunt: What Remains pt. 1

It has been a long time coming, but we’re finally wrapping up this ‘arc!’  I hope those who have followed along this far enjoy what I offer this time, and know there’s more to come!  Here’s to tomorrow! -PAE IV

For a refresher: https://rememberthe4th.tumblr.com/post/179288927232/tales-of-the-hunt-a-flower-under-the-frost

Ribbons of smoke curled from where the roof was anchored to the shack’s walls, curling in tiny spirals beneath the night-watcher’s yellow glow.  More billows out from where the front-door once stood.  The room within crackles and groans as a growing-blaze eats its way through insulation.  

Just outside the fire’s reach, the Old-Hunter slowly stems the flow from the holes Kakisi left in his shoulder.  “You ought to warn me next time.  Lucky I didn’t decide to keep those teeth.”

Kakisi responded with a wide grin, his mouth still stained with blood, “No promises, brother.  Can’t think, much less talk, on such an empty stomach.”  His thick-accent would normally make understanding him a challenge for some, but the words fell from a languid tongue.  Enunciating each with a sluggish care, “Better bite when they don’t know it’s coming.  Tension makes the meat tough.”  He carefully works each joint and muscle with tired-fingers, stretching and cracking each limb.  

“I’d like to think I’m a little more than ‘meat.”

“And I would like to never spend more than a minute in another closet.”  The thin tails of smoke reached through the threshold as Kakisi massaged the last of his cramps.  “And what is that you have cooking?  Enough for two?”

“Just the strix.  That cocky little sorcerer slipped through my fingers.”

Kakisi turned to the Old-Hunter with a perplexed frown, “Really?  A strix?  I did not have the chance to see her in action, but that is quite the surprise.  What cause is worthy of one so reclusive?”

“The chance of a new day.  They called themselves ‘Children of the Black Sun,’ so I can only assume they seek to bring about the end of this era.  They present themselves as a force great-enough to consume the Order, and have shown their potential to draw our attention.  However, most of this is hearsay until confirmed.  Right now, our concern should be recovering what remains of the strix, and getting the hell out of here.  Headquarters will want to hear about this.”

Kakisi strolled to the furthest-wall, “You finish-up with the barbecue.  I will worry about making our exit.”  Smiling, he gently patted the wall, which violently contorts under his touch.  With only a nod of agreement, the Old-Hunter disappeared into a low-hanging cloud as rolled-in through the threshold.

Lucas let his ghostly-steed join the others.  With the herd complete, their whirlwind began pulling the loose snow and debris from the ground around it.  Even the Young-One felt its strength from several yards away.  She tried to focus on staunching the flow from her wound, but the cyclone of ice and snow dancing beneath the silvery moonlight was slightly distracting.  Cries were barely audible from within the spinning walls, but she could feel the beast’s panic.  She pried her eyes from the vortex for a moment, gauging Lucas’ focused expression.  There was confidence there, and that wall all she needed.

Lucas clasped his hands before his chest, fingers lacing tight between one-another.  Eyes still locked to his trap, his voice cut through the cacophony, “Hear me and heed these words!  You have trespassed upon this world, and tainted it with malice and bloodshed.  You have been weighed against the laws of our world, and deemed Unholy.  I, Lucas Blackfeather, on behalf of the Woodsmen Clan and the Holy Order, sentence you to return the otherworlds.  I bid you safe-passage by the hooves of Grani.”  The cyclone came to a reaching-peak, like a twister flipped upside-down.  Its point stabbed through the night-sky, plunging through the abyss, and opening to somewhere beyond.  “Farewell.”  The winds rose to a ear-splitting shriek.  The pounding of hooves grew.  And when the Young-One could hardly bear its presence, the vortex began to lift off of the ground.  Like a living-veil of white, it peeled from earth.  

Lucas let a lungful of air free as his spell resolved.  He was careful not break eye-contact, but let himself relax for the first time in far too long.  Like cloth pulled through a metal ring, the cyclone was whisked into oblivion.  All that remained in its wake was a circle of frost-starved earth, and the shape of two people at the center.  

As the moon’s pale light touched the ground, Lucas and the Young-One watched a thin stream of mist rise from the figures.  Without a word, they both rushed into the circle.  

A man, naked and shaking in the frigid air, knelt there.  Clutched to his chest was what remained of Yoko.  Her robes still sparkled under the moonlight, but their color had waned as countless year caught up to her.  The rest of Yoko fared far worse; unblemished and smooth skin turned a brownish-black and drawn tight against the bones.  As the two came to his side, they could see tears falling onto Yoko’s cheek.  The Young-One looked to Lucas for an answer, but the pain he wore was enough to tell her there was no easy solution.  He couldn’t make this problem vanish like before.  

“You should go back to the truck.  You can wait there for me.  No need for you to see this.  Even the Old-Timer wouldn’t blame you.”  His voice was hoarse, fists clenched at his sides.  From the corner of his eye, he could see the Young-One shake her head.  Sighing, “Sometimes…  Sometimes there’s not a neat and tidy ending to these tasks.  Sometimes you have to make mercy out of a mess.”  Speaking to the man, “You, can you hear me?”  The man only shivered as the night stole the heat from his bones.  Lucas’ frown deepened, “I didn’t think so.  If she’s anything to go by, they’ve been at this for at-least a century, so he could have been raised knowing a now dead-language.”

“Why does it matter?”  The Young-One asked, wondering why Lucas didn’t just put the poor guy out of his misery.

Another sigh, this one heavier than before, “He needs to know why, child.  He must not leave this world believing us to be the hands of darkness.  I doubt he had any memory of his change; no concept of why this has happened.  Such sorrow, such pain, can corrupt the soul.  I’ll not have the end of one monster bring about another.  And… I need the body clear of any blood that might be spilt, there’s a chance it could bring just enough of her back to cause trouble.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you’re fluent in… every language?”

“No such luck, but I have a ‘friend’ who could lend us a hand.”  Lucas pulled what appeared to be a small doll from his pocket.  He let it rest in his palm for just a moment; long enough for the Young-One to get a good look.  It seemed to be molded from clay and grass, several strands poking out from its finger-smoothed surface.  Despite the severity of the situation, she couldn’t help her heart’s hop when she recognized the shape of a rabbit with two comically oversize ears.  In his other hand, Lucas held that emblazoned lighter.  With a quick flick, a tall flame rose from the flint.  Carefully, he fed the figurine to the flames.  The doll was engulfed in a flash, like a strip of phosphorus.  Its ashes hung in mid-air for an instant, before being swept off in a sudden gust.  From the shadows which caught the remains, a shimmering silhouette of gold came forth.  A tiny, semi-transparent, nose poked from the darkness, sniffing hesitantly at the night-air.  

The rest of Lucas’ “friend” followed its nose, and the Young-One could barely restrain the urge to squeal as it came into view.  The creature had an ethereal presence; the snow behind it just visible through its soft-gold form.  It moved across the snow in steady hops without leaving a trail.  It was undoubtedly the fattest, fluffiest, and most long-eared rabbit the Young-One had ever seen.  When it came to a rest between Lucas and the man, she realized it was also the largest: reaching Lucas’ shin without sitting-up.  

Knowing it purpose, the rabbit went right to work.  It gave the man a quick sniff, to which he took no notice, before sitting onto its hind-quarters.  With both ears stretched straight-up, it reached Lucas’ shoulder.  

Taking one last breath, Lucas began, “I’m sorry for what you have lost.”  As each word left his lips, different words left the rabbit’s.  The spoke with Lucas’ voice, but the Young-One could hardly decipher a single syllable.  The man perked-up immediately upon hearing a familiar-tongue.  As Lucas continued, the man stared only at him, as if no-one else was speaking on his behalf.  When light found the man’s face, the Young-One could see frost forming along the path of his tears.  Her heart broke at the sorrow in his eyes.  

“There are no words which can ease your suffering, but know you need not prolong this pain.  We offer you release, as we too have had our lives twisted by the Unholy.  We-”  The man’s grip started easing with each word Lucas spoke, until he made mention that his companion was something corrupt.  Catching both off-guard, he bared his teeth before curling himself around the corpse.  

Though his words were muffled by the silk robes, the rabbit echoed them in a tear-choked voice, “You lie!  Yoko was my child, my world!  You do not know her as I do!”

“Even the worst fire will provide a gentle warmth to those at the right distance.  Only from afar can we see its destruction.  You knew her as your heart wanted you to, not as she truly was.  Let us take the burden of what was done by her hand.  We will bear this memory.  Please, accept this mercy.”  The man leaned back for a moment, studying the one laying in his arms.  With a sigh that seemed to carry the last of his strength, he let Yoko slide from his grasp.  Lucas gave the Young-One a distinct nod, “Go ahead.”

Trying not to show how heavy a burden he’d just placed on her, the Young-One creeps beside the man.  Making each slow move deliberate and as obvious as possible, as-if she were dealing with a drowsy-beast, she slid her arms beneath the body.  As she tried to pull it away, the man resisted.  In that instant, she could feel how weak the cold had made him.  Knowing he couldn’t resist her for long, he releases the corpse before turning back to Lucas.  The rabbit spoke again, hope just barely heard over his broken tone, “Will… will she be there?”

Lucas held the man’s gaze, “If you hold her in your heart as you pass, perhaps you’ll find her.”  The man searched Lucas’ eyes for a sign of deceit, but all he found was pity.  Another tear cut across the frost forming on his cheeks as he turned to face the moon above them.  In its somber light, he found something which a brought a smile to his lips.

The moment Yoko was clear, Lucas pulled a Bowie knife from beside his boot.  When the man offered his throat, Lucas swung wide and fast.  That razor-edge slipped through flesh and muscle without hesitation.  Steam poured forth alongside warm life.  With only a few final shudders, after so many years lost to madness, Li left his shell behind.

It didn’t take long for Lucas and the Young to have what remained of their foes wrapped and secured within the truck’s storage.  They shared a silence as they went about their grim task.  When they could finally rest within the warmth of the cab, she broke the quiet,  “Was all of that a lie?  The stuff about finding her?”

Lucas, who had been pondering over a three-quarters-empty pack of cigarettes, lit another.  “Does it matter?  That devalue having peace in his last moments?”  The Young-One didn’t have an answer.  All she had were questions to be saved for a better time.  As the heavy odor of smoke filled the cab, they waited for the Old-Hunter’s return.

[tessatechaitea]

Batman #87

James Tynion IV and Guillem March team up to make me stop buying Batman.

Part of me just wants to write "UGH!" and be done with reviewing this comic book. But another part of me is hungry. But still another part of me, the one that is against just typing "UGH!", is outraged that I just paid five dollars for a regular issue of Batman because of a stupid glossy and thick cover and that part of me demands that I vent more fully. And yet that's not even why I'm fucking livid! That's just my first and most shallow complaint! I'd prefer if DC Comics just gave me a regular issue of Batman with a regular comic book cover and simply printed on that cover, "We know this is the exact same quality comic book that we'd sell for $3.99 usually but it has Batman in it which means it will sell way more copies than the other issues we sell and we want that sweet, sweet extra dollar per issue windfall!"

Complaint #2: The Riddler believes that a riddle without a solution is the greatest riddle.

Never mind that Guillem March drew The Riddler naked while he's thinking about the greatest riddle ever while on weapons grade amphetamines and he has no visible erection. That's a minor side complaint that I simply assume was on everybody's list of things wrong with this issue. But the revelation that James Tynion IV doesn't understand the concept of riddles is beyond criticism. It's post-critical! The entire purpose of a riddle is that it has a fucking clever answer! A riddle with no answer is a mystery and The Riddler isn't called The Mysteryer! A riddle with no answer is something The Mad Hatter might be into but not The Riddler, Mr. Scott-Snyder-Lite IV! And before some Riddler-loving cuck nerd decides to argue that what Tynion meant was that The Riddler loves a super duper challenging riddle, let me say this: "Then he should have fucking wrote that in the dialogue, shouldn't he have? Not that a 'riddle with no solution' is 'a riddle befitting a riddler.' But 'a riddle with a fucking super tough and challenging solution' is 'a riddle befitting a riddler.' Now go jerk off to your tepid Riddler sex role play Tumblr blog." Just an aside about my use of the word 'cuck': it's just fucking funny to use! The only good thing the terrible incel Internet community (unless I mean the MRA community (unless I mean the PUA community (it probably doesn't matter. They probably mostly share the middle area in a Venn diagram))) has done for this world is to bring back the insult "cuck." I don't even care about using it in the historically accurate way! I don't actually care if Riddler fans' spouses have a little extra side of ass on the down low. It's just fun to say! Plus, if you say it to the kind of person who actually thinks "cuck" is a scathing insult, they get super fucking angry when called one! It's Goddamned hilarious.

Complaint #3: Guillem March's depiction of The Riddler.

Yes, yes. March fixes my whole "The Riddler doesn't have a visible erection" problem from the first scan by implying one with his Riddle Wand here. But the main problem is why did March think The Riddler suddenly needed to look like Bernie Wrightson's Anton Arcane? The Riddler has always just been a skinny creep who was so into getting punched in the face by a muscular man in a bat costume that he planted clues that would ensure it happened. But I guess March has decided that his obsession needed to be mirrored in his physical appearance? Or is it a kind of pervasive attitude that Batman is such a scary and serious fucking cartoon hero that his villainous gallery of rogues has to be just as wickedly serious and horrific? Sometimes it feels like fans still feel as if the Batman television show was some kind of pernicious poison that, to this day, needs continual application of anti-toxin. "Batman isn't silly and his villains shouldn't be either," scream the rabid base of comic book fans that take this shit way too seriously. Hey! Fuck you! I'm angry for valid reasons and not stupid comic book fan reasons! Don't try to use my own words against me!

Complaint #3: Guillem March's depiction of The Penguin.

See my previous argument for Complaint #2. Although there's a history of making The Penguin as creepy and fucked up as possible because nobody needs the image of Burgess Meredith playing The Penguin to already come to the conclusion that a short dapper fat man with a bird obsession isn't the most intimidating villain, even with the mob attitude and homicidal tendencies.

Complaint #4: Batman and Catwoman's banter.

My main complaint with this conversation is that Batman and Catwoman never once argue about whether they met on a boat or on the street. I thought that was how they always began conversations! Also, they don't call each other "Bat" and "Cat." I'm sure a lot of people are thrilled about this change. But to me, it's a slow reset to getting them back to a relationship that denies the strength of their love and commitment to each other. They're slipping back into professional modes of communication! Next thing you know, we'll find out that Alfred didn't really die! It was Clayface the entire time and Alfred simply let people believe he was dead so he could have a peaceful vacation for once in his long life of servitude to an obsessed man-boy with too much money. Okay, that's enough poking fun at Tom King and the people who hated Tom King. I'm sure I'll get my fill of the Bat/Cat relationship whenever King's Bat Loves Cat comic book comes out. Let me be serious about my complaint in this paragraph (although not the kind of serious where I'm a comic book fan taking shit too seriously! The kind of "serious" where I pretend to be in an apoplectic rage which convinces a number of casual readers into thinking things like "This fucking Lobo fanboy wants to fuck Lobo in the face" and "Why is this nerd so obsessed with Supergirl's butthole? Can't he get a real woman down at the real club where he probably dances like a fucking dreamboat?"). Batman is supposed to be the World's Greatest Detective and yet he engages in stupid retorts like "What makes you think I don't have that device?" You fucking imbecile! What makes her think that was expressly stated by Catwoman when she said you wouldn't have needed to ask her if she was still with the body! Also, even Batman can't have that technology because it would take magic to use that technology and Batman is against magic which is why he keeps Kryptonite on hand to defeat Superman instead of the Ace of Winchesters. Side Complaint #4: Guillem March draws asses in the uncanny valley. He wants you to know they're sexy asses that do more than poop and fart. But he tries too hard to make them sexy and they fall into the uncanny valley of sexy asses. Those are asses where you go, "No, no. I can see that that ass is sexy but I am not in any way going to put my tongue into it." Complaint #5: The villains' plan is so complex that it relies on things that couldn't have been planned for happening. This is a standard complaint of mine and such a comic book trope that I probably should have gotten over being upset by it twenty years ago. I suppose it's why I stopped reading comic books for ten of those twenty years though. A bunch of assassins planned to get caught so that one of them could escape so that Batman would be distracted by that one while the others escaped. Batman falls for it although this time there's a twist to a plan so well planned that it works no matter what the hero does: this plan was stolen! This plan was originally the Penguin's plan and he recognized it when the first part fell into place: five assassins came to Gotham and were caught by Batman. Yeah, see? That was part of this stupid plan! So at least The Penguin is going to interfere with this awesome plan. Although, being that the plan was so well planned, the person who stole the plan probably planned for The Penguin to recognize the plan and to interfere. So The Penguin interfering is probably now part of the overall plan.

Complaint #6: Batman builds a prison that even he can't get out of which means Deathstork gets out of it immediately.

Every time, right? Every time a hero does something that is super duper foolproof to the nth degree of foolproofness, they get fooled! Fool the DC villains once, shame on the DC villains. Fool the DC Villains twice, and, well, you know what? That's never actually happened because they've never actually been fooled once. They only get fooled in the ultimate issue of a story arc when the hero decides maybe they should redouble their efforts and buck up their willpower and believe in themselves slightly more than they did in the previous five issues.

Complaint #7: A Cheshire-sized clay body double was captured by Batman, hauled into custody by police, and locked up without anybody noticing.

Batman uses the word "clay" so I'm assuming we're supposed to believe this is some kind of non-Clayface clayface body double? Some kind of mindless automaton that walks and moves and blinks and breathes and acts exactly like a living person? Sure, it's not presented in that way. But the audience has to assume some level of intelligent trickery went down here or else they're going to read this and think, "Batman was fooled by a squishy, drippy sex doll? This is worse for the Batman mythos than when Kevin Smith had Batman confess to peeing his pants!" Complaint #8: Both Deathstork and Cheshire tell Batman they're "playing a game." Why do they call their terrible and vicious crimes a game? It's bullshit to make everything the villains do some kind of contest pitted against Batman. It inherently makes super hero comics less about trying to make the world a better place and more about how heroes are the cause of all of the trouble because the villains' only ever expressed motive is to best the heroes. It's lazy and ultimately damaging to the entire medium. Yes, I said the entire medium! That's not hyperbole! But that was facetiousness!

Complaint #9: Cheshire wears see-through undies and we never get to see them from the front.

Okay fine. Not all of March's asses are in the uncanny valley. That one is staunchly in the valley of cans. Sweet, sweet cans.

Complaint #10: Batman kills Cheshire.

Sure, sure. Cheshire is still talking after getting creamed by a semi truck so Batman didn't really kill her. But he should have killed her doing this and the only way we accept that she isn't dead after smashing her face into an advancing semi is because we, the reader, know Batman doesn't kill. Maybe Batman lovers would defend this as an accident brought on by Cheshire herself. But then what is Batman's defense in letting her get smashed by a truck instead of saving her from being smashed by a truck in the amount of time it takes him to smugly say, "Brace yourself"? This fits into my belief that Batman has killed dozens of people but they die later at the hospital after which he can pin the deaths on the doctors who failed to save them from the mortal injuries Batman gave them. Side Complaint #10: Cheshire's last words are asking Batman how he survived her poison. I mean, she's obviously dying here and that's all she cares about? I would think she'd be all, "Tell my daughter I love her! ACK!" Batman #87 Rating: C. I think I made my points. My main problem now is that I've declared I'm going to stop buying Batman but I'm not the sort of person who avoids staring at train wrecks.