Q Screws Over Bond with Voice-Activated Spy Glasses

“Welcome to the Fresco Vincente ice palace and casino, Mr....?”

“Bond, James Bond......PHOTO!”

“I'm sorry?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all. Why, that Beluga Caviar looks exquisite.”

“I'll have the waiter fetch you a plate, Mr. Bond....meanwhile, please feel free to mingle. As you can see, this game attracts some of Europe's greatest players.”

“Indeed. I see the great and the good of politics and beyond are present here this evening....PHOTO! PHOTO! PHOTO!”

“You....um....you seem to keep yelling the word photo in a flat, monotone voice, Mr. Bond. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. Merely observing what picturesque surroundings we're in.”

“I see.....ah, your Beluga has arrived. And a glass of Champagne in accompaniment.”

“Why, thank you..................”

“Everything okay, Mr. Bond? You seem hesitant.”

“No, only that...”

“Come, come, Mr. Bond. This is a friendly evening of card playing. You don't think I'd try to poison a guest... Ha ha ha....”

“Of course not. Ha ha.... ANALYSE!!!”

“Analyse? Did you just say 'analyse'??”

“No.”

“But you did, you....!”

“I said 'And...I....lies.”

“............What?”

“...'And I lies to ya face, son'...is what I was saying.”

“You lie to my....why would you lie to my face?”

“Because.....I'm......wearing...spy glasses???”

                -                -                -

The Lonely Deaths of the Lightning Cunts

It's not uncommon for stories around the reign of Prince Daggerdrip to be exaggerated or romanticised beyond reasonable proportions. Daggerdrip's uncharacteristically peaceful seizing of power on Caldezor 9, where beleaguered inhabitants actually signed an agreement in exchange for technological advances from the Prince's fleet, has instead been recorded in history as a devastating slaughter where Daggerdrip's forces unleashed days of violence and mayhem on the natives.

Indeed, the pleasant fields of Caldezor 9 were described by historian Greeblethrax the Lowly as having been transformed into “An exquisite hellscape of flag-planting pomposity.” More level-headed revisionists have clarified that these fields are still, in fact, quite intact and fertile.

With this cultural tendency towards the sensational in recording the 47 year galactic campaign of Prince Daggerdrip, it is surprising then when all accounts of the Lightning Cunts tend to line up as being actually every bit as sensational as people say. For whilst Daggerdrip could blow hot and cold in his approach to planet-conquering, his loyal Lieutenants who spear-headed the majority of these invasions were quite simply every bit as bad as history would have you believe. The Lightning Cunts were the real deal.

A rotating cadre of interplanetary shithawks, the Lightning Cunts had been assembled over the years by Prince Daggerdrip, not only as the aggressive tip of his cosmic spear, but as a purposely frightening legend to be whispered throughout the known worlds to weaken the resolve of those yet to be invaded. Resultingly, the Lightning Cunts played it up, enjoying their status as galactic boogeymen. And in their rotating line-up, amongst whom the most consistent and famous were undoubtedly the specific four who led to the institution's demise, they enjoyed the status and lore that their violent nastiness left on the scorched soil of many a world.

This best known four of the Lightning Cunts- SolarBeast, Torahl the Terror, ReptileRacer and Colette Buckley- attained their notoriety firstly through their staying power within the ranks of Daggerdrip's elite Lieutenants, but also through the sheer theatricality of their wanton blood-drenched chaos. “A good day's space cruelty”, Torahl is said to have frequently uttered when putting his feet up after a long solid solar cycle of stabbing, shooting and generally being a bollix.

Of the other rotating members of the Cunts, there were some seen as even fair and level-headed compared to these Four- hence peaceful transitions such as that on Caldezor 9. These other Cunts had their killers and monsters among them, but never on the level of Beast, Torahl, Racer or Colette. Red Whip Pawletta, a female from the fire world of Emberia whose electronic flame-whip was not only searing to the touch but could constrict at her command, was indeed known for her fearsomeness but even she didn't like working with the Four, having described their antics as “Utterly taking the piss.”

Many a world and planetoid beheld the wrath of ReptileRacer, scorching their sky on his rocket-hog, revving his engine as he showered pulse fire onto the masses below.

Countless cities that fell under Prince Daggerdrip's dominion suffered the vicious stewardship of Torahl the Terror with their subjugation in his “Horror mines”, which were often built in regions with no natural ores to be exploited- thus increasing the frustrated Torahl's cruelty upon the population.

SolarBeast and Colette Buckley had, of course, famously joined the Lightning Cunts as a couple. Colette had been in a party abductees from a planet called Earth, when the science vessel experimenting on them was raided by SolarBeast's own band of pirates. So taken by Colette's beauty was SolarBeast, that he decided not to execute the other passengers on the ship for at least 3 days so they could all be guests at the wedding reception. They formed a partnership, blazing a vile trail of mercenary monstrosities through the system before coming to the attention of Prince Daggerdrip who was eager for them to join his Lightning Cunts, hoping they would bring fresh ideas to the galaxy's torment.

Whilst their marriage ended, they continued a fruitful professional relationship with the Lightning Cunts, not unlike Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks in Fleetwood Mac, Colette herself had noted. But with more enslavement of innocents.

The only thing that drove the Cunts more than turning the air crimson was their loyalty to their master, the galactic conqueror Prince Daggerdrip. Whilst not particularly insistent on each new planet he attained suffering any special form of cruelty, he indulged the Cunts' penchant for it- as it not only deflected the dirty work from him but acted as the perfect form of iron-fisted policing for his new Empire.

But as the decades passed, those other voices amongst the Lightning Cunts- indeed, the less Cunty contingent -began to cry foul. Most vocal amongst them was Joseppi Eucharist.

A fearsome warrior, Eucharist's initial passion for Daggerdrip's crusade had faded when witnessing the putrid actions of the Four and left him rethinking this life he'd chosen over going to art college in the Betelgeuse system.

Eucharist and his progressive allies among the fringe members of the Cunts began to campaign against the heavy-handedness being employed in Daggerdrip's name. Aided even by Red Whip Pawletta, Eucharist had built up quite a movement within the Cunts.

“The Lightning Cunt Reform Act” published in the Year of Meteor Tears, called not only for a radical regulating of the conduct of it's members, but also for the expulsion of both Torahl the Terror and ReptileRacer. The progressive faction also no longer wanted to be known as Lightning Cunts, instead rebranding as the Bolts That Bleed.

It is said SolarBeast and Colette brokered deals behind the scenes with Eucharist and company in order to initially escape their ire, but this seems unlikely, especially when considering that SolarBeast is described in most texts as a 230kg star wolf who only spoke in terrifying howls which made the ears of clerics bleed. He may have been more adept at the written word, however. It's unclear.

Torahl and Racer's sickening genocide of Plutadia Prime had been a breaking point and directed the anger of the galaxy at those two Cunts in particular. There had been nothing out of the ordinary about the sickening genocide, except that it had been meant for Trupladia Ten and not Plutadia Prime, which was in fact a planet friendly and obedient to Daggerdrip. It seems ReptileRacer's resistance to using StarNav^TM, despite Torahl's recommendations during their trip, had seen them take a wrong turn at AlbuQuerzar 9. In effect, the wrong civilisation was wiped out and whilst this made them quite popular on Trupladia Ten, the collective rage elsewhere was hard to ignore.

The Four remaining Cunts fought against these changes and punishments, in the confidence that their always-pleased master would have their backs. This resulted in open hostilities between the 2 factions, with skirmishes occurring between the Bolts That Bleed and the Lightning Cunts. There were whispers that the ultimate winning side might revolt and seize Daggerdrip's power.

It is clear now that not one of the Cunts desired this, maintaining their devotion to their dark Prince.

However, seeing a clear change in galactic culture taking place, and still smarting from having been almost cancelled for his controversial subspace network posts about the gays, an aged and weary Prince Daggerdrip backed the Bolts. Word was given to quell this small civil war, with Daggerdrip's army ordered to henceforth follow only the Bolts That Bleed as the conduit of his commands.

What followed next has famously become known as “The Night of the Weeping Cunts”. Yes, it has been noted that it wasn't necessarily night in each location where the Four found themselves but nevertheless night would soon fall for them all.

Each of the Lightning Cunts was off doing their own thing. Torahl was on the moon of D'Plorax, keeping himself busy, murdering the inhabitants who guarded the valuable ore which existed in the moon's rings. SolarBeast was dining on the bones of the weak. Just typical Thursday night stuff.

Little did they know that Eucharist's agents had set out that very night to bring an end to the Lightning Cunts.

ReptileRacer was the first to go, tracked down to one of the higher-end biker bars of the Druidia system where he had been planning to recruit his fellow space-bikers to the Cunt cause. Franzor Feelix, a newer, inexperienced member of the Bolts was the one who discovered his location. In the ensuing pulse-blaster exchange, the defiant Racer found himself ducked behind the bar, shouting out for any of the other bikers present to aid him against this assassin. But the bikers could see the way the galactic wind was blowing and they each left Franzor to his dark business. ReptileRacer stole a gulp of Lizarrian brandy before leaping up from behind the bar for one final onslaught, only to be torn down by young Franzor's pulse fire.

SolarBeast kicked open the door of his Nightmare Cottage on the planet Dreeahd. Having enjoyed a night of feasting and drinking, he always preferred to empty his bowels outside. It was here that Joseppi Eucharist appeared and pronounced that SolarBeast needn't even fight as the battle had already been lost. His terrified victims this night had been poisoned before he'd feasted upon them. Thus, in his final act of sickening barbarity, the SolarBeast had been his own killer, by poisoning himself.

Joseppi couldn't understand the Beast's howls but the outstretched claw denoted pleading, as the SolarBeast's mouth foamed up and the legendary monster collapsed to the ground, dead.

Colette's bitter end perhaps went the least to plan. Targeted by a number of Bolts That Bleed who all especially detested her for the cruel and slow deaths she was known for doling out, they trapped her in an acid waste disposal unit. They had relished the sound of her beating at the metal walls of the disposal- imploring them to release her, attempting even to bribe them. The Bolts remained determined instead for her death to proceed in the cruel fashion they felt she'd earned.

However, before the machine's acid injection system could take effect on the trash and Colette, the ever-inventive human found a sharp piece of glass amongst the junk pile and plunged it into her own heart, denying her attackers the slow death they'd wished upon her.

Torahl the Terror was collecting the spoils of his victory, as he floated in a spacesuit above D'Plorax, collecting the diamond-like riches that floated in it's rings. He saw the glimmering precious stones fade in their brilliance suddenly, as a shadow appeared on the rocks that he currently floated through. Torahl didn't have a chance to turn before an electronic whip was unfurled and wrapped around his neck. The whip instead spun Torahl around to face his attacker, a stern and determined Red Whip Pawletta who now tightened the whip's hold under Torahl's spacesuit helmet as the Lightning Cunt begged her to stop, through gasps. With one smooth yank back however, Pawletta decapitated Torahl the Terror. His head, with the cut-off point instantly cauterised by the flame-whip, swirled for a moment before floating into the same orbit as the rest of the precious stones. Pawletta is said to have kicked the headless body downward so it would burn up in the atmosphere below, whilst leaving the head to orbit the moon until the end of days.

The Lighnting Cunts had seen their end. Each isolated from their Lightning brethren at the time of their deaths, abandoned by the master their viciousness had served, they had, to a man, all begged for their lives in their final moments. Asking the universe for the mercy that not one of them had ever shown on any world they'd set foot on. This includes Colette's time working for a mysterious Earth entity known as Irish Water.

Their legacy in the cosmos is one of nastiness.

With his usual verbose rhetoric, historian Greeblethrax the Lowly had this to say:

“It was a cruel universe to begin with. But somehow existence had never seen the likes of the Lightning Cunts. Their star-bastardry, their spatial-shit-hawkery, their colourfully cruel sensibilities reached such heights as to take several solar systems' breath away.”

The Stomping Ground

 

The Stomping Ground

By Ciarán McNulty

Buses, Shane noted to himself, never really respected bladders. He was halfway to his hometown of Limebrook- a 90 minute journey from the city -and was already ready to spring a leak.

Shane typically planned for these things and would've had a scheduled toilet break before catching this bus, only for his manager reneging on the promise of an early finish.

Shane had requested an early finish of at 4 o'lock so he could both fit in a visit to his Uncle in Limebrook and be at the school reunion on time, but a freezer full of Cornettos and Magnums had other plans. His manager asked, fairly politely, if Shane could see out his full shift instead, and get the stock moved into the freezer in the back store while mopping up any spillage along the way. Somewhere between the occasional sip from a Fanta bottle as he went and the slushing, splatting mop on the tiles of Centra, Shane neglected to get to the bathroom before darting out the door at finish time for the bus.

Trying not to think about the need to go, he decided he'd concentrate instead on the friends he'd see and wounds he'd try to heal, once at the old stomping ground.

He did look forward to seeing Roddy, Grimes & Moran- his old partners in crime at St. Jude's Secondary- but also worried how they'd see him. Not that they'd scoff at the 38 year old with no wife and no kids who worked in a Centra, but rather that they'd not appreciate how much he'd actually changed. None of the three of them had ever credited Shane with an over-abundance of intelligence but had instead applauded his prowess as the muscle and boogeyman of their group.

Grimes in particular had avoided some well-deserved beatings merely by virtue of his enemies knowing Shane Moss would most likely be round the corner any second, like a dog looking for it's owner.

Shane grimaced to himself, suddenly back in memories from his teens- now not as a participant, but a viewer. And the viewer was so disappointed in that tall kid, getting in trouble with his eejit friends.

In the years since getting clean though, Shane had come to realise his sins weren't always just to please his gurning comrades but that he had been a bad bastard himself. The bus went over a pothole and Shane winced then breathed sharply a few times, trying to redirect his thoughts.

He'd like to see Siobhan Thorpe or Jacinta Mangin again, having perused their social media and seen them both single. His weight, in his late 30s, now practically matched his height but surely a glimmer of the bulldozer he was on the football pitch might still exist in their memory and trigger, in Siobhan's case, a desire to renew past acquaintances or in Jacinta's, explore what could have happened back then.

Maybe those thoughts were too much like the old Shane- the bollix who'd made Andrew Anderson's life a horror show.

On the Facebook event page organised by the school, Andrew had ticked 'Going' and Shane decided that he would use this chance to make amends to the lad.

In the last year or two, Shane's mouse had hovered over the Friend request button but knowing what Andrew's memory of him must've been, he somehow knew to just leave it.

Would a Facebook DM really appropriately cover the level of apology needed? Christ, it would probably only dredge up horrendous feelings for a guy who seemed to be doing well with career and family.

So it would be tonight. A handshake and an explanation between men. Andrew might respect that. A classier, cleverer gentleman than Shane ever was or had every been used to since, Andrew might even be impressed. Imagine if he became a friend. That would be nothing short of redemption.

Another pothole hit.

Shane's hands went instinctively down over his groin as the thoughts of urination returned. So unconscious was he of this, that he failed to noticed the horrified reaction of the lady sat across from him, moving herself closer to the window in fear of the giant man rubbing himself- but trying not to look like she was doing that.

He'd find the nearest hedge from the bus stop, then head to the reunion. Maybe a visit to his Uncle could be fit in tomorrow but that would be hard to say now.

Shane searched his memories of Limebrook's geography, scouting out his guerrilla urinal in his head before a memory was triggered of his Uncle. The memory fluttered in his consciousness for a second and Shane winced again, his eyes shutting hard for a full 2 seconds as he replaced the memory with the new concentration that he'd get a taxi to the reunion and not pee until he was at the school.

Like a gentleman.

. . .

“What kills me,” the chubby realtor yelled over the sound of DJ Ötzi rebounding around the St. Jude's gym, “is that we're expected to pay for it.”

Mark Finnegan had already had a few in this first hour of the reunion and was educating his old friend Andrew from the debate club, about the appalling upkeep of the roads around some country houses that, otherwise, might be quite desirable.

Andrew Anderson didn't mind the shit talk. He hadn't seen this man in 19 years and was delighted by the sheer novelty of seeing him, in this animated mode anyway, now turned into a near-clone of Mr. Finnegan Sr. when he'd caught Andrew and Mark watching the Television X Previews.

2021 Mark wasn't impressing Andrew much. But it didn't matter. Andrew himself had a mild, cosy buzz on.

Halfway through his 2^nd Heineken and enjoying the comradery and reminiscing with his friends, this 'challenge' he'd set himself was going better than he'd thought. Although he'd so far only bumped into 1 of the old faces that had so menaced his youth, he was content that he'd meet them all and depower each one silently in his head as Andrew Anderson, father of two and content editor for a classical music radio station, stood tall in their presence. All 5ft 6 of him anyway.

“Ah man, but that debate club,” Mark said, suddenly slowing down for a second to return to lighter matters. “That was gas craic.”

“It was. Great days. And taught us loads about dealing with people.”

“Like the wives!” Mark blurted out, with a guffaw.

Andrew was struck by how this guy didn't seem like one of their little gang of self-confessed-losers from years ago. There was an unattractive swagger about him, especially when women were mentioned. Earlier, Andrew had felt his skin crawl as there were mentions of being alone with women for house viewings and what Mrs. Finnegan would allow and/or know about. Jesus, Mark.

“Well, obviously not enough for me,” Andrew countered. “Split with my Mrs. 2 years now.”

“Ah shite, Andy. That's desperate.” Mark said, tilting his head and dropping his jaw in an expression of what seemed like genuine disappointment. “Do you see the kids much?”

Andrew noticed an expectant look in Mark's eyes, like he was looking to be teed up for something.

Andrew cautiously replied. “Not as much as I'd like.”

“See, that's why I 'm glad me and Janette don't have kids. I know if she got...”, and with that Mark was off on Planet Mark again.

Andrew nodded along and swirled his beer in his glass, while looking around in the hope someone else would spot him and want to catch up. He saw a tall figure over amongst the old teachers and felt a slight wobble. No, it wasn't Mossy. It seemed doubtful he'd be here, not if there was any truth to what Andrew had heard about how that monster's life had deservedly spiralled downward.

The wobble annoyed Andrew though. That flutter of fear for a second over some lowlife who, along with the brain trust of Roddy, Grimes & Moran, had enjoyed his brief peak as a teenager.

Surely, none of Moss's bullying merited that feeling Andrew just had at having merely thought he'd spotted him. Ultimately, Andrew thought, his pathetic violence and stunts only ever amounted to short-term emotional wounds. Save for the shed incident, maybe.

Mark didn't even notice Andrew's eyes go a bit glassy as his old debate club pal pretended to listen to hm.

Andrew stood on the spot and finished his beer without realising as he recalled Mossy wedging him between the bike shed and the rear wall of the school and forcing him to show his penis to not only that braintrust but to the girls that were with them too.

The joke was Andrew's manhood, you see. Or boyhood back then. Many laughs were had by Roddy, Grimes & Moran at their widely spread suggestion that young Andrew Anderson had no penis. Hilarious stuff that was freshly fuelled almost daily at school. And one day their trained ape propped him up like a doll and made him whip it out to settle the debate.

Somehow, in the years since, with all of his activities- any woman he'd bedded, the son and daughter he'd fathered- occasionally in the back of his mind, during it all, he felt some childlike vindication of manhood. Like being made show it behind the bike shed hadn't been enough, but he'd had to prove it also worked in the 2 decades since. And somehow none of it's accomplishments could stop it now from ever so slightly shrivelling as the chill of the memory touched it.

Mark's shit talk got interrupted as both he and Andrew got engulfed in a friendly pair of arms that slapped them on their backs.

Phil Moran was greeting the 2 guys like they had all been great pals back in school. Andrew straightened his back and wished he had another beer as the conversation began and Missy Elliott got her freak on in the sound waves around them.

Phil now ran his own building providers company in town and had done well for himself. His demeanour was warm and even charming. He was complimentary to Andrew and Mark in what they'd done with their lives since school and even somehow managed to bring up positive memories that they all shared from school without them even being lies.

Moran beckoned the two men over to the temporary bar the school had paid some local catering company to set up in the gym and insisted on buying them shots. As the second Tequila went down and Moran laughed his ass off at his jokes, Andrew was convinced that his 20 years of living, working and growing had turned him into the sort of chap that even his secondary school bullies would warm to.

With that, now officially sliding into the drunken portion of the night, Andrew rested his elbows against the bar and leaned back like a man who'd left a pariah and returned a champion. It was just as he was high on these fumes that he saw Jacinta Mangin across the gym.

St. Jude's was an all boys school but back in Andrew's day, it had temporarily allowed female students, looking to repeat their Leaving Cert, into it's Sixth Year classes. This ended in Andrew's graduating year, due to the sheer mayhem caused, primarily by Siobhan Thorpe, but it lasted long enough for his crush on Jacinta to take hold.

She looked amazing tonight. Her late 30s agreed with her more than anyone else in the room and Andrew couldn't help but find a difference in her movement, in her air. Like a softer, kinder quality.

“My god, I was nuts about her,” Andrew blurted out, without thinking.

“I don't even need to look,” Moran said as he gratefully picked up a pint that Mark slid towards him on the bar. “Jacinta was always some girl, hey.”

“Do ya know, is she married or what, these days?”

“Separated, mate. Go for it.” Moran turned and gave a cheeky, encouraging grin to Andrew.

Ten minutes later, Andrew was storming towards the gents toilets, embarrassed and pissed off. He had just reverted to his 18 year old self in front of Jacinta. She tried to be nice but she also failed to stifle a laugh at his expense. As he pushed open the door to the toilets and made a beeline for the stall so he could hide and take a piss, he tried reminding himself how beating himself up over it and getting angry at the world is exactly the kind of thing an 18 year old would do, that a 38 year old shouldn't. Maybe the kind of thing his ex-wife would've noticed and been repulsed by. She'd been charmed by the boyishness of his crooked teeth that had never known the touch of braces but sadly, that had been the limit of that particular novelty for her.

On this thought, he stopped at the stall door and looked back towards the urinal. Andrew wasn't a teenage victim anymore, nor a timid tinkler. He'd use the urinal.

For a second, Andrew laughed ironically in the empty bathroom as it seemed as though the pee wouldn't come. Then it did and he shook his head with a bemused grin before leaning a forearm against the wall and relaxing over the urinal. That's right, he thought, as the gentle trickling sounded out to his delight, you better work now.

As he heard the main door to the bathroom open loudly, he self-consciously took his arm off the wall and stood straight as the other person took up the stall next to him.

This made Andrew pretty uncomfortable as there was another stall down the other end that this guy could've used. The guy in question filled the right hand side of Andrew's peripheral vision, such was his height and frame. Urinal etiquette and sheer social anxiety both dictated that he not turn to see who it was but the thunderous hosing that the porcelain got- like this guy was pissing with a showerhead on it's most concentrated power spray- did somewhat chill Andrew to his core.

The practically inhuman pissing sound was accompanied by a loud “Aaaaaagggghhhh.......” of relief. It was the kind of involuntary noise only the simplest and least disciplined of people would make in polite society. Then the same voice followed with “Holy shit! Andy!”

. . .

This little fella was steaming. How many had he had?
Shane heard the slur in Andrew's speech as he described how radio jingles would get selected for airtime. Shane tried to pay attention but wished he hadn't gone to shake Andrew's hand at the urinal. The look he'd gotten for that- what a terrible start.

Upon Shane's polite insistence, the pair had since found a table so they could catch up. The high table with no chairs was quickly the home for Andrew's next pint which seemed like a condition for the hang-out to go ahead, so an eager Shane had paid for it.

Andrew leaned both hands on the table for support as Heineken helped him answer all of Shane's questions about his job and family. He seemed happy-go-lucky, which delighted Shane and made it feel like what he had to say might just get brushed aside by Andrew as perhaps welcome but unnecessary.

“...But what about yourself?” Andrew blurted out, seeming to only half-ask the question as he scanned the room and bobbed his head to Teenage Dirtbag.

“Em...retail. Just pluggin' away, ya know yerself.” Shane tried to say without seeming like his answer embarrassed him. “No glamour in it but keeps me honest. Keeps me fed.”.

The word honest had made Andrew look at him for half a second before quickly resuming his gawking around at everything but Shane.

Andrew shifted his weight on the table as he now leaned on it with one hand to grab his pint, little knowing that Shane was keeping his foot on the base of the table's centre leg in case inebriation and imbalance got the better of either man or furniture.

Andrew took a glug of his pint and, seeming to look a bit annoyed at himself, then nodded to the empty patch of table in front of Shane.

“What are ya having, mate?”

Shane smiled at the sudden effort from a man who clearly never called anyone 'mate'.

“I'm grand. I 'll get a wee water in a bit.”

Andrew nodded in an exaggerated fashion, before clearly displaying the look of someone who had run out of things to say and was about to excuse himself. That meant it was time, Shane felt.

“Listen Andy, lad....I am so sorry for how I was.”

Andrew's body language didn't change much, except to resume rocking his head gently to the music. Or nodding again. Shane wasn't sure.

“I was a messed up wee lad and...” As he said this, Shane saw Andrew's eyes widen in almost amused anger and surprise. “Okay, big lad, I suppose. And I was taking out a lot of things on the world.”

Shane's words went unanswered as Andrew seemed to stew. If only Shane had arrived before the drinking was done and spoken to a sober Andrew. This was a mistake.

“You.....” Andrew began to say in a casual tone before staring down at his feet and stiffening his arms against the table. He looked up at Shane. “You were a fucking monster.”

That shouldn't have shocked Shane but it did. There they were. Exactly the feelings and words Shane was worried he'd created in the heart of this young man, coming frothing to the surface. He could see Andrew somewhat embarrassed to be saying what he was saying, but going on with it anyway.

“You did damage, Moss. And I don't care if you were a kid. Yeah...I mean the other lads were bullying little toerags too- Fuck, that Roddy prick would drive around in his Dad's Beemer, egging half of us, and people seem to think the three of them were your...masters or something. But I remember, Moss. I remember the incidents when they weren't there. When there was no audience to impress. When I had the misfortune of crossing your path on the way home from school, or in a corridor, when I'd be on my own and it was done just for your satisfaction.”

“Jesus, lad, I am so sorr...”

“Why me? What about me summoned up so much fucking hatred in you?”

Shane shook his head, looking for words. Looking for the answer Andrew wanted but that he knew he couldn't give. A now genuinely riled-up Andrew leaned forward over the table and Shane put more weight on the base to keep it upright as Andrew followed the question with an interrogative “Hhhm?!”

Shane could see a tremble and a rapidly heaving chest, showing the mix of fear and bravery this anger was cooking up and couldn't help but think, Good for you, lad. I deserve it.

Andrew then let him off the hook for an answer by continuing with the charges in instead-

“Coz it wasn't just 'picking on the nerd'. It was 'hurting the kid'. Even when I literally tried to fight back with niceness, or pay a complim....Remember Castle Harps?!”

Shane was puzzled and had no clue what this was.

“When you scored the brace against them in the semi, I was as happy as anyone in this school.” Andrew explained, almost forcing a little smile of realisation on Shane's face.

“I mean, even though our lot were used to yiz picking us last for 5-a-side in PE- at least when the teachers made yiz even include us, but it was our class that made banners with your fucking name on them. And on the Monday after the match, I made the stupid mistake of congratulating you,” Andrew's voice turned in to a near-hiss now, with every consonant spat and vowel exhaled like fire. “And your only thought was to call me a faggot and next time you made a point of not picking me for 5-a-side, ya told me to go and get my 'glitter and glue'.”

Andrew finished his point and his pint, his eyes glaring intensely at Shane.

Shane nodded soberly and said “You've wanted to say a lot of that for a long time.”

Andrew reared up at the prospect of getting mocked and Shane held up defensive hands as he continued. “No, no. And you're right to. We both needed to hear that out loud, Andy. I actually wanna understand how I made ya feel. I don't think it would be a proper apology unless I know fully what I did. Coz lad, I'm not gonna lie. I've blank spots in a few years of me life.”

“Ah, I'm so glad I can be part of this healing journey with you, Moss.” Andrew scornfully muttered, shaking his head. “...Sake.”

“I didn't even know ya were that into football, to be fair, Andy”

“The fuck do you care?!” Andrew returned before thinking for a second and begrudgingly offering the information Shane was prodding for. “I've always loved football, just can't kick a ball to save my life.”

“Was it the lack of practice from cunts like me leaving ya out?” Shane asked, seeing the loosening up of Andrew's shoulders at this.

“No....no, I'm just dyspraxic.”

A genuinely horrified Shane put his hand over his mouth, “Oh my god, Andy. I'm sorry.”

Andrew stared at him with a furrowed and condescending brow, replying “Dyspraxia doesn't mean whatever you think it means.”

“Oh, thank god,” said Shane, breathing easy. “We should have a kick about, then.”

Andrew gave a scoffing exhalation.

“Nah, there's a ball out at the door of the gym,” Shane explained.

“Fuck off, Moss.”

“Why not?”

“Why would I wanna play football?”

“The craic! And we never got to do it back then.”

“You got to do it plenty.”

“But look lad, you've just said you felt left out in them days so...”

“That's not what I......So two drunk guys kicking a ball in the dark's gonna fix it?”

“I'm not actually......I mean....I just....wouldn't hurt, would it?”

Shane saw Andrew take his hands off the table to steady himself on his feet and for a moment thought the lad might just up and leave. Shane offered one last invite-

“Mon Andy, be grand, just...”.

“Shush,” Andrew said authoritatively. “I'm thinking.”

. . .

The blood had pumped so quickly from Andrew's lip that he thought innards were coming out. What made up the innards of a lip, Andrew didn't know and, perhaps if sober, he might've had a clearer idea of how traumatic lip injuries work but in his current tired and emotional state, he had felt for sure he'd end up entering his 40s with a flappy, empty flesh sack were his upper lip used to be.

He was fumbling essentially blind back into the gym, keeping his head tilted in case the nose was gushing too. He had help of course, but this ape next to him was the one who had just busted his face and was still managing to walk him into things and people in an effort to guide Andrew to the bathroom.

“I'm sorry, Andy! Fuck, I'm so sorry!”

“Ah, you're fucking flying with apologies tonight, aren't you?!”

“Shit....this way, mate.” Shane intoned as he directed him to the left, towards the door of the gents. Head tilted up, but eyes down, Andrew caught a glimpse of Grimes and Moran at the bar. In the quick glimpse, he didn't see Moran's expression but Grimes looked so unimpressed, unsympathetic and ever so slightly amused. Great, there's someone else who thinks Andrew Anderson's the same whiney little string of nothing now that he was in secondary school.

There was a whoosh of wind as the big guy acting as Andrew's eyes(and part of his legs) kicked open the door of the bathroom to guide the injured man in. Shane led him to the sink and said “Tilt your head.”

“I think that's nose bleeds.”

“Is your nose not bleeding?!” Shane asked, clearly trying to play that off as a silver lining.

Shane ran to a stall and unfurled a wad of toilet roll before depositing it on the sink counter.

“I don't know what happened, lad.”

“Ya kicked a football into my fucking skull!”

“I was trying to flip it over ya. Used to do it all the time in school. A chip. Pretty sure I woulda done it to you in PE- ya musta gotten taller, did ya?”

Taking a momentary break from sopping up blood with bog roll, Andrew gave Shane a look to tell him was overdoing it and there went those defensive jazz hands from Shane again and he nodded apologetically.

Staring at the mirror, Andrew lifted the tissue away from his face to see that not only did he still have a top lip, but that all that blood- and there was a lot- had come from a tiny little gash on the inside of the lip. His examination was interrupted as he saw now also reflected the slack-jawed mug of his on-pitch-opponent over his shoulder. Shane grimaced morbidly.

“How'd ya cut it with the ball hittin ya?”

“Crooked front tooth. Acted like a razor.”

Nursing a Jameson with ice, Andrew watched the dying embers of the reunion. It occurred to him an Irish crowd of 30-somethings will tend to party on later than most but still the call of kith and kin will call them home where their teenage counterparts would keep going.

Andrew didn't have that tonight. With his two living with their Mam, he had the freedom of an empty hotel room waiting for him tonight. That made it occur to him about this giant moronic shadow he'd picked up-

“Moss, you staying with your folks tonight?”

“Ah no, they're not around.”

“Shit, I'm sor...”

“No, no, no. Me Uncle still lives in town but nah, I'll be at a hostel. Be grand.” as Shane said this, he reacted to something and Andrew found himself double-taking between Shane and whatever it was he was looking at.

“What?” asked Andrew.

“Jacinta Mangin.”

“Aw, don't remind me.”

“Wha'? Ya not a fan?”

“I was always a fan. But I made an eejit of myself with her earlier on. And that's before she probably saw me coming, in crying about my face.”

“How'd ya make an eejit of yourself?”

“Just shit talk. I swear it was like we were back in school.”

“Ah, she probably found it, whatcha call it, endearin'.”

“Ah, I think she was laughing at me.”

“Now here, lad. You're one of the most successful people in this room, with brains to burn. How could she be laughin' at ya? Go over and give it another go.”

“Absolutely not. Have you not noticed the mound of blood-soaked toilet roll sitting on this barstool beside me? I doubt she wants to shift an open wound!”

“You don't know what she's into. Sure, the lip thing can be your opener. Good funny story.”

“No man, I'm tired and gonna finish this drink and head.”

“I'll get her over here.”

“No, Shane! Jesus.”

“Be grand. I'll just talk to her for ya.”

“And say what? 'Will ya shift me friend?' We're grown men, Shane!”

“She hasn't been talkin' to me. I'll come over for a catch-up and mention in passin'- 'Ja hear what happened to young Andy?' Wait to ya see, check me out. I'll big ya up big time, lad. Mon. Why not? Gimme a good reason why not.”

“Jesus, I'm thinking, okay?”

Shane began to walk over as Andrew was forced to muffle his cries of protest in half-whispers/half-shouts. “Moss...! No..! Fuck's sake...!”

Shane buried his head in his hands in humiliation, then peaked out between the fingers to see Shane over chatting to Jacinta.

To be fair to the guy, he had her all smiles. So perhaps he could get her to come over.

Andrew straightened up a bit and dabbed his fingers on his face to check for blood, in case she was about to look over. This was so embarrassing but Andrew was now also content that it was sort of exciting, maybe a funny story to tell at least. It was a quick switch in attitude which proved to him he really hadn't been as against this teenage-style wing man idea, even when he thought he was.

Whatever Shane was saying, he had Jacinta in stitches. Andrew now noticed Shane point in his direction. Here it comes, he thought. Just under the sounds of Afroman, he could make out Shane's booming voice saying “Member Andy Anderson...?”

Despite this, Jacinta didn't take her eyes off Shane. She grabbed his hand and Shane looked a bit confused. Andrew was confused too, but maybe a little less so, as a familiar feeling slowly came over him.

Andrew watched as Jacinta played with Shane's tie, with Shane still pointing over here, as he looked more and more nervous, before Jacinta finally took a step backwards with a grip on Shane's hand to lead him away.

“Mother,” Andrew said out loud, shaking his head. “Fucker.”

The taxi was going to be a while. Aside from the typical business of a Limebrook night, he was also probably going to have to wait his turn behind a few at the reunion who rang the rank before him. Sat on the curb outside the school, Andrew just hoped it wouldn't be some minibus situation where he'd have to sit amongst a crowd of folks just as drunk as him but much happier. He heard the heavy footsteps come up behind him and knew who it was immediately.

“Are you after ridin' Jacinta Mangin?”

“Nah, nah,” Shane's voice was innocently casual and dismissive.

Shane stepped forward and sat on the curb beside Andrew.

“Just some hand stuff.” Shane said as Andrew dropped his head into his hands.

“I...really can't apologise enough, Andrew.” Shane said, somewhat in disbelief himself.

“Yup! Well, thanks Shane. Thanks for including me in your wee project tonight. Your mission to help me fulfil all my teenage dreams really left a mark.”

“Yeah, I didn't really do gangbusters with it, did I” Shane said, in complete earnestness.

“Is...is it genetic or something?” Andrew asked, holding his hands out as if asking a question of the universe. Shane instinctively looked up, like there was someone there.

“Are you just pre-destined to kick my ass in all areas of life, even when you're trying not to?”

“So, you can see I was trying not to?” asked Shane, encouraged and somewhat missing Andrew's point.

“Yes Shane, I can see you were trying not to. Thing is, I think I could've walked in on yiz and not been scarred. I think I could've had this happen at 18 and not be that affected by it. Coz it's nothing compared to the other stuff.”

Shane shifted uncomfortably in his seated position on the curb, preparing himself for round 2 somewhat. He wished this had gone better ; that he hadn't tried that chip over Andrew's head ; that Shaggy hadn't been singing 'It Wasn't Me' as he was getting the Hand Shandy from Jacinta.

He now felt that all he could do was explain himself.

“I know, bud. I know. I was just hopin' that tonight I could make it up to ya. Genuinely show ya I'm a different man. You're one of a few I've carried a lot of guilt about for a few years. Certain incidents, I think, I only looked back on in the last few years and copped on how.....how awful they were.”

Andrew stared at the ground and asked “Like the bike shed?”

“The bike shed?”

“Utterly taking away my pride and my....fucking manhood in front of your mates and making me display myself like...I don't know what. Do ya remember that?”

Shane nearly shuddered at hearing this.

“I don't, to be honest, lad.” Shane said with a deep shame and sympathy in his voice. “I did shit like that to a few people. Probably you more than most but...I think I thought so little of it at the time that it didn't sink in with me.”

“And on your wee quest tonight, you expected to learn and understand how I felt suffering that shit from you, when you can't even remember doing it to me.”

Taxis were starting to pull up and some of their old classmates were walking past and wishing them good night. Shane politely nodded to them all but didn't even react to the excited shouts of “Goodnight, Councillor Roddy”, content instead to let that shithawk carry on not being in his life anymore.

Andrew sat in still silence, drunk and melancholy, as Shane seemed to take a breath and prepare himself for something. It was a big deep breath, that heaved his chest out. Andrew nearly flinched at this but tried to stay still and show nothing.

“I remember how it felt when my Uncle Frank did shit just like it to me,” Shane finally said, seeing Andrew now look at him from he corner of his eye. “You know I was raised by me Uncle, yeah?”

Shane took a good look at Andrew now to read his reaction but couldn't.

“No, I didn't know that, Shane.”

“Yeah,” Shane was nearly whispering and his eyes moved away from Andrew, away from this spot outside their old school and off somewhere else. “Nothing that'd get him locked up or anything...I think. But not a gentleman, by any means. He just didn't have parentin' in him. I think these days a kid like me would be diagnosed with something. But back then, adults...adults like Frank at least, they only knew to beat it or humiliate it outta ya.”

Both men were now silent before Shane snapped around to follow up on this with “That's not an excuse now, Andrew.”

This time, he could read the expression. Andrew had sympathy in his eyes.

“I know it's not an excuse, mate,” Andrew said like someone who'd been using the word 'mate' his whole life. “But it's a pretty solid explanation.”

. . .

“It's just so embarrassing, Dad.”

Andrew's 9 year old, Denise, was looking at her 39 year old Dad wearing a set of braces on his teeth. “Even I don't wear braces.”

“Hey, be nice. It's better late than never,” he told the kid, dismissing her protests as hopefully not being that genuine.

Denise got up from the living room couch in her Dad's flat and headed through to the kitchen where her little brother was doing his homework. Andrew could hear the pair of them continuing their appraisal of their Dad's new look as he sat back on the couch and hired the volume on Sky Sports.

Jeff Stelling's score updates were short-lived however, as Andrew's phone went off.

An unrecognized number, Andrew muted the TV and then answered with a cautious “Hello, who's calling?”

“Andrew, lad,” came the booming voice on the other end.

“Yes...?” Andrew asked, not quite placing who it was.

“It's Shane. Shane Moss.....from school.”

“Oh! Jesus, Shane. How's things? Didn't know ya had my number.”

“Yiv it in your details on Facebook, lad.”

“Have I? Fuck.”

“Here Andrew, fancy goin' to the Boh's match?”

“Oh, that's right. I forgot you're near there. Emmm...no though, Shane. I've the kids for the weekend. So I won't be about.”

“Ah, it's a Monday night game though, buddy.”

“Oh...well.....”

“Come on....”

“Em....”

“Mon da fuck, what's stoppin' ya?”

“Hey....I'm thinking, okay?”

. . . .

THE 'SUPERMAN IV' COMIC THAT'S BETTER THAN THE MOVIE

Superman IV: The Quest For Peace seems to have been generally regarded as the worst superhero movie ever, until 1997 when Warner Bros. and DC had a double whammy with Batman & Robin and Steel.  (Though, perhaps those two even lost their positions at the top of the stink pile to 2004’s Catwoman.)

The Quest For Peace certainly merits it’s unwanted membership in this group of movies that DC would rather forget.

It is pretty poor- a hodgepodge of well-meaning but ultimately ill-fitting anti-nuke rhetoric and the worst bits of camp humour from the school of Richard Lester, churned out on a fraction of the budget of any of the previous entries in the series. The movie throws away any semblance of verisimilitude in the Superman mythology and bestows upon the Man of Steel abilities that make the audience laugh and roll their eyes in equal measure.

So, say you’re a Superman completist, annoyed at the missed opportunity represented by Quest For Peace, but still intrigued by exploring this misguided entry in the series a little more.  Well, there’s a comic book I’d recommend.

The official DC adaptation of the movie sees legendary Superman artist Curt Swan illustrate a comic written by Bob Rozakis.  I recommend this comic to any Superman fan in general, though not for the usual reasons. If you’re expecting a post-John Byrne or Grant Morrison style Supes, then I wouldn’t hold my breath as this comic absolutely follows the plot of a bad movie.  However, there’s 2 things it does which make it a lovely little novelty and well worth a look.

Firstly, Swan sticks with his own style of pencilling our old friend in the red cape, ignoring any likenesses of Christopher Reeve, Mariel Hemingway and indeed, eh-hem, Jon Cryer(this differentiates this work from the Denny O’Neil-penned Batman adaptations of the 90s, which featured art that faithfully captured the look of the films, nipples and all).  Only the requisite costume design for Nuclear Man survives from the imagery of the movie and if one were to quickly flick through this comic’s pages, it could easily be mistaken for just another 70s or 80s edition to the Superman comic book canon(or perhaps even earlier, as Swan’s style was already looking slightly dated).
Secondly, as with many novelisations, computer games or comics adapted from a movie script, the original screenplay is tweaked here for the purposes of entering a different medium, meaning Rozakis was able to make a lot more sense of the film’s more ridiculous moments.

It’s a short comic, owing to it's basically existing as a tool to get kids to see the live-action version, and therefore a little more accessible than the movie.  Things that don’t work when enacted with low-budget 80s optical effects or when uttered from the mouths of otherwise respectable actors, tend to work much better here on the brightly-coloured pages of a comic book.

We don’t blink an eyelid at the dumbed-down escape of Lex Luther from a prison quarry here because, well, it feels like an old-school comic from a more innocent time- which is probably why it helps to forget that this comic is from the not-so-innocent 1987.

A Lex Luthor, clearly written for Gene Hackman’s unique take on the character, can be interpreted differently because, we don’t hear Hackman’s raspy comedic delivery and so the voice coming from this man’s mouth could easily be Clancy Brown’s or Kevin Spacey’s.  And as for his appearance, we have a compromise of a Luthor that doesn’t look like Hackman, but also isn’t depicted as totally bald, as he features the red hair that’s occasionally been bestowed to him by artists intermittently through the decades.

Bob Rozakis and Curt Swan sort of put the filmmakers to shame with their comic adaptation for, whilst some of the film’s snappier and even playfully risque dialogue is missing in Rozakis’s version, he does rewrite much of it into a clearer, more logical narrative, which in turn is illustrated by Swan in a manner that leaves few questions asked.

Much of this is aided by the re-incorporation of deleted scenes, whose omission from the film contribute to it’s occasionally confusing plot.  So, amongst other things, we get to see the sort of proto-Bizarro character who was played in the excised footage by Casualty and Game of Thrones actor Clive Mantle.

So many of the movie’s more foolish moments are either improved, explained away or just flat-out removed here to honestly create something that’s much easier to take seriously.

The nonsense of Mariel Hemingway flying through space, without suffocating or having the blood vessels in her lovely face just rupture all over Nuclear Man, is gladly gone.

In fact, when a human does get brought out into space, it’s young Jeremy, the kid whose letter to Superman got the plot rolling and yet, in

the film, falls into a narrative black hole, his character being completely forgotten about.  And yes, in the comic, Jeremy is in a space suit.

Remember one of the film’s most insane moments, when Superman rebuilds the Great Wall of China with…um…well, by looking at it?  Yeah, well here he uses his super speed to rebuild it brick-by-brick.  Far less crazy an idea and it’s in keeping with Supes’ established powers.

And then there’s Nuclear Man’s powers, amongst which is his ability to be born wearing an ultra-80s super suit.  The film briefly touches on a ludicrous explanation for this.  The tiny little container that Lex’s Superman-clone-jelly-shit is kept in for it’s voyage into space apparently has a costume-weaving computer in it.  I must admit that this idea tickles me, but it’s just dumb.

Swan depicts Nuclear Man coming into existence, rather more believably, naked.  After which, he is presented with a costume by Lex Luthor and Lenny.

In this same scene, it’s noted that Nuclear Man knew to come to Lex’s lair due to genetic memory inherited from the Bizarro-like creature that was created earlier, thereby explaining away another plot-hole of the movie, albeit stretching our suspension of disbelief to the limits.

This comic demonstrates how a fresh set of eyes can help improve, if only slightly, a work that has previously lost it’s way.  Examples of similar improvements go back as far as Fantastic Voyage, which had it’s novelisation penned by none other than the great Isaac Asimov.  In hiring a giant of high-end science fiction to write a version of a sci-fi flick that plays pretty fast and loose with the realms of scientific plausibility, they should have expected considerable changes to the story.  Coz they got them.

The Fantastic Voyage novel delves into detail about the possibilites of ‘shrinking’ that had naturally been overlooked by the movie, pain-stakingly examining the reaction of shrunken matter to both light and even the perception of time.  Asimov also completely changed the ending to one he found more plausible.

I wonder what other adaptations are out there.  What other cinematic offerings have gotten re-interpreted in other media with results that shine a light on the failings of the source material?

All this said, I don’t personally believe Superman IV: The Quest For Peace, is utterly devoid of positive factors.  It’s great seeing Hackman back as Lex Luthor, and indeed almost worth the admission price to see his fun, villainous rapport with Reeve one last time.
And, whilst perhaps belonging in another movie, the messages about nuclear warfare and the transformation of noble newspapers into corporate entities certainly have their heart in the right place.

Also, how many other movies show us Superman flying around Milton Keynes?

DC COMICS & THE WORLD OF REBOOTS: Just Make A Better Sequel

These days, it seems Hollywood studios must have a red button in their boardrooms that’s labelled ‘Reboot’.  At the first sign that a movie from a potential or even established franchise performs below the studio’s expectations(which these days means nothing short of opening weekend record breakage on a global scale), then that big old red button gets a corporate fist slammed down on it.  Panic!  Run away!  Re-cast!  Hire David Goyer!  Do something!

            Because, clearly, if a movie isn’t quite what every single human being on the planet wanted, then the only possible way to manage any future property dealing with the same material is to completely scrap it and start all over.  Effectively pissing away all that money you spent on the original in the first place.

This is a relatively recent phenomenon and an unsettling one.  Had this philosophy been in practice when Star Trek: The Motion Picture was released, then we would never have gotten Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, one of the most successful and well-regarded sequels of all time.

ORIGINALS ARE DEAD: Sequels. Remember those?

The Motion Picture was received poorly by critics and even amongst many disappointed fans who had shelved out the cash for their cinema tickets.  However, it made enough money so that the filmmakers could go ahead and make another one.  Taking on board complaints about the previous movie, they went and made it’s follow-up more fitting with what hungry Trekkies had really wanted in those wilderness years between the cancellation of their beloved show and the franchise’s ressurection on the big screen.

Khan’s producers didn’t panic and start all over again, effectively remaking Motion Picture.  They didn’t decide that, because Motion Picture didn’t quite nail it, that it’s very existence would hurt any future Trek outings.  No.  The Wrath of Khan has the Roman numeral II in it’s title, suggesting they weren’t pretending the previous Enterprise adventure had never happened.
They didn’t freak out.  They just learned from mistakes and made the next one better.

Imagine a world where this still happened regularly- a world where Tom Jane got another official shot from Marvel at punishing the shit out of criminal scum and where we didn’t need to see Uncle Ben’s murder occur twice in 10 years, under vaguely different circumstances.

It is warranted occasionally, of course, where the first attempt at bringing material to the screen has failed so obviously that there is clearly nowhere to go with that same continuity.  And if there has been a fairly significant amount of time passed since the last movie, wherein the very movie culture itself has changed enough that the material can stand a new approach filtered through an updated lens.  The movie Dredd fits both of these criteria, being a film that was very justified in it’s completely evident separation from 1995’s Judge Dredd.

DREDD: When reboots are necessary.

But perhaps, where this approach of completely scrapping continuity from a film that slightly underperformed is at it's most misguided is in the DC universe and their treatment of the Green Lantern character.

Their rebooting of Batman from Bale to Batfleck grew from a mix of Bale not wanting to continue in the role and the fact that Nolan’s universe doesn’t quite lend itself to the fantastic, thereby making it’s interaction with a world of flying Kryptonians and cybernetically enhanced high school football players, fairly jarring and unworkable.  All this means that we can understand DC’s recasting of the Dark Knight and indeed have it feel not drastically different from when Kilmer replaced Keaton.

But it’s the apparent dismissal of DC’s 2011 movie, Green Lantern, that is just flat-out foolish.  No matter what one thinks about the only movie outing of the emerald guardian, it is nevertheless a movie that establishes the character, providing a bit of groundwork already done and dusted for a potential Justice League movie.  And yet, it seems as though this movie is not to be included in the new continuity established by Man of Steel.

Good grief, DC.  Why not let Green Lantern be your Star Trek: The Motion Picture?  Learn from it’s mistakes(amongst which, I don’t think anyone would include the casting of Ryan Reynolds as Hal Jordan), and go make a better follow-up.  Why throw away the work that was put into that movie?  Lose the CGI suit and design him a physical costume maybe, but at least get something from it.

DOES THE JOB: Reynolds as Green Lantern

If indeed, they go to the extreme of not only scrapping Ryan Reynolds as Jordan, but actually scrapping Jordan altogether in favour of another Green Lantern, they’ll have done two things incredibly wrong.

One- they’ll be completely disregarding DC canon by establishing the Justice League without one of it’s true founding members, namely the original silver age Lantern, Hal Jordan.

And Two- they’ll have just wasted an entire movie, it’s multi-million dollar budget and a decent bit of casting.

Don’t be stupid, guys.  Get Mr. Reynolds on the phone.

Otherwise, face the reality of Kevin Feige and Joss Whedon laughing at you chasing your own tails, well into the future.

SAMEY MOVIE COVERS #1

Today- flags, moths and stitches.

MONSTER MADNESS PREDICTION

Having revealed my James Rolfe fandom in the last post, I just wanted to share a little prediction about this year's Monster Madness season of reviews, so as to have written proof in case I'm right! Coz.....ya know, I love this shit.
After the last of the Gamera reviews goes out tomorrow (Sat, 19th), there will be 11 days left of Monster Madness 2013.  I predict these 11 days will consist of the Child's Play franchise and the Alien franchise, with Prometheus and the AVP flicks squeezed into 1 review.
There. Now, if only Ladbrokes or Boylesports took money on this shit.