Skele-Tor, Eternian Witchdoctor! (Art + Story)

Superhero Costume Coalition put out the call a few weeks ago to redesign Skeletor, He-Man's iconic archenemy. I'm not nearly the artist as the other contributors, but I decided to try my hand. I give you...


Skele-Tor, Eternian Witchdoctor!

Transported through time from the dim past, this tribal witchdoctor brings with him the primal dark, black magic so potent that it requires King Randor and his council to summon an ancient warrior spirit - via a magical sword - to wage bloody combat for Eternia's very survival!




I so enjoyed the concept, that I decided to write a prose piece on it....


"The Bone-Man"


The watch commander looked out over the purple Eternian twilight. Night had once more struck the land, though it hardly mattered. On of three moons already rode high, its surface full of the twinkling lights of industry. When the second crested the horizon, the bare darkness of early evening would fade to a dream.

There were no threats beyond the royal palace walls, or the city gates or the endless miles of agroplots. Orbital-1 had communicated no skirmishes for months; the mutants were quiet, their irregular empire concerned with a threat on the other side of the galaxy.

Terrestrial rebellions continued to crop up on the planet's far side, though, frustrating the King's new general. Though only a few dozen men or robots strong, truly a policing nuisance, it marred the image of Eternia as the Peaceful Realm, the Kingdom Beyond Strife. The Randorian Concord, forged over two centuries ago by the first of the King's line, held the nobles together in common bonds of defense, economy and prosperity.

What could there possibly be to rebel against in such a utopia?

Unstrapping his monocular, the commander swept through squares and neighborhoods and rooftops in the vicinity of the palace. Several score watch-guards patrolled the streets and more kept vigil on the wall with him. Lounged, really. He had not drawn his pistol in service once - ten years. The charge was still good, and his ceremonial short sword poked over his right shoulder.

But who could use a sword any more, or have need of it. With expanding wristguard electro-shields able to block the full body, it would take a heavy rifle volley to hit a half-way decent soldier.

"Aye there, scout, eyes up." He strolled over to his nearest runner and lightly rapped his chest. "What if I need you to dart inward to Chambers?"

Smiling, the scout stood straighter. "Should you want a report sent to the king on your recent losing streak at runes, I will happily trot off."

"Insubordination. Insubordination!" Both men laughed. It was true, but rank held little effect for soldiers without war or enemy. "I'll send you to the Fist if you keep that up-"

A shrieking stole the words from his mouth and all eyes on the wall turned to the inner courtyard and the blazing light erupting from between the paving stones. The air shimmered with intense heat and the ground began to melt outward, sinking to a white-hot pit.

"Call the marshall of the fireguard and notify him." The scout ran across the wall to a distant tower. "You three, come with me." The watch commander hustled over to a staircase and the four quickly made it as close as possible. The heat was incredible.

With an almightly bang, the light surged one last time and spiral of blue flame spun in the air a the center of the maelstrom. And then it stopped. Smoke obscured the put, but the glowing stones cooled as if smothered by ice water.

The commander approached, fumbling his pistol out and cursing the embarrasment. He slipped a little, the burned stones crumbling to ash under his boots.

One of his soldiers spoke up. "Sir, I think I see something in the midst of the smoke."

"Carefully, lads. It could be a mutant trick. Some burrowing robot or worse, a bomb."

Distant voices - the fireguard, no doubt - rose behind them. Each step was filled with dread. Quiet so long, the mutant may be making another try for the King's head. Some thought it was only his presence, and the legacy he instilled, the kept the younger nobility from seeking greater privilege and status over the commoners.

A great wind picked up the smoke and scattered it into the night. The courtyard cleared and at the center of a ten-foot-wide pit, there curled a half-naked man. He clutched a tube or club in one hand. His skin was pale, dirtied by ash, but unburnt.

"Gannus, summon the gate tower medic and notify the Watch-captains to tighten patrols. And you, Orlan?, to the Kingwatch. Let them know of this oddity." The young men ran off on their errands.

"Who is he, Commander?" It was not his old bunkmate Tir speaking, but a bewildered subordinate. A lesser, looking for guidance.

The commander knelt down and rolled the man onto his back. There were strange markings about his face and torso, paint or tattoos. A necklace of bird feathers hung limply, and was that an eye pierced and dangled from around his neck? It was as big as a fist. He had no shirt, pants, boots or gloves, just a thick fur belt and a flaps - with more stiched-in eyes at the bottom - of leather concealing his person. Bunched feathers wrapped his shins and....

"Bones...," the commander said. "There are bones littered all about him. He looks like a-a caveman witchdoctor."

Tir grunted. "Or a carnival dancer." He opened his mouth to say more...but then had no mouth or head. It vanished in a burst of fire, leaving his corpse to fall headless, smoking trailing.

"But the Vanished Gods!" The commander stumbled back from the bone-man, the witchdoctor, and activated his shield. A metal bracket sprang out from his gauntlet and expanded to a two-foot diameter circle of yellowish, crackling energy.

"Stay down, murderer!" He pointed his pistol from behind the shield. The bone-man's eyes were fixed on him - had they been open this whole time? - and thickly-tattooed lips began moving in murmur and chant.

Sparks danced along the bone-man's arm to the club in his hand. No, not a club - a massive legbone with ram's skull tied at the end. The skull's eyes took in the sparks. The bone-man rose and with a gesture sent a gout of light into the shield, overloading it.

No fool, the commander loosed a dozen shots from his pistol as he retreated toward a mass of astonished onlookers. Not one laser bolt hit. They pitted the ground around the bone-man's feet, kicking up puffs of ash.

The bone-man was please with this, and he waved the skull-club around, twirling the ash into grey column tall as his shoulder. With his free hand, the man from the pit grasped the ash and threw it like a spear at the watch commander.

What could he expect, this soldier of high science and technology. He flew to home at night in a car powered by fused atoms. Food came from hydropod farms on the third moon. In his hand was a gun that fired focused light with devestating effect.

The ash spear hit- and disintegrated around him, covering him in a layer of burned stone. Nothing happened, he thought, it was an illusion.

But then his skin started to itch and his clothes grew hot. Groaning, his thin plates of armor began to expand as if heated....

The watch commander burst into flame and ran towards the gate, screaming and screaming. He must've been dead already, the energy to move powered by residual fear so powerful it could animate a corpse.

The body collapsed and the remaining watch-guards and fireguard stood as stone, eyes moving between their dead comrades and the figure standing amidst the ruined courtyard.

The bone-man started to laugh at them. He whooped and swung his skull-club about him and stomped hard on the ash and bones at his feet, again and again until the skittered of their own accord and rose up in the air to form an archway.

Cackling now the bone-man paused long enough to spit through the arch of bone and ash. The air buckled inside and rippled with blue-fire. He stepped into it-

And was gone. The bones fell to the ground. The ash drifted. The courtyard was quiet.

The watch commander had been right. There were no threats beyond the agroplots or city gates, or beyond the high walls of the royal palace. But there had been, long ago.

And one was back.



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Here are some other early versions and abandoned concepts (The Skel, a street tough; Byron "The Amazing Skeletor" Keldor, a stage magician):

  

Read on, faithful few!

The Colorado Option: John, Part 1

The Colorado Option: hard-boiled, low down, dirty stories of broken men, last-ditch efforts and guttered-out dreams. This is one of those stories...

John, Part 1 by Hooper McFinney

Note: Contains adult content.

***

Dreams stumbled away, and last night's revelry took their place. Last night....

It was the only thing that kept him going.

The rain battered the window and leaked in around the frame, puddling under the sill. An idle hand slapped him awake, and a voice screeched for money, where was her money. They were all the same, he thought for the hundredth time.

Eyes stuck shut with sleep and debauchery, he reached over and fumbled on the nightstand for his wallet. He pulled out a fifty. At least, he hoped it was a fifty. Didn't matter - his was an endless well of wadded up bills.

"Here, take it." At least, he meant to say that. "Huh, tuk ih" oozed out instead from between cracked, bleeding lips. Hell of a way to start a morning.

Father John found the handcuff key, undid himself and got ready for mass.

~To be continued~

Read on, faithful few!

The Colorado Option: Fool Me Once...

The Colorado Option: hard-boiled, low down, dirty stories of broken men, last-ditch efforts and guttered-out dreams. This is one of those stories...

Fool Me Once... by Buck Spidero

Warning: This depraved tale contains content intended for mature audiences.

***

I reclined in the driver’s seat of my ancient Impala. The neon sign across the street mocked me with its cheerfulness: Flagstaff Arms Apartments. It made me want to puke. I downed the last of the fifth of whiskey I’d picked up. It dulled the pain, but didn’t kill it. It still lurked inside; an itch I couldn’t scratch. Where was he?


Headlights cast a better light on the building as Rasdower’s Buick pulled into the lot. It definitely cracked my top five shittiest flophouses. I watched him walk to the front door from the street. After he was inside, I pulled into the parking lot and backed into a space a couple of doors down.

I wanted the car facing out in case I had to make a quick exit.

I took the elevator up to Rasdower’s floor. Should have taken the stairs, you broken-down, out-of-shape old man. I found his door and gave it a once-over. Not nearly as sturdy as something in a newer building, though newer buildings tend to not smell like piss. I briefly considered knocking before deciding to just kick it in. It didn’t put up much of a fight. One good kick and it flew open. I gave the room a quick look.

Empty.

Then, from the bathroom, a muffled “What the hell?”

I smiled as I headed for the hallway. Rasdower came out still pulling his pants up, and I slammed him against the doorframe, my forearm pressing against his throat.

“Spidero!” He sputtered, gasping for air. “What the fuck is this?”

I loosened my arm a bit. “Sorry, Rasdower. Couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d stop by for a chat.”

He took a swing at my head. I saw it coming but still caught part of it. Before he could take another I kneed him in the groin, followed by a punch to his kidney. He started to go down, and I turned him around, bending him over the sink. He kept struggling until I put my .38 special to the back of his head.

“I know what you did to Mary, Rasdower. Mary. That angel. Why did she have to suffer like that? We all know.”

“What’s it to you?”

I pressed the gun harder. Just get it over with. “Explain why I shouldn’t just kill you right now.”

“Fuck you!”

I cocked the hammer back. Shoot him! “Wrong answer.”

“You won’t do it. You don’t have the balls. Cops’ll be all over you.”

“They can try. I don’t exist in half the states in this country.”

“You won’t do it.”

I kicked his feet out from under him. His chin cracked on the cheap porcelain and he went down in a heap. I put the gun to his head again. “Let’s try this one more time. Were you going to cut and run once you screwed me over? Were you going to try what you tried in St. Louis?”

He coughed and spat out a tooth. “It’s not like that. Besides, you need me. You know what I can do, and you don’t have the time to find someone else.”

The problem was, the bastard was right. “You try to run, and you won’t make it fifty feet.” I slammed the gun into the side of his head, knocking him out.

I stood up and walked out of the apartment. The hallway was quiet; it didn’t seem like anyone was reacting to the scuffle. I took the stairs down, slowly, trying to calm my shattered nerves. Why do you do these things? Why do you hurt people like this? I made it outside before I started dry-heaving. Took a few deep breaths of the Arizona air and took out my phone. I dialed McFinney.

“Yeah?”

“Hoop, it’s Buck. Rasdower’s going to play ball”

"Glad to hear it. See you at the rendezvous.”

I hung up and headed for my car. Rasdower said he wouldn’t try anything, and after what I’d just put him through, I doubted he would. He'd come through. We wouldn't end up like Mary, who got a pager and her name on a clipboard. We weren't going to go out like that. The next time we dined at the Flagstaff Bar & Grille, we wouldn’t have to wait for a table.

Read on, faithful few!

The Colorado Option: The Black-Eyed Demon

The Colorado Option: hard-boiled, low down, dirty stories of broken men, last-ditch efforts and guttered-out dreams. This is one of those stories...

The Black-Eyed Demon by Hooper McFinney

***

My beeper chirps through my hangover, and I know the day is ruined. It's an emergency notification: the monkey got out of the cage. God dammit. Why can't they tell you anything straightforward?

I slap a razor across my face to look respectable for the staff. You can hide a stench with some cologne and your broken shell of a body with a tweed coat, but the eyes. My eyes. Twin drill bits of grey-blue loss, boring into your soul.

You can't cover the mire at the heart of you with a pair of Ray-Bans.

Cinching up my tie, I hear the phone ring, a jarring bray that repeats and repeats until I give in and grumble something short of a curse.

"4987 Palm Sway Drive. SOC's already there." It's the familiar voice, the same one I've been slugging back booze with since before the days when I needed drink to make it through. To breathe.

"Who's on point?"

A laugh, like a coughing dog. "Who else? Rasdower."

I hang up the phone and hurricane out to the car, holstering the gun I ache to fire one last time, a single shot to find vengeance. It's for another day, one long coming and longer off. It's hard to kill a dead man twice.

But someday...I'm gonna try.

***

Blasting through the reds, I make it to the building, ground zero of this cockeyed venture.

"Ted, c'mere." Slamming my car door, I wave that walking slur, old Ted "Buckshot" Spidero, from the front door. He's got his uniform on, as crisp as a used condom. I smell gin. "What's it look like?"

"****ing staff are near gone-" he stumbles over the curb and recovers with a drunkard's grace. "Rasdower's waiting." He lurches, maybe throwing up a little in his mouth. Bringing up what, last night's liquid dinner? His pride?

His soul?

"Hell of a tie, McFinney," he sneers.

Spidero. He'll never get it.

We push through the slack-faced gapers and into the building. The walls - even here - are a mess, stains drying to that dull brown I know so well.

I'd seen a mess like this before. Zaire, back in '42. Ugly mother. Never thought I'd face the black-eyed demon again, not on my shores. Not on my watch. We built a cage, a four-by-four box of iron pride and bars of hubris. What wretched people we were. Not to suspect- but no. Regret is for those who have time.

And there's no time in Hell.

Hulking over some pointy-nosed pencil pusher is Rasdower. If a side of beef mounted a cement mixer, you might get Rasdower. Then again, you could end up with my second wife.

"You in charge?" I pull out a 100 and light it up. Pointy-nose scowls.

"Yes, I'm Mr. McGann and would you please extinguish that filth?" I chuckle as I stub the cigarette out in the muck underfoot. McGann grunts like a put-out tabby. "We don't know if he's still here, but we need to make this all go away before it gets out."

Creaking lower to the floor on knees that struggle with a handicap ramp, I examine the horror left behind by our target. The familiar whirls, the splatter's trajectory, the footprints...memories of Zaire come rushing back. I don't want to believe it. I saw him go down. Put him in that inhuman casket with my own two hands and we - all of us - brought it here. And for what? Our amusement. Nothing could come back from that.

"It's Johnny again, isn't it." Spidero's breathing heavier, checking his kit, making double-sure no surprise goes unanswered.

I push McGann behind me. Something - a scream? - echoes in the vents. "Get outside. Seal this place down." I hand him my jacket; where we're going, it can only get messy.

McGann hesitates.

"Man, are you dumb? Go!" He turns and squeaks his way to the door, slipping just once. With him out, I light another cigarette. Pull hard on the tar and tobacco and chemical trash. Get a little of that fire in me. I cough and blink back tears.

'Buckshot' hikes up his drooping, soiled pants. "Can't believe it. No ****ing way he's still kickin'. ****. Double ****." Spidero reaches into a pocket and pulls out a gun, checking the cartridges. Rasdower and I do the same, and we move on to face down the thunder.

Damn you, Johnny Two-Hawks. This ends today.

***

Two hours later and we're hip-deep in funk. The futility gets to Rasdower first. He kicks an empty can of paint across the utility room floor.

"He's not here, McFinney!" Over the rhythmic whump whump whump of the machinery, I can barely hear Rasdower's voice. "This mess - this damn crusade of yours - none of it's worth it. This is my last time cleaning up with you two. I'm going upstairs and getting out of here. You lunatics can handle-" He stops, cocking his head.

Spidero's face goes ashen and he raises a finger so grimy, so fouled that it looks like a well-chomped on cigar. "Over...**** ****-**** in my ****ing ***...over there."

I look to where he's pointing, a far shadowed corner of the room. The furnace. Tons of outdated iron works and tubing L.A.-hot to the touch. And beneath a low return, its vent clawed open, is Johnny.

Two pistols whip up quicker than a schoolboy at a strip club and we shoot our loads right at those soulless, animal eyes. The steel-jacketed rounds go high, our quarry ducking and scampering behind the bulk of the fiery heater.

Peaking around, he spots us and I can see his hand come up. He fires. Crying out, Rasdower goes down.

"Ted, dammit, circle round - cut him off. I'll try to help..." But my voice trails off as I see Rasdower rolling on the ground, moaning and clutching his face. It's his last time with us after all. Broken and beaten. No way for this man to go down, even if he lost the Roosevelt contract.

Faintly, I hear Ted yelling out a chain of profanity that winds to the ceiling and beyond, a tirade fit for Bacchus at his lowest. It ends with a crash and a thump.

Gripping my gun tighter, I realize it won't be enough. Not against Johnny. It took ten of us to corral him in Zaire. Ten men, two gone now. One never recovered. Boors, his name was Boors, and he has a daughter. Cute little chip of his wife. Well girlie, daddy ain't hugging you no more, not after Two-Hawks. And thinking of that drop of sunshine turned to rain I can't contain my rage. Hefting Rasdower's gun, I make sure one's in the chamber and make my move.

Shouting like the beasts of the jungle, a language Johnny can understand, I charge for the furnace, dodging another onslaught, passing Spidero's prone form on the ground, a broken crate lying around his head and a weighted net in his hand

"Johnny! Johnnyyyyy!!!" I dive forward, rolling under that open return vent and there he is. Staring at me. He smiles wide and slaps me hard across the face, drawing blood.

"This is for Mary, you son of a bitch!" I let loose with both barrels, each shot finding its way into Johnny's chest.

For a minute, seeing him stumble around, I almost feel sad. He knocks the tranquilizer darts off his chest, but the damage is done. He slumps to a knee, those powerful, hairy arms keeping him upright. One last time he pierces me with those eyes.

"Oo Oo Oo," he croaks. And then he's down, unconscious.

As I drag him back to the stairs I toe Spidero in the gut.

"We got him, Ted." There are tears streaming down my face. "We got that damn dirty little ape."

Rasdower's sitting up as I pass him, wiping feces off his face. And seeing Johnny Two-Hawks...he claps. The son of a bitch claps.

I've never been prouder to be a janitor for the Scholastic Organization of Cleaners than I am now. It was tough enough bagging this zoo escapee in Zaire, Florida, a few years back. I thought I'd killed the joy in him, saw that spark of enthusiasm die in his eyes as I stabbed the tranq dart into his neck and stuffed him in his cage.

I can see it will never be over, though, not for the two of us. The dance will continue, maybe not at this elementary school where he lives as mascot. Maybe it'll be out there in the neighborhoods of West Palm Beach or Jupiter or Orlando.

I am order to his chaos. Our fates our intertwined. But that's all for another day.

Now, I've got some monkey shit to clean up.


~Fin~



But wait - there's more! McFinney, Spidero, Rasdower and the rest will return in...The Colorado Option: Fresno Promises!

Read on, faithful few!