“Being Stan Lee,” Part III

Originally published January 7, 2000, in Comics Buyer’s Guide #1364

“Being Stan Lee”  (Conclusion)

Editor’s Disclaimer: The Gregor Samsa, Stan Lee, Bill Clinton, and anyone else portrayed herein are not the Gregor Samsa, Stan Lee, and Bill Clinton of Earth-Prime.

Gregor Samsa, having found himself within the head of Stan Lee, watched in amazement as Lee was face to face with a smiling Bill Clinton, leader of the free world.

“You got the desk, didn’t you,” said Lee. It wasn’t a question. Stan Lee removed his sunglasses, apparently as a gesture of respect.

Clinton chuckled. “And here I thought I’d hidden myself well enough with go-betweens. How’d you know I bought your desk at the eBay charity auction?”

“My spider-sense told me!” Lee said with a laugh. “That and the smug grin on your face, Bill.”

“And what’s this I hear about all the problems Marvel’s having with copyrights lately?” asked Clinton, pouring a drink for himself. He offered a glass to Stan Lee, but Lee shook it off. “First Marv Wolfman for Blade… I hear that trial’s turning into a circus. People making faces at each other during testimony… now what’s that all about? And now Joe Simon going after Captain America, just like the Superman folks?”

Stan Lee sighed heavily. “If Joe Simon can get the law working on his behalf, then more power to him. As for Marv… poor Marv. Marvel’s coming at him with everything they’ve got, and it’s probably because they’re worried about me.”

“You, Stan?”

“Of course! Let’s say Marv wins. They’re probably worried that ol’ Stan the Man will be the next one coming after ’em, showing them as much loyalty as they showed me. So they’re trying to make sure precedents are never set.”

“Well, I’m sure the good guys will win in the end.”

“They always do, Billy! They always do! So,” and Stan Lee clapped his hands together briskly in a “let’s get down to business” manner, “you said you needed to see me. What’s up?”

“Two things. First up is—”

“Gore.”

Clinton laughed, but it wasn’t a happy sound. “How did you know?”

“Pretty obvious. A shame, too. He’s such a stiff. You’re worried he hasn’t got a prayer in 2000! Pity, too. With a name like ‘Gore’—Heck, it’s a pure comic book name. Sergeant Fury! Captain Savage! Major Gore! Or maybe—” He framed his hands as if looking at a marquee. “Doc Gore! How great would that be?”

“Pretty darned great, Stan.”

“Okay, here’s what you do,” Stan said suddenly. “I think we’re onto something here. If Gore hasn’t already got a doctorate in something, get somebody to give him an honorary one. Start referring to him as ‘Doc Gore.’ Remember that this is an electorate that put Ventura in office. They love a flare for the theatrical. Also, have him start smoking a pipe and go for gray at the temples. Make him look avuncular, intelligent, vulnerable, and approachable at all the same time.”

“Are you sure he won’t come across as too much of an egghead?”

“Ah, but that’s just the point!” Stan Lee was pacing. “Remember how everyone thought ol’ Reed was just an egghead—until he got a mad on and went at the Submariner!” Stan Lee started punching the air, mimicking the battle. “Namor didn’t know what hit ’im! So, when he gets to the debates, Gore cuts loose. No mercy. And voters will say, ‘Whoa! This guy’s got it all!’ ”

“It could work,” Clinton said slowly and thoughtfully. “It’s got as much of a chance as anything and more of a chance than some other things.”

“And the other thing?” asked Stan Lee.

“Diplomatic immunity. We’ve been getting lots of complains about foreign diplomats in the United States, doing whatever they want, knowing they have diplomatic immunity.”

“Well, you know how I feel about that, Bill. Two words: Doc Doom. Think about all the grief he caused The Fantastic Four and was then able to hide behind diplomatic immunity.” Stan shook his head. “You let ’em get away with whatever they want—next thing you know, some crazed dictator with a ruined face is going to want to take over the world and we can’t do anything about it.”

“But if we do away with diplomatic immunity, our embassies are at risk. That’s the big problem.”

“That!” Stan Lee laughed, and he pulled out a pad. He started sketching furiously. Peering through Stan Lee’s eyes, Gregor Samsa tried to understand what it was he was looking at but he couldn’t make it out at all. It seemed to be an incredibly complicated set of schematics.

Within minutes, during which time Bill Clinton sat in respectful silence, Stan Lee drew. Finally satisfied with the result, he presented it to Clinton. Clinton looked at it, clearly believing in Stan but puzzled, nonetheless. “What is it?”

“Super-neutronic force field,” Stan Lee said proudly. “Just one of these suckers will shield an entire embassy indefinitely.”

“Amazing! And this is your invention, Stan?” He cradled the drawing as if having just gotten his hands on the Holy Grail.

Stan Lee laughed. “Nah! But you can’t hang around with Kirby without picking up a few things. Anything else there, Bill?”

But Clinton was leaning forward and staring deep into Stan Lee’s eyes. “Stan—have you got somebody in there with you?”

“Yup. His name’s Gregor Samsa.”

Hidden deep within the psyche of Stan Lee, Greg Samsa nevertheless gasped upon hearing his name.

“You’re a very fortunate fellow, Mr. Samsa!” Bill Clinton called to him. “I still remember the first time I did Stan Lee. Years ago. Lit up a ‘J,’ brought it up to my lips—and then, suddenly, there I was, where you are right now. After that, I was a changed man. Never had the need to smoke grass after that.”

My God! He was telling the truth! That’s why he didn’t inhale! Because he was off being Stan Lee before he could finish smoking the joint! And then he never had enough! It was the truth! A stunned Samsa could barely believe it.

“You will find,” Bill Clinton continued, “that most of the world’s leaders—movers, shakers, top celebrities—at some point early in their young lives, have wound up, through unexpected circumstances, being Stan Lee.”

“That’s right, true believer!” crowed Lee. “And that’s how I’ve maintained my youthful exuberance! By an influx of young minds! Keeps me on my toes!”

“Good luck to you, Mr. Samsa. Oh—and don’t forget to vote,” Clinton said.

Samsa wanted to respond, desperately, but suddenly he felt a roaring within his head. The room appeared to recede, faster and faster…

…and Gregor Samsa felt a thud beneath his rump. He blinked against the light, coughed against the fumes from passing cars, and realized that he was sitting on the side of the 405 freeway.

Slowly, he pulled himself to his feet, wondering what had happened, knowing that he could never tell anyone about being Stan Lee. But he knew that he also would be forever changed. That he had been chosen to accomplish great things while applying the fervor, the enthusiasm, and the life lessons imparted by Stan Lee.

“Excelsior!” shouted Gregor Samsa, as cars roared by him unheeding, unknowing, uncaring. But soon they would all know him. And he would have Stan Lee to thank.

He was alerted only at the last second by the screech of tires but wasn’t able to move fast enough, as the blue Buick, the driver having lost control during a particularly upsetting call on his cell phone, bore down on him. He let out a screech, the world went black…

…Gregor Samsa awoke one day to discover that he was Paul Levitz…

Peter David, writer of stuff, can be written to at To Be Continued Inc., P.O. Box 239, Bayport, NY 11705. He hasn’t been feeling himself lately.