Peter David's Blog, page 70

Is everyone okay?

I don’t know where most of you live, plus I have no idea if any of you decided to run in the Boston Marathon. So feel free to use this space to sound off that you’re okay.

PAD

Tales from Direct Sales

Originally published August 7, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1290

Reading that Diamond Comics was going to be endeavoring to implement a “street date” program certainly brought back a lot of memories. Several lifetimes ago, I worked in the direct sales department at Marvel Comics, and street dates were just one of the many issues and items that came up during the five years that I worked first as assistant sales manager and then sales manager, alongside (well, actually a few steps behind) the late, lamented Carol Kalish.

“Street dates” were hotly debated and generally felt to be unenforceable at the time for a couple of reasons that no longer apply: First, that various distributors in competition with one another might not adhere to the required dates, and second, that assorted retailers who were racing to get the new titles out first and fastest would undercut each other. However, nowadays there’s only one direct distributor for the major companies, and there’s a lot fewer retailers. Competitive situations can still exist, but Diamond is in a far greater position to control it.

Marvel Comics had specified street dates, even back when I was there. The street dates were noted as being several weeks after the ship dates, to coincide with the expected release dates of the titles on the newsstands serviced by the much slower Independent Distributors (ID’s) who supplied comics to 7-11s, mom and pop stores, etc. No one in the direct market paid attention to it, and frankly, no one at Marvel cared.

Except one time.

Marvel was publishing the adaptation of Return of the Jedi. The street date, as listed, would have coincided with the release of the movie. The retailers, however, put the books out as soon as they had them in their hot little hands, several weeks before the film was to hit the screens. Mark Hamill, a New York resident at the time, happened by his local comic shop and discovered that the adaptation was out and long-awaited answers to top-secret questions were suddenly available for public consumption. Understand, Lucasfilm was super-paranoid about keeping a lid on things. Key pages, such as Obi-Wan’s revealing to Luke who “the other” was (as if, I’m sorry, it wasn’t screamingly obvious by the end of The Empire Strikes Back) even had fake word balloons at early stages of production. So Mark thought that George Lucas might be interested in knowing that–in those pre-X-Files days–the truth was, nonetheless, out there.

Lucas was interested, all right. To be specific, Lucas went ballistic, and the fallout hit the direct sales department in a manner vaguely reminiscent of the climax of Bambi vs. Godzilla, and you can take a guess who Godzilla was.

We made frantic phone calls to all the distributors, trying to stop anyone who had not yet distributed the comic from doing so and telling them to “recall” any that were already out. The subtext of the conversations was quite clear: Not for one microsecond did we expect anyone to do what we were asking, and they knew it. It was a matter of fading ten yards and passing the buck. Lucas was on the warpath and our official take was, “Hey… don’t blame us. We have an established street date.” Not that anyone had paid attention to it before, but that was our story and we were sticking to it.

Not only that, but Carol sent me out on a mission. We couldn’t do anything about every other city in the country, but we could at least try to clean up our own back yard. It was the single most bizarre mission I had ever engaged upon during my tenure to that point… and possibly even after. I went around to every comic book shop that I knew of in Manhattan and told them to pull the comic. I was greeted with varying degrees of incredulity by each of the store owners. Every single one of them complied with pulling it from display, but they weren’t stupid, of course. One of them said to me, “You are aware that there’s nothing to stop me from putting them back out the moment you’re gone.”

Doing my best Jack Webb, I replied, “No. I am not aware of that. And I have no intention of being aware of that. As far as I’m concerned, I asked you to remove it and you removed it. My job here is done.” My guess is that it wasn’t more than thirty seconds before the books went out.

A few days later, USA Today (I think it was) published a spoiler article detailing all the “secret” stuff which they’d obtained from another source entirely (who knows how they managed to miss the comic.) That took the pressure off us. That didn’t stop word from circulating that, in order to placate Lucas, Marvel had fired ten people from direct sales over the incident. That was impressive, particularly considering that direct sales consisted of Carol, me, my assistant Sandy, and circulation head Ed Shukin. Even if they’d fired publishing VP Mike Hobson, that was only five. They would’ve had to start firing people from subscriptions.

Street dates. Sheesh. What a nightmare that was. Well, hopefully they’ll have better luck this time around.

Gee, now I’m waxing nostalgic about tète-à-tètes from my sales days. What other highlights can I dredge up:

Damage returns. Lord, what a struggle. Marvel had a damage return policy, wherein distributors would sent in credit vouchers for damaged books. Most of the distributors sent them in occasionally and claimed two, maybe three out of every hundred, usually due to string-tie damage (caused by the strings that held the bundles together cutting into the covers.). Most of the time they didn’t even claim that many.

But there was one distributor, who shall go nameless, who turned in ungodly numbers of damage returns. Carol suspected that what the distributor was doing was overordering and then claiming the unsold copies as damage returns. So we insisted that the distributor send us the allegedly damaged books so that we could inspect them. He complied and the next thing we knew, boxes and boxes of the damned books were cluttering up the direct sales office. Sure enough, the vast majority of them were eminently saleable. In fact, one time another distributor happened to be up in the office and discovered several boxes of a particular title he needed which we were sold out of. They were ostensibly damage returns, but they were in such pristine condition that he bought them off us immediately.

Bagged books. Marvel Books was a separate division at Marvel that was created to try and get Marvel product into different markets such as K-Mart. They turned out to be an ongoing nightmare for direct sales, because time after time they came up with new product that infuriated the distributors and had them all screaming at us, even though we’d had nothing to do with it and no prior knowledge. There was one time when Marvel was sponsoring a distributor get together, and we figured we’d be nice guys and have the latest issue of Comic Buyer’s Guide waiting for them in their hotel rooms upon arrival. The CBGs arrived at the last minute, and I simply brought the bundle to the hotel and had the hotel distribute them in the rooms. Since I never had the opportunity to read them, I totally missed the front page article about Marvel Books’ latest direct sales-exclusionary plan (if I remember correctly this was the time they were commissioning reprint editions of hot books such as GI Joe and selling them in bagged editions.) The distributors kicked off the meeting the next day ready to lynch us.

The big storm. There was one particularly vicious winter, and during one ferocious storm a distributor called me up, furious. His policy was to airship books, and his shipment was stuck on the ground at the airport. He’d been on the phone with his freight company and they had told him that they had no idea when his comics would be airborne. They were prioritizing trivial things like medical supplies and leaving the comics on the ground. So he called me and demanded to know what I was going to do about it.

This was, of course, insane. I couldn’t wave my hand and stop the storm, the books were already in the distributor’s possession (i.e., they were in the hands of his designated shipper) so they weren’t Marvel’s property anymore, and I wasn’t a customer of the freight company. Nonetheless, I called the freight company. I explained the situation to the woman who answered, alternately begged and pleaded, threw the name “Marvel” and “Spider-Man” around a lot, and even made the argument that comics could be classified as medical supplies because the fans needed their weekly “fix” lest they fall into comic withdrawal. Either because I sounded convincing or the woman felt sorry for me or was just sick of me, she managed to rearrange and bump some other shipments (hey, the transplant patient didn’t really need that spleen) and get the distributor’s comics shipped out.

In a burst of gratitude, the distributor called Carol and complained that I hadn’t gotten his comics to him fast enough. Carol, in a polite but firm way, basically told the distributor to take a flying leap… presuming he could get off the ground.

Do I hold a grudge? Nah. Not for this, or for any of the countless other instances where the distributors made me nuts. Because if it weren’t for them driving me crazy… why, I’d never have quit and become a full-time writer. So… thanks guys. And by the way, I still have a few rack credit forms that I’ll be getting around to filling out real soon now…

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He saw a trailer for The Rugrats Movie and saw a disclaimer that said, “This film is not yet rated.” Aw, come on. If The Rugrats Movie isn’t by definition suitable for all ages, something is definitely screwed up.)

 

Superman in World War II and more

Originally published July 31, 1998 in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1289

Assorted thoughts on various things…

I noticed a marquee that was playing two films, and they were listed one atop the other. I was amused by the pairing:

Hope Floats

Titanic

All I could think was that, if someone had been able to tie Hope to the Titanic, perhaps no one would have died.

* * *

Well, DC certainly took a shellacking for Superman: The Man of Steel #80 and #81. In case you didn’t read the issues, or were unaware of any of the fallout (DC issued a formal apology… although who the apology was to, I’m not entirely sure) the story focused on Superman in World War II Poland. The story was notable both for its attention to detail… and, conflictingly, its omission of detail. Specifically, although the story focused largely on the Jewish population, there was not only no depiction of the Jewish star armbands that the people were forced to wear, but the word “Jew” was never so much as mentioned (or even the word “Juden.”)

Some weeks ago, none other than Harlan Ellison called me and said, “I’ve got a terrific subject for column,” and pointed out the aforementioned. I figured it would keep for a while while I finished the “TruBatman Show.” Bad call on my part: A couple weeks later, Jewish organizations raised a ruckus, Howard Stern ripped it on his show. A scoop handed to me and I fumbled it.

Perhaps the editorial thinking was that indicating the oppression of Jews in so explicit a fashion would encourage imitative behavior. Or that Jews would be upset by a comic book that covered such material in so specific a manner.

Unfortunately, such philosophies would indicate a fundamental unawareness of the Jewish mindset when it comes to the Holocaust. The “motto” of the Holocaust, if such a ghastly event can have one, is “Never again.” Nothing is considered more important than educating and reminding people of what happened fifty years ago (which might as well have been millennia ago to modern youth; studies indicated that average high school students had no idea what World War II was about, who our allies were, and who the Axis powers were.)

Millions of Jews (and others) died because the world denied at the time that it could possibly be happening. Jews are ever-vigilant when it comes to such things, fully aware that only when people forget what happened–either through lack of education or through deliberate attempts to rewrite history and pretend that none of it ever occurred–that will be the point at which the Jewish people are vulnerable and such genocide can occur.

Indeed, the specter of the horrors performed during World War II permeates even today. When other groups, races and nationalities are threatened with extinction, it becomes incumbent upon civilized nations to take whatever steps they can to avert such bestial acts. Part of the reason is because they have an onus upon them to prevent a recurrence of any aspect of the Holocaust. It becomes a subtext for all political decisions along those lines.

The depiction of tormented Jews during the Nazi occupation… this would not cause offense to Jews.

Actually, I take that back. There’s always someone who’s going to be offended by something. (I’m reminded of the individual who derided Schindler’s List, equating it with pornography because of the nudity involving the mortified Jews, despite the fact that such humiliation by the Nazis was not only documented and witnessed, but routine.) But said depiction certainly should not cause offense. Far more offensive is the notion that anyone should ever forget, or prompt others to forget, what happened in World War II Germany.

That’s one of the reasons it was necessary to let the Nazis demonstrate in Skokie, Illinois some years back: So that Jewish groups could mount a loud counter-demonstration in order to remind the public of just what happened half a century ago, and to drive home what the face of the enemy looks like.

It’s really a shame that DC blew the call on this one and opted for political correctness instead of driving home to today’s youth just who was being oppressed by the Nazis. It would have been a terrific story without that omission; instead it got publicly hammered for what was left out rather than what was there, and I fear it may discourage DC from tackling material of a similarly challenging basis, simply because of concerns over public reaction. Why risk offending those obviously touchy Jews?

There are two lessons to be drawn from this:

(1) It’s better to err on the side of accuracy. Just as truth is the ultimate defense in libel, there is no more potent defense of a story choice than to say, “But that’s what happened.”

(2) When Ellison calls with a column idea, jump on it. (Ingersoll, Evanier, please note.)

* * *

As I find myself once again dialoguing Jack Kirby New Gods characters (in this instance, the Female Furies in Supergirl) I am back in the same situation as I was in when I had the Deep Six guest star in Aquaman. The characters don’t sound “right” to me if I dialogue them in anything approaching my normal style. I find that I have to write their lines in the classic oddball Kirby scripting style, including emphasis on the most unexpected of words, and quotations around other words which don’t seem to “warrant” it.

When I did it before, there were some fans who were under the impression that I was doing it to make fun of the King. Nothing could be further from the truth. I just did it because it seemed the only way that the characters were going to be accurate. So when the Furies show up a few months down the line, I’m letting you know right now: There’s no slight intended.

* * *

Peter’s latest bizarre idea for a Costume Competition Sketch: A lip-synch routine to “When You’re Strange” (that funky tune used to such good effect in the film Lost Boys) performed by Hugo Strange, the Stranger, the Phantom Stranger, and Doctor Strange. As always, I have no intention of ever doing it, so anyone out there should feel free if they’re so inclined.

* * *

To quote Ferris Beuller: Life moves pretty quickly.

My parents were in town visiting a few days ago. It was lunchtime, and my father and I decided to go out and get sandwiches. We come back ten minutes later… and the entire block is cordoned off by fire engines and ambulances. Now under ordinary circumstances, my first thought would be, “Geez, I hope there’s nothing wrong at my house!” But only ten minutes previously everything had been fine, and so it didn’t occur to me that there could possibly be anything wrong at home.

Which, of course, was a false conclusion.

A power line, which had previously been attached to my house, had fallen off. The thing had landed squarely in front of the front steps (narrowly missing my mother) and was on the front walk, giving off huge leaping sparks of electricity. My entire family had been evacuated and had taken refuge on a neighbor’s porch. Sections of the front lawn were beginning to smolder and the steps and walk were becoming completely blackened. A fire truck was positioned on the street, ready for action in case anything actually went up in flames. But no one could touch the electric cable itself until the Long Island Power Company had shown up to shut down the power and disconnect the wire.

After about half a dozen frantic calls to the LIPC, the emergency team responded a rip-snorting one-and-a-half- hours later. Yes, ninety fun-filled minutes of watching helplessly as sparks flew everywhere, worrying that at any moment something was going to go up. The most surreal aspect was having the entire neighborhood turning out to watch what was going on. Now I know the only thing worse than being stuck in traffic because tons of rubberneckers are slowing down to watch someone else’s personal disaster… namely being the one who gets to have the personal disaster. And yet, somehow even odder was that, as time passed and there were no new developments, people got bored and went back into their homes. Okay, enough of one person’s crisis. Let’s see what else is on.

Eventually the power guys showed up, the crisis was solved, and the now-tumultuous visit with my folks was able to continue. Of course, I could have attempted to try and bring matters to a more rapid conclusion by grabbing the live wire in hopes that I would get super powers as a result. But that origin usually seems to produce only supervillains, so I opted not to.

* * *

My eldest daughter, Shana, asked me, “How come the word ‘lisp’ has an ‘s’ in it? How cruel is that?” Sometimes I just have no answers.

(Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., PO Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.)

 

“The TruBatman Show,” Part 3

Originally published July 24, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1288

“The TruBatman Show, Part 3 (Conclusion)”

He sits before me, looking at me with an assortment of emotions tumbling through him. I was sure of that. How could he not be feeling shock, confusion, anger, denial—every possible human emotion? Were I human, I could likely relate more closely to it.

Batman was surrounded by all his greatest foes and greatest friends. They were mingling with disconcerting informality, and he had an insane impulse to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

They were all there in the Fortress of Solitude, all of them. Anyone who had ever played any significance in his life. Wonder Woman next to Catwoman, Killer Croc beside Nightwing. Hovering above, observing it all, was Superman, his powerful arms folded. As inscrutable as a monument, he surveyed the controlled chaos and seemed to be judging when it would be best for him to step in.

Batman simply stared at them all, although, of course, that was difficult to discern, considering that he was wearing a mask with white eye slits. He had not spoken in some time but, instead, had simply pulled his cape around himself and taken to standing motionless. There was not so much as a flicker of a hint that he had any true idea what he was seeing or what was happening.

It seemed that, by consensus, Alfred was chosen to approach him first. He had, after all, known him the longest. Also, since he had always been a “non-combatant,” it seemed unlikely that Batman was likely to turn on him. He advanced slowly until he was a few feet away, then straightened his crisp jacket and said, “Master Bruce?”

Batman didn’t appear to acknowledge him at first, but, finally, the great head swiveled, a masked conning tower, and aimed in Alfred’s direction. “Master Bruce, I know this is something of a difficult notion for you to grasp…”

“Grasp?” The word was almost amusing. “Grasp,” he said again, mulling it over. “I track across a frozen wasteland to find answers that I think Superman may possess—and find all of you here, socializing… fraternizing…”

“It isn’t what you think, Master Bruce—”

It seemed as if Batman hadn’t make the slightest motion, but suddenly he was right there, inches away from Alfred, and he appeared to radiate a cold, dark anger. “Then what—is it?”

“You should really be addressing that question to me, Batman.” It was Superman’s deep voice. He drifted toward the floor like a lazy cloud.

“Joining us mere mortals?” Batman asked.

“Oh, I’m mortal, Batman. All too mortal. Everyone here is.” He paused, steeling himself—appropriately. “However, only one of us—you—is a human being.”

“I see. And the rest of you?”

“Let me try to explain this as simply as I can.”

“That’s always the best sort of explanation.”

“My name is Kal-El. And I’m a scientist. But I’m also in the—well, what could best be described as the entertainment industry. You know that I’m from Krypton—”

“Yes, yes,” Batman said disbelievingly, impatiently. “The planet which blew up when you were a child, and you were sent hurtling—” But then his voice trailed off in confusion, as Superman slowly shook his head.

“No,” Superman said quietly. “Krypton never exploded, never blew up. It’s as healthy as it ever was. But the populace—is bored. It wants entertainment. And I decided on—a way to give it to them. I constructed all this—” and he gestured around them.

“You mean The Fortress?”

“No. I mean the world: the world you live in, the world you inhabit. You live inside of what Terrans would call a Dyson Sphere, in orbit around Krypton. And there are cameras, hundreds of thousands of them, mounted throughout the interior. And every single one of those cameras is focused on you.”

“What are you talking about? That’s insane—”

“No. No, it’s not. Not remotely.”

“You’re Superman—I’m Batman—”

“No,” said Superman, his voice like a gong chiming out the truth of the world. “I’m not Superman. There is no ‘Superman,’ as an actual individual. No Robin, no Joker, no Alfred. They’re all actors, Batman. All Kryptonians. An all-Kryptonian cast. And then there’s you: the star of the show. A foundling, an abandoned child discovered by my ‘casting agent,’ left in a garbage can in a back alley on Earth. You were brought here, to this prepared world that had been created especially for you. Your background, your ‘family,’ was created to be as close to Earth normal as we could approximate. We made you the son of a rich family, the Waynes, so that you would want for nothing and could lead an exciting, jet-setting life. Kryptonians tuned in, daily, constantly, some of them round-the-clock. They found you fascinating and the manufacture of an alternative world—complete with a genuine alien—to be irresistible. And then—”

“And then—what?” said Batman, still having trouble grasping it all.

Kal sighed heavily. “Contract negotiations. What can I tell you? Your parents decided to play hardball. Tried to strong-arm us. I have my own concerns and my own budget. And, frankly, I’m not enthused with cast members trying to strong-arm me. So we killed them.”

“Killed them—” Batman shook his head. “You—”

“Bruce—”

Batman didn’t want to turn and look behind him, didn’t want to respond to the voice. But he couldn’t help it. He turned—and stared into the faces of Thomas and Martha Wayne. Thomas he recognized immediately as the man he’d spotted in the control room. Thomas shrugged slightly. “Man has to earn a living somehow, son,” he said, as if reading Bruce’s mind.

Martha, for her part, took a step toward him, her arms open as if to hug him, but Batman instinctively moved back as if he were shrinking into himself. “Keep back,” he said in a gravelly tone.

“Bruce—”

“Don’t call me that. Do not ever call me that. I’m Batman.” He turned to Superman. “Are you saying—you made me into Batman—sending the bat through the window—”

Superman shook his head. “Not at all. We had no idea you’d react the way you did. You’d been grim and intense for more than a decade, Bruce. The audience was complaining. Ratings were dropping. Day after day, year after year, of you studying and working out. Viewers had had enough. Unfortunately, the bat through your window was, well, it was a miscommunication.”

“A what?”

“I’m the director of the series, as well—which, at the time, was called The TruBruce Show. I wanted you to take up an interest in baseball—perhaps buy a team. I called for a bat to be thrown through your window. A baseball bat. But my propmaster misunderstood.

“Next thing I know, I’m watching a mechanical bat fly through your window and, the next thing I knew, you were putting on a cape and mask. It was completely unexpected, a total accident—but it paid off. Paid off big. Viewers were so taken by it, we wound up changing the name of the series to reflect the new emphasis. And we populated your world with other heroes, including me, using a yellow sun generator,” and he tapped his belt buckle, “to provide me, and others, with powers and abilities far beyond yours.

“And we gave you grotesqueries for you to fight. As you got older, we even added teenage sidekicks to make sure we didn’t lose the younger viewers. We never expected you to find out, Batman—but sometimes one must learn to deal with the unexpected. We are left, then, with only one question: Now what?”

“Now what?”

“Well, now you know. You know the truth. We have several options—and none of them will be imposed upon you. We are, after all, civilized. You can continue with your adventures, if you wish. In order to make it all believable to you, we can wipe your memory of all this—”

“And spend my life as some sort of—captive freak?” Batman shook his head.

“Then you can continue here and keep your memory. You can think of it as a sort of—of ongoing challenge. We will continue to dream up foes for you, problems to solve. It will be very intellectually stimulating—”

“I want to get out of here,” Batman said tightly. “I want out. Gone. I want to go home. Home to Earth.”

“Earth is not your home, Batman. Don’t you understand? There’s no place for you there.”

“It’s not like here, sir,” Alfred warned him. “Reality of a super-heroic world works within its own sphere. There are certain—‘rules’—that make it all possible. The true Earth has no super-heroes, none of those rules. You won’t survive there.”

“I’ll survive. Survive as I always have—and always will,” he added.

“Batman, I urge you—”

“Take me—home.”

In the tone of his voice, in the set of his jaw, it was evident that there was simply no reasoning with him. “Very well,” he sighed. “I will—arrange for it. And may Rao have mercy on your soul.”

I monitor the Earth broadcast, as I have from time to time. And I see the item that I knew, inevitably, I would see. Indeed, it took not much longer than I had anticipated.

A vigilante in Manhattan—unarmed, weaponless, wearing a costume with a mask and large cape—attempted to intervene in an armed robbery in midtown.

One of the robbers pulled out an AK-47 and opened fire. The vigilante attempted to dodge the bullets but was unsuccessful, as the bullets tore open his sternum.

He climbed into a conspicuously decorated black Corvette and sped away as the police approached, but became gridlocked in traffic as he attempted to flee into the Lincoln Tunnel.

He is at present in a hospital, unconscious, with doctors giving him only a 30% chance of survival. I would rate it slightly higher, simply because I know him and his singular determination. It is ironic, though, that the greatest lesson he will learn in his life is that, sometimes, ignorance of one’s situation is preferable.

As for me—I am presently casting for a new star. If you are reading this and have an infant, or know of one, who might be appropriate—simply cut out the shape of a bat from a piece of cardboard, tape it across a flashlight, and shine it into the sky. I’ll be watching.

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.

 

“The TruBatman Show,” Part 2

Editor’s note: Part 1 of this story was published on this site December 28 and can be found here. We’re getting back to the regular schedule of posting classic BID columns. Part 3 (of 3) will appear on Monday.

Originally published July 17, 1998, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1287

“The TruBatman Show, Part 2”

The arctic wasteland stretched before him.

Bruce Wayne drew the white camouflage more tightly around himself, approaching the entrance he knew was waiting for him. He’d been there before, any number of times, but it had always been under carefully controlled circumstances. It had never been like this, never in some sort of skulking manner. And never, ever, under a circumstance where he felt that he could trust no one.

They had all turned against him.

Beneath the encompassing folds of his hood, Bruce smiled grimly. Many years ago, Dick had convinced him to watch Invasion of the Body Snatchers. It was, Dick had said, the ultimate in paranoid fantasy. On that basis, he had figured that Bruce would connect with it. Pride had prevented Bruce from admitting that Dick had been absolutely right.

That’s what it had become like for Bruce. Everyone around him had begun to take on a different, sinister form. For the first time, it seemed as if they were all hiding something.

It gave him pause, as he thought about his life. Thought about the times when he had been investigating the murder of his parents, only to be distracted from it by the Batsignal illuminating the sky. Thought about the occasions when he had considered giving it all up, only to find some new and greater threat presented him, something he could not ignore. Most significantly, he thought about the time when he had faced opponent after opponent, become so worn down that, deep within, he’d questioned whether it was time to hang it up. And then Bane had broken his back—and suddenly nothing became more important than making himself once more into the man he had been.

Bruce slipped, his feet going out from under him, and he fell hard to the icy surface. He lay there for a moment, taking a drag on the oxygen and reinvigorating himself, before hauling himself to his feet and continuing his quest.

Ever since that creature with Kryptonian markings had fallen from the sky, he had suspected that his answers would lie with Superman. But Superman had suddenly gone missing, informing the rest of the Justice League that he had to attend to a “mission in space.”

It had smacked too much of convenience.

Because it had happened just about the same time as the abrupt crime wave that had swept Gotham. And then earthquakes: earthquakes, of all things, even though—last time Bruce had checked—there were no fault lines beneath the city. And the decision to abandon Gotham, to force all the citizens out because it was ostensibly unsalvageable, in defiance of the constitution of the United States. Bruce had tried to get a protest going, but no lawyer had seemed interested in handling the case. Not even Ingersoll.

All of it, collapsing down around Bruce—and once upon a time, he would have considered it a mass of problems to which he had to attend.

Now he saw them as distractions. Distractions and nothing more. Uncanny in their timing, bizarre in their conception.

It had taken everything he had to turn his back to them. Even now, he fancied he could hear their voices crying out to him, the shouts of desperation:

“Batman, why have you abandoned us?”

“Batman, where are you in our time of need?”

“Batman… Batman… Batman… dadadadadadada-dadadada… Batman!”

His vision began to become hazy, and for a moment he fancied he saw the signal in the sky. He closed his eyes tightly, turned away, and, when he looked again, it was gone.

And then, not far ahead, he saw the entrance. The hidden entrance to Superman’s Fortress of Solitude.

There were booby traps, of course, dangers guarding the way, but he was able to bypass them. He had, after all, trained his entire life for this. The detection devices of the Fortress did not even register his presence. All of his abilities and skills helped him to glide past them. Once inside, he shed the white garb which had hidden his presence out on the frozen wasteland and he drew his cape around him, feeling in some strange way alive for the first time.

Then he heard noise: voices from not too far ahead of him. The tall, glistening walls didn’t seem to have any shadows about them at all, yet Batman managed to find them and hide within them. He drew near the sound of the voices, and they were all chattering briskly in another language—a language Batman surmised was Kryptonian. He wasn’t entirely sure why it made sense to deduce that—but it did, nonetheless.

He found one room and peered in. There were several men and women there and there was a vast array of monitors. They appeared to be checking out sites, methodically and steadily. Many of them looked exhausted, as if they’d been at it for hours—even days. Batman squinted slightly, not sure that he was seeing what he was seeing.

They were viewing all over the world, but several of the spots seemed to be such familiar venues as Wayne Manor. The Batcave. Commissioner Gordon’s office. The Batmobile—yes, there was one angle there that suggested there was some sort of a camera in the dashboard of the Batmobile itself. But how, how was it possible? It made no sense.

He had to find Superman. Had to sort it all out.

Then his attention was drawn more closely to one of the people on the monitors. What caught his attention was that the man bore a passing resemblance to the man beneath the mask of Batman. His hair was grayed, but he looked like—

—like—

As if sensing that he was being watched, the man at the monitor suddenly turned, frowning in confusion. But Batman had already ducked from sight.

Batman—was afraid.

He had never felt that way before, no matter how abysmal life had become for him, no matter how daunting the challenge. Fear was something that had been alien to his makeup.

But now he sensed that he was on the verge of something. Something truly horrifying, something that cut to the core of everything that he was—or thought he was.

Father? The word echoed in his head, and it was everything he could do not to give voice to it. He wanted to run back into the room, to confront the man, to ask for an explanation of the inexplicable. He had to be mistaken. Except—

He pushed the thought from his mind. He needed to know more. Before he engaged in any such face-to-face, he had to know more.

He slipped away, passing by the zoo, the area where Superman kept life forms from around the galaxy, usually the last of their kind, so they would be preserved.

He noticed something immediately: They weren’t moving.

For a second, but only a second, he thought they were asleep. But then he saw several of them in some sort of mid-activity position. It was as if they’d been—shut off. Like something in Disneyland, deactivated until such time as a new array of tourists showed up.

He kept moving, his booted feet making no noise whatsoever on the Fortress floor.

Then he heard more voices. Again, they were speaking in that bizarre tongue. Except, this time, he recognized several of them. He couldn’t quite believe it, and part of him screamed within his head that he was mistaken. But, no, they were clear and distinct and eminently recognizable.

A door loomed before him. He hesitated only a moment. A lesser man would have hesitated longer, possibly even would have turned away. But he was not a lesser man. At least, he didn’t think so.

He shoved the door open and all the voices came to a stop at once. Dozens of pairs of eyes stared at him in clear shock and confusion.

The Joker, without his make-up, drinking coffee. Two-Face, with the scarred side of his face healed, reading a book. Catwoman, playing what appeared to be some sort of card game with Commissioner Gordon. Tim Drake, talking with… with…

Jason Todd, who was busy cleaning up a table covered with litter and food scraps.

The room was filled with tables, chairs, vending machines, and people. People from throughout Batman’s life, all relaxed and interacting and behaving as if this was the most normal thing in the world—until Batman walked into the middle of it, Alice through the looking glass.

They rose as one, but no one said a word. There seemed nothing that they could possibly say.

“Bruce—”

Batman whirled and saw a familiar blue-and-red-clad figure behind him.

“I think we have to talk,” said Superman.

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at Second Age, Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705.

 

 

Wow. This was a sucky week.

In one week we lost Jane Henson, Roger Ebert, and Carmine Infantino. From a creative point of view, the world has taken a serious hit.

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Three Months Later by Kath

It was three months ago that Ariel and I rushed Peter to the hospital for a stroke.

A lot has changed in that time.

There was fast change like during that first week when our lives were turned upside down and our pockets were searched for loose change.

And there have been the slow changes as Peter works very hard to regain what he lost from the stroke and we work out what our lives are currently and are going to be in the future.

There have been some serious and not so serious speed bumps along the way.

The most recent had to do with some medication changes for Peter, which finally reduced the number of pills he was taking in a day. He seemed to be suffering a side effect that was not in the list of side effects. We took him off the medicine and went back to the previous one for a day or so and then back to the new one. Second time around the problem didn’t re-appear so it was an aberration rather than a side effect. It just showed up the same time as the medicine change so we were all playing it cautious.

His rehab is still going well. He is still making progress in getting back what he has lost. His walking is stronger and firmer. His balance is better. He can go longer distances without tiring out. His hand is improving slowly. The shoulder is still a problem. There doesn’t seem much that can be done for it but time and strengthening. I do think it is something that we need to revisit soon as to what might be able to be done and to make sure there is no more harm being done.

I have to thank both the rehab people and Sifu for that. They have worked very hard to help him get back to even this point. Peter has worked very hard too.

We did go to Farpoint this year much to the surprise of just about everyone there. It was nice to see the gang and spend some time among fans.

Our next convention is going to be the Phoenix ComicCon over Memorial Day Weekend. Caroline will be with us and we look forward to seeing everyone there. That will be the longest plane ride since the stroke.

It is nice to be able to plan for the future and to get back to going to conventions and the like.

There are frustrations along the way. Things we can’t do. Things that we have to rethink and second guess ourselves that before the stroke we wouldn’t give a second thought to. Personally I haven’t made a creative anything since the stroke. Thought a lot about it but haven’t done everything. And now I have some deadlines looming that need to be done that I don’t’ want to blow off. So I am going to pull it from somewhere and give my muse a chance to come out and play.

Caroline is dealing pretty well. I won’t say that it has been a walk in the park for her but she puts on her brave face and saunters on. I think we are fortunate that she does express her feelings and frustrations to us. She also has people she can talk to when she doesn’t want to talk to her parents. We are getting a little taste of the teenager who is just around the corner but that it understandable considering all that is going on. She misses being able to just go out with her dad and do things. Now doing something is a production rather than a spur of the moment idea.

Honestly it is the closer we get back to normal, the better we all feel. We know that we are living in a new normal and we are about half way to figuring out what that is.

And again I have to thank our family, friends and the fans. To the gang at Marvel Entertainment, thanks for all the help and the reassurance. To Heroes Initiative for stepping up and giving us a hand up when we weren’t sure how we were going to get to the next step and your continued support. To the gang at Farpoint and everyone who helped with that auction. To JK and everyone who participated in the art auction, thank you. To everyone who bought a book or donated or just passed the words around the net, thank you.

If there is one thing we have learned from all this is that we are loved and that has helped a lot even in the darkest of times during this whole thing.

I am so very grateful that my husband is alive and working.

Help Our Friend J.K.

Kath here.

I met J.K. Woodward through Peter because JK became the regular artist on Fallen Angel for IDW. We hung out at conventions, watched each other’s tables, and had a lot of interesting conversations.

Hurricane Sandy came through New York and wiped out the home of J.K. and his lovely wife. Not a little bit wiped out, totally wiped out with most of their belongings.

Even with all this going on in his life, JK put together an art auction for Peter’s benefit. He did all the leg work and got the auction up and running. And we are very grateful to him for everything he did for us.

Now it is our turn to step up and spread the word for him.

J.K.’s limited Prints to raise money to return home

So go take a look. There are such a variety of prints for a variety of fandoms available. Even if you can’t get a print, please spread the word.

Thanks

Kath

Caroline’s Essay On Faith

Caroline had to write an essay on faith for her religious class. I found the final result to be very moving, and she has given me permission to share it with you.

PAD

My Dad and Faith

By

Caroline David

I have a lot of faith in God and my Dad. But there was a time when I had to rely only on my faith in God. Here is what happened.

I was going to stay with my oldest sister Shana in Jacksonville for a couple of days while my dad, mom and Ariel stayed in Orlando visiting friends. It was suppose to be three days at the most and then we were going home. When my mom did not come on the third day, I thought “OK, she is a little late. Who cares?” I called my mom to see what happened. My mom told me that I could stay there as while longer, but she did not tell me the entire truth of what was going on. I asked about school. My mom said it was okay that I missed some school.

I hung up the phone. It was weird but I played with my sister and my friends Amelia and Jetti. I had a two day sleep over with my friend Jetti. I told her that I was worried about my parents. She told me everything was going to be okay.

After a few days I called my mother and told her to come pick me up. What I did not know is that my life was going to change forever.

Driving back from Jacksonville to Orlando, my mother told me that my father had a stroke and could not move the right side of his body. Then my tears welled up in my eyes. All of the sudden the tears burst forth like the rain of hurricane Sandy. My mother tried to calm me down but she could not. I cried for about an hour and then I remembered I had a giant tootsie roll I had gotten on our trip and had only eaten half of it. I ate half of the half and fell asleep for what seemed a short time but was the rest of the ride back to Orlando.

When my mom and I got to the hospital, we went to dad’s room and went in. I felt so sad to see my dad in the hospital that I started crying again. My dad told me gently to stop crying. My sister Ariel come over and hugged me. I hugged Ariel and sat next to my dad on the hospital bed. I told him to try to move his right hand around my hand but he could not squeeze my hand very much. I was very sad.

My dad told me I needed faith in him that he was going to get better but I told him I didn’t know how to because he was so hurt. He said to have faith in him and do what mom says.

I went to the house where we were staying with friends and their doggies. My mom talked about prayer and faith and I prayed to God and Jesus to make my daddy as he was before the stroke. I knew I had to have faith that my dad would get better. My faith in God helped me and I asked God to protect my dad no matter what.

My dad home now and getting better. He has had to change how he eats a lot and a lot has changed around the house. I still pray to God and try to have faith that everything will be OK.

Return to Oz

Went yesterday to see “Oz: the great and powerful.” What an incredibly fun movie. Well cast, well written and well directed, I have no idea what some negative reviews such as what I read in the New York Times were bitching about.

PAD