The Camel Spider: Not As Scary As The Unfiltered Marlboro Spider

By Troy Hickman

As a few of you may know, one of my areas of knowledge is folklore, especially urban legends. So earlier this week when I gave one of my classes a journal assignment dealing with what scares them, and the subject of camel spiders came up, I listened intently. It was interesting to hear what they'd heard about these guys, and even moreso to try and follow the trajectory of the legends.

The camel spider recently received his fifteen minutes of fame because of this photo. Yeah, it's a damn big, creepy-crawly thingy, no two ways about it. And what did my class "know" about the camel spider?

1. It can be as big as a garbage can lid when its legs are extended.

2. It can jump three feet vertically in the air.

3. It can run 25 miles per hour.

4. It lives in and feeds off the stomachs of camels, hence its name.

5. It has a novacaine-like sting that keeps you from noticing it's slowly taking big chunks out of your flesh.

6. It runs alongside military vehicles in Iraq, making a screaming noise as it chases them.


Scary, huh? From the sound of it, these things make the facehuggers in Alien seem like Monchhichis in comparison. But how much of what my class is so sure of is really true? Well...

1. It's a big SOB, but it doesn't get as large as a garbage can lid. A frisbee MAYBE...

2. Much like white men, camel spiders can't jump.

3. It runs about ten miles an hour. So it could probably keep pace with a man, but it's Michael Johnson is safe.

4. It's called a camel spider because it lives in the desert, not because it lives inside or feeds on camels.

5. Not venomous. In fact, they aren't generally dangerous to humans, preferring to eat insects and maybe the occasional lizard or very small bird. Camel spiders actual aren't even spiders; they're of the order Solifugae, which makes them arachnids, but not true spiders.

6. The reason that some folks have accused them of being aggressive is because they're nocturnal creatures, preferring to stay out of the hot desert sun, and so when humans or other creatures are around, they try to get in your SHADOW for shade (this may be where the camel stomach rumor came from; perhaps they tend to sit under a camel's abdomen to keep cool).

So where do the rumors come from? Well, as you can see in the somewhat infamous photo above, and a number of the camel spider videos on YouTube, our soldiers in Iraq have been encountering these thingies since they've been over there. If I may do a bit of urban legend psychoanalysis here (like the "king" of urban legends, Jan Harold Brunvand, who I was lucky enough to correspond with for a while many years ago), I would suggest that it stems from our fears (A) for our troops in a strange foreign land, and (B) our own sense of xenophobia about "those people" and "that place" over there. It's a hard thing to think of our own sons and daughters over there in harm's way, and even harder to think about them killing and being killed by other human beings. And I think perhaps we express all that fear and uncertainty by creating an even more alien enemy and landscape in our minds. Hence things like the camel spider.



The thing is, the camel spider is not even a middle eastern phenomenon. They exist is most of the world's deserts in one form or another, including the southwestern part of the United States. In other places they might be called the wind scorpion or sun spider, but when we talk about them, they tend to be the camel spider, because what's more middle eastern in the collective consciousness of the United States than a camel?

So when it comes down to it, if the camel spider is a monster, it's mainly a monster created by our subconscious, and our psycho-sociological need to create scapegoats and cautionary tales.

Also, it's one big, scary freakin' bug...

Thirteen Will Get You Twenty

By Troy Hickman


Yes, I love NBC's Dateline: To Catch a Predator. There, I've said it. I'll say it again: I love the damned thing. I watched it every chance I could. I watch the reruns of it on MSNBC. I watch the "Raw" version of it. I've compiled a bunch of clips of it and made a long-running playlist on YouTube. I listen to it while I do other stuff on the computer (like writing this piece). I sometimes fall asleep listening to it, and wake up during the night to the clarion call of "have a seat over there, please." My name is Troy Hickman, and I am a Pred-ophile.

For those of you not caught up in the drama that is TCAP, let me try to explain why I dig it:

(1) Justice, baby! There's such a feeling of satisfaction seeing these a-holes get what's coming to them. We're talking about men, ages generally from 25 to 70, making a "date" to have sex with a 12-14 year old girl or boy, and then showing up in a stranger's kitchen (often bringing with them booze, pot, condoms, dildos, penis pumps, and occasionally M&Ms...). And the chat logs! It's hard to believe the kind of stuff these scumbags say to underaged kids, and even harder to believe how many of them send pics or video of their...uh...equipment ( or at least someone's equipment; an awful lot of them seem to "borrow" pics to hide their limitations). But when I hear see the looks on their sociopathic faces as they realize they're about to go down hard (and not the way they were hoping for), it really buoys my hopes that sometimes right does triumph over wrong.



I am amazed, though, by how many folks I've heard say this is entrapment. For those people, get a dictionary or a lawbook, would ya? It's not entrapment in any sense of the term, any more than police stings on drug dealing, car theft, or hiring hitmen are. I'm even more aghast at the people who say "Oh, well, it's just natural for men to want to have sex with a 12 year-old girl." Who the hell are you people, and how do I keep from moving into your neighborhood, you sick, twisted Allen Ginsberg wannabes?

(2) Chris Hanson. Man, this guy rocks (if you can get through his annoying Southern California accent and loafers). You can keep your Eastwood/Schwarzenegger/Stallone one-liners; nobody drops the bomb on the bad guys like Chris Hanson. He floats like a butterfly, and stings like...well, like a guy who's about to ruin your entire future, you child-molesting sack of pucks.

(3) The "characters." Never have pervs been so fascinating. There are the guys who show up in the kitchen NAKED; the ones who get caught, and then get caught again the very next day (!!!); the old man who uses as his excuse the fact that he can't get an erection anyway; the guy who shows up with enough guns and ammo in his car to equip a third world nation; the rabbi there to get it on with a 13 year-old boy; the Stanley Tucci-lookalike physician who calls himself "Talldreamy_doc" on the internet (then has to call his wife to come and bring his bail); the perv who wants to do it with not only the young girl, but her CAT; the sad case of the guy who literally brings his toddler son with him to the "date" (this guy needs to be beaten to death with a knotted rope); the guy who brings a pizza with him, then actually offers to give Chris Hanson the pizza if they'll just let him go (!!!); the guy who asks Chris for a ride home from the scene of the attempted molestation; and so many more.



Yes, To Catch a Predator is just good TV, appealing to my sense of justice, my innate voyeurism, and my fascination with the sometimes-very-sick human psyche. Go, Chris Hanson, go!

A Host of Horrors

If you're a relic like me, you probably grew up with a horror host. You know the drill: a guy in cheesy makeup, stalking around a set full of styrofoam props and phony spiderwebs, delivering wilting puns while showing a gamut of the best/worst horror films an independent TV station can afford. On the west coast you had the likes of Seymour, John Stanley, and Elvira. The folks in the east enjoyed Zacherly and Count Gore. Here in the midwest, a fertile ground for the horror hosts, we sat up on weekend nights and watched Ghoulardi, Sir Graves Ghastly, Svengoolie, and even the Son of Svengoolie (Rich Koz, one of the most talented guys in Chicago television; I'll have to devote a full column to him at some point).

Sadly, the horror host has largely gone the way of the drive-in movie (another future column), and these days you'll mainly find such programs on the internet (hardly the same) or on hard-to-find cable access stations. Thank goodness there are still folks keeping that faith, though, as the horror host is a very special breed, and for many of us takes up a very special place in our nostalgic hearts. These days, the torch has been passed to the likes of Dr. Zombie, A. Ghastlee Ghoul, and The Bone Jangler. If you're interested in the subject, there are a number of websites out there, including The Horror Host Underground, TV Horror Hosts, and E-gor's Chamber of TV Horror Hosts.

For me, the greatest of the horror hosts was Indiana's own Sammy Terry. In 1961, disk jockey Bob Carter moved to Bloomington, Indiana, and began filling a number of positions at WTTV-TV, including hosting a three-hour morning talkfest entitled "Coffee with Carter." When Universal Studios began offering a package of its old horror films, however, a number of independent stations created horror host programs to facilitate the showing of these classics. WTTV was no exception, and launched Shock Theater, with Carter doing voice-overs as they showed still photos during commercials. These intros and extros proved so popular, though, that the station pressed Carter to create an on-camera character, and Sammy Terry was born. The name of the show was changed to Nightmare Theater, and boy, that's sure what it was for me.


How do I describe Sammy? Well, he was a cloaked, hooded creature straight from the bowels of Gehenna...with a rubber spider named "George" on a very-visible string to keep him company. Sammy would do host segments to break up the movie, usually humorous stuff in typical horror host fashion, but there was always something damned deadly serious about him, too. Bob Carter had this wonderful voice, this cadence that could've made him the rival of most Shakespearean actors, and when he'd do a monologue, it would be a thing of beauty. The most unforgettable thing about Sammy, though, was his laugh. Oh, god, that laugh. On Friday nights, I'd huddle under the covers, and when the show began, and I'd hear that coffin lid creak, I'd pull the blanket up over my head and wait for THE LAUGH.

Sammy was a mainstay of Hoosier television from the early 1960s all the way into the 1980s. For many of us, his show was our first exposure to the classic Universal monster movies, and to countless other horror classics (and not-so-classics) as well. Heck, I remember once in the early 70s when Sammy was doing a live stage show at various Hoosier venues, and when he came to my town, you can bet I nagged my folks until they dropped me off at the Mars Theater in downtown Lafayette to see Sammy do his combination comedy/magic act schtik. I don't remember all of it now, but I do recall a guillotine was prominently featured. Afterwards, Sammy graciously talked to folks in the lobby and signed posters. I tell ya, at the time it was the highpoint of my life.

Bob semi-retired Nightmare Theater in the late 80s, but every few years since then, WTTV has brought him back for Halloween specials, during which he's shown films like the original Night of the Living Dead and, inexplicably, Batman Returns??? He also makes regular appearances at various "haunted houses" around the state in October (which lead to an interesting incident a few years ago in which some scoundrel was going around MASQUERADING as the real Sammy Terry and making some dough for these public appearances).

Sammy Terry and Bob Carter have played a bigger part in my life than they'll ever know. If not for them, I'm not sure I'd be the massive uber-nerd/comic writer I am today. I think about that pretty much every day, when I see the pic of Sammy I have affixed to the front of my refrigerator (I just wish it'd scare me away from the food).

Here's to you, Sammy Terry, and to all the horror hosts who have made our lives a bit more filled with wonder. Pleasant nightmares!

Hickman Breaks Kayfabe!

Though a lot of folks will never understand why, professional wrestling is one of the joys of my life. I won't bother trying to explain about the morality play nature of it, or the pleasure from being part of "the work," or the fact that, for my son and I, it's always filled the slot that baseball or other sports might for other fathers/sons. The simple fact is, either you "get" wrestling, or you don't, and never the twain shall meet.

In my case, I like my wrestling as big and bold and goofy as possible. I know the trend in recent years has been for a more "real" type of character (a strange phrase when used to describe wrestling), but I've always been a fan of the BIG gimmick. Give me the wrestling fry cooks, the guys dressed in lobster costumes, the spacemen, the cowboys, the clowns.

Even I have to admit that sometimes it...well, it just ain't workin'. Here are a few examples of what I'm talking about:

Mantaur - In early 1995, the WWF debuted what wrestling had needed for years: a half man, half bull. For the next year or so, he basically charged people in the ring, made bovine noises, and generally stunk up the ring even more than actual cowflop could have. Played by lifetime jobber Mike Hallick, Mantaur failed to catch on with the fans, partially because the WWF missed the boat on the obvious with his character: a feud with El Matador, Tito Santana. Moooooo!


T.L. Hopper - Using professions as wrestling gimmicks is a staple of the form, and over the years we've seen dentists (Isaac Yankem), tax collectors (Irwin R. Schyster, aka IRS), repo men (The Repo Man!), prison guards (the Big Boss Man), and just about anything else you can imagine. T.L. Hopper, however, had 'em all beat. He was a PLUMBER, coming to the ring to the sound of a flushing toilet, his faithful plunger Betsy in hand. Portrayed by Tony Anthony, who'd become something of an institution in the southern feds as "Dirty White Boy," Hopper would show a lot of butt crack, but not much else.

Aldo Montoya, the Portuguese Man O' War - Peter Polaco would go on to greater fame as Justin Credible in ECW, but from 1995-1997 he was forced to wear a jock strap on his head and become a glorified jobber in the WWF. It was a shame, as he's a talented guy and frankly, I always enjoy a masked wrestler. Well, when that mask doesn't require an anti-fungal cream.

Oz - We all know Kevin Nash from his days as Diesel, or in the NWO, or maybe even his movie career (TMNT 3, The Punisher, The Longest Yard, etc.), but for about eight months back in 1991, he was a silver-haired, caped wrestler with a gimmick based on...well, the Wizard of Oz. Ostensibly it was because Turner Broadcasting, which also owned the promotion, had recently bought the rights to show the classic 1939 film, and this was a bit of cross-promotion. Fellow wrestler Kevin Sullivan put on a mask as Oz's manager, Merlin the Wizard (because what character from the Wizard of Oz is more beloved than...Merlin???). There were a lot of special effects and a lot of monkeys flying out of Nash's butt, but it just didn't work.

Seven - It was the gimmick TOO successful to work. In 1999, WCW decided to take Dustin Rhodes, who had done quite well in the WWF as Goldust, and give him another face-painted alter-ego. They filmed a series of video vignettes to launch the character, and boy, were they effective. Unfortunately, the Seven character, who was supposed to be creepy, was shown watching over small children in their sleep as he whispered eerily, and the Standards and Practices folks at Turner thought it made him seem like a child molester. They shelved the gimmick before he'd seen a single match. Eventually he returned and broke kayfabe, talking about all the stupid characters they'd made him portray over the years. But I thought Seven had great potential (I can just see him now, sitting in a kitchen drinking sweet tea and hearing "I'm Chris Hanson...").

More later, 'cause they're endless!

Free Your Phalanx, and the Rest Will Follow

by Troy Hickman

Unlike some of the writers who worked on the City of Heroes comic book, I was not just a "hired gun" with no history in the game. Truth be told, I LOVE City of Heroes. Love it. I play whenever I get the chance, and I must have at least 80-90 characters on the various servers. Here are a handful of 'em:

Christmas N. July - Santa's most "free-thinking" elf, she wears almost nothing but a Christmas hat
Luchadoris Day - A former actress turned Mexican wrestler turned crimefighter!
Hypothetical Cretin - Someone on the CoH boards said that unless you crafted your characters by the "numbers" rather than by a good character concept, you were a hypothetical cretin. So I came up with this character, who has one of the "worst" builds in CoH history, but is a hell of a lot of fun.
Kiltdozer - Giant earth-powered Scotsman (name inspired by the classic TV movie Killdozer, obviously)
Major Feminine Itching - Female army mastermind who uses poisons and such, and gets assistance from her minions Massengil and Guy Nalotrimin
Blastafarian - A ganja-smoking crimefighter with spiritual powers and an assault rifle

Magilla Oblongata - Giant ape with an exposed brain and mental powers
Insexxx - Radioactive alien bombshell here on earth looking to repopulate
Baby Gherkins - Infant with a big gun
Macin' Dixon - 9' southern boy with a magical club
Weed Witchards - Skeptical scientist who one day found himself with magical power over plants
Hugh Hephaestus - Publisher of risque magazines turned fire-powered crimefighter
Arrowspace - NASA-based archer
Shock Cousteau - Oceanographer trapped in a storm at sea gets lightning powers
Li'l Dead Riding Hood - Fairy tale based villainess, along with her zombie minions Rumplekillskin and the Gingerdead Man
Steel Cherry - Hardcore female wrestler with super strength
Auntie Up - Gravity-controlling baker of cookies!
Egg Fu Jung - Dark-powered martial artist who uses his knowledge of psychology

Evil Brawn - Formerly Hitler's mistress, now 8' of muscle and pulchritude!
Phantom of the Opry - Country singer who died and came back to fight evil
Caba-Rage - Torch singer who throws a mean spike
Clawed Reigns - Blade-handed martial artist who specializes in invisibility
Teleporter Wagoner - Phantom of the Opry's younger brother
Sweet Sassy Molassey - My homage to blaxploitation women
Old Yeller - Senior citizen with sonic powers
Crystal Blue Abrasion - Azure woman with a mace and icy powers
Sexcalibur - Kind of a joke based on the issues of Witchblade I wrote...hell of a fun character, though.
Fright Attendant - Undead stewardess on United 93 who came back for vengeance
Viva Zzzzzzzapata - Mexican revolutionary with electrical blasts
Bananas Froster - Half man/half chimp with cryogenic cold powers
Desolation Angel - Based not on Kerouac, but on the Bad Company album. A rocker with wings.
Hallow-Juan - Sort of an orange and black version of Viva Zzzzzzzapata I did for the holidays
Third Degree Byrne - A hot-headed comic book writer/artist
Milky Magnesium - Albino with explosive fire powers
Amperage Alaska - Arctic scientist who wears a special suit, giving him ice and electrical powers

NightNurse - My highest level hero (32). Big-time empath.
John DeConqueroo - Evil zombie-controller. His minions include Baba O'Reilly, Pompitus O'Love, and Rott the Hoople
Greco-Robot - Wrestling automaton
Disturbing Grandma - Senior citizen whose hot flashes became REALLY hot flashes.

I also have a number of Hickman-based heroes that I use when folks ask me to appear at their in-game events (weddings, anniversaries, talk shows, holiday events, etc.), including:

Hickman, USA-Hole - Patriotic version of me.
Hoosier Daddy - A fan submitted this to a contest I ran. He's an evil me, with mind/energy powers.
Troy's Pants - A mannequin animated by my mind-controlling pants!
Hickman, God of Pun-der - "I'm Thor." "Well, try using talcum powder, thilly."
Midwestern Sort - Earth/weather controller based on Wizard magazine's description of me as an "amiable, midwestern sort."
Hickmanimal - He's me, if I were scaly and hairy and...oh, wait...
Hickman in Spaaaaace - Kind of like Adam Strange, but even stranger

I know a number of you fine folks play CoH, so if you happen to see any of the above, give me a yell, or global me at CommonGrounds.

And now, I think I'll go put together a Frostfire PUG...

By All That's Holy, Don't Be This Guy

Y'know, I love comic book conventions. There are few places where I feel more genuinely at home. I love the people there (MY people), and the general atmosphere makes me almost giddy at times.

HOWEVER, over the course of a three day convention (Wizard World Chicago, let's say), there are about twelve times that THIS conversation happens:

TROY: Hey, how's it going?

COMIC GUY: Great! So you do this Common Grounds comic?

TROY: Yep, that's one of mine.

COMIC GUY: That's so cool. I think I might have heard of it or something. Hey, how does a person go about getting their stuff published?

TROY: Well, that's---

COMIC GUY: 'Cause I have this fantastic idea for a new comic. If I could just get it published, I KNOW it'd be the hottest thing on the shelves!

TROY: Really? Well, I---

COMIC GUY: Let me tell you about it. It's about this girl named Gabrielle Ravenstorm, and she's a stripper. But what she doesn't know is that she's also the daughter of both a demon and an archangel, see, and she gets mixed up with this evil coven of witches, but when she crosses them, they end up using her as a human sacrifice. So because of her heritage, her soul is unable to fully enter either Heaven or Hell, see, and so she's taken in by this mysterious being known only as The Other, right, and he trains her in every form of fighting arts, and he gives her this mystical sword, and if she strikes you with the sword, you end up going either to heaven or hell, depending on how it judges your soul...cause, see, the sword has it's own mentality and everything...and so The Other sends her out into the world to send souls on to their final destination...but what she doesn't know is that her father, the demon from Hell, hates her because of the angelic side of her nature, and so he keeps sending his hellspawn after her to bring her to Hell, see, and the only help she gets is from her boyfriend, Jake Blue, who's also a detective with the NYPD, but who doesn't know that he himself is also a fallen angel who has been charged, subconsciously, with protecting Gabrielle. Oh, and her sword can also teleport her anywhere on earth and it tells her when people are lying. And she has these big angel wings and can fly. Now, let me tell you what her first sixteen issues are like...that's all I've outlined so far...

TROY: I, uh, I've been sitting here for a good six hours now. I'd better hit the bathroom.

COMIC GUY: That's ok, I'll tell you about it on the way...

Troy Hickman's Nocturnal Admissions

So, occasionally I need to sleep. And when I do, it greatly helps me fall into that state if I have something soothing running through a perpetual loop on the DVD player. By soothing, however, I don't mean pastoral scenes or something with a soundtrack by Brahms. No, I fall asleep best when accompanied by movies and TV shows that I know by rote, things that don't require me to keep my massive brain working, but rather allow it to blissfully turn itself off. Here, then, in no particular order, are the Top Five Things That Allow Me to Sleep:

* The Andy Griffith Show. TAGS (as we call it in the AG Rerun Watchers Club) is my favorite sitcom of all time, and probably nothing makes for a more restful sleep. Not only can I quote every line of dialogue verbatim, but what could be more soothing than having Mayberry gently piped into your dreams? Bear in mind, of course, that only episodes featuring Don Knotts will do the trick (first five seasons; a good rule of thumb is black & white episodes). Andy Griffith post-Knotts is watchable, I guess (if nothing else is available), but I think it would give me nightmares. Keep your Emmett the Fix-It Man and Sam Jones and cranky Andy and focus on Aunt Bee and (especially) Jack Burns as Warren. I'll take simple, slow-moving, black & white Mayberry from 1960-1965. That's what does the trick for me.

* The Beverly Hillbillies. I have a real love for CBS' "rural comedies" of the 60s, and the most soothing of them is BH. Again, I know the material like the back of my hand (oh my god, I never saw that wart before!!!), and there's something so restful about the country humor, and Buddy Ebsen's voice, and the incidental music. The other shows in the Paul Henning rural trilogy, Petticoat Junction and Green Acres, are also great shows, but while I've seen all the episodes of each, I don't know the lines quite as well (and I must say, Green Acres had some of the most clever and out-and-out funny writing of its time). The Hillbillies assure me a deep, pleasant sleep, however, and the chance to wake up with a head full of possum fat.

* Any Frank Capra film. I know Capra's work like I wrote it myself, and his uplifting tales are the perfect way to ease into slumber. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington is my all-time favorite film, and I've drifted off to it probably 400 times. Coming in a close second as Morpheus-bait aree Meet John Doe or Mr. Deeds Goes to Town. And, of course, It's a Wonderful Life is the perfect sleep aid around Christmas time (and I used to love it when it was considered public domain and at any moment during December you could find a station showing it). Not as easy to sleep to are things like You Can't Take It With You or It Happened One Night, though they're sure as hell worth watching in the light of day.

* Other "old" movies. One great one is John Ford's The Grapes of Wrath. Yeah, I know theoretically it should make me dream of dust storms and Hoovervilles, but there's something very comforting about riding along with the Joad family as they make their way to...well, probably eventual starvation, but let's not think about that. Another fave is A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, one of Elia Kazan's best, in my opinion.

Again, some might argue that it would have me REMing about turn of the century tenement life
and poverty, but I find myself pacified by Francie and her family's struggles to get by. Other good movies for sleeping, at least to me, are the Over The Hill Gang films, anything with Ma and Pa Kettle, and, strangely, In Cold Blood.

* To Catch a Predator. Yeah, I know it's weird, but there's just something about hearing "I'm Chris Hanson" and knowing that one more perve is being busted that helps me get to sleep. There are actually very few episodes of this show (and given the controversy lately, there may not be any more produced), so I've ended up pretty much memorizing all the "dialogue." I wish they'd run a comprehensive marathon of the show so I could consolidate all of 'em on to one disk.

So I guess, in conclusion, I'd have to say that...that......zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Hickman on Guys in Loincloths

OK, so again, where was I in the grand story of "Troy Hickman's Non-Existence in Comic Land"? Oh, yeah, I had just gotten a write-up in Wizard for Holey Crullers, which is the equivalent of a nocturnal emission for a mini-comics publisher (actually, mini-comics publishers don't need equivalents for nocturnal emissions, but I digress).

So there I was, basking in something my addled brain was letting me think was fame, when I got a phone call from someone claiming to be Fabian Nicieza, head of Acclaim Comics. I was just about to tell the obvious faker to kiss my rosy red backside when it became apparent that it wasn't a gag. Fabian was interested in having me do some work for Acclaim. Wha---?

Before I could say "Velociraptor," I had a gig on a Turok one-shot. I was thrilled, not just because it was the first somewhat "mainstream" character on which I'd had a chance to work, but because the synchronicity of it seemed right; one of the very first comics I'd ever owned was a Gold Key Turok comic from the mid-sixties, with a cover featuring Turok and his pal on a raft being attacked by some damned giant gar or somesuch (I still have it around here somewhere).

It was an interesting assignment, given the particulars. I was told that it needed to feature Turok, obviously, as well as Adon, a female character who played a pivotal role in the previous Turok one-shot, and who was also included in the video game that the comic was supposed to help launch.

The only problem was that I wasn't that familiar with the "new" Turok, so I had to bone up on the character. In doing so, I found out he wasn't my father's Oldsmobile. Gone was the prehistoric Indian who went after dinos with his trusty knife. The current Turok was able to pull weapons galore out of his bag o' tricks, ala Felix the Cat. It was an interesting switch, but one that gave me a bit of trouble at first. In one memorable phone conversation, Fabian was puzzled as to why I had Turok pull a slingshot out of his bag when he could've accessed a plasma rifle or a photon cannon. Oops. (I tend to pull boneheaded moves like that occasionally, though, like when I wrote a Green Lantern Corps story that editor Kevin Dooley liked, except for the fact that I had GL form a giant umbrella...for like the 956th time in comic history!)

I wanted it to be my own take on Turok, though, not just one more big guns vs. dinosaurs epic, so I hit on a solution: I made the damned thing a love story. Turok and Adon would fall for each other, but in the end, it would be a tragedy beyond Shakespearean proportions.

And the Acclaim team dug it. So they gave it to artist Ryan Benjamin to draw, they stuck on a painted cover by fan favorite David Mack (though, I have to ask, don't you think his Turok on the cover bears a strange resemblence to Val Kilmer?), and they sent it to press. And voila! My first color comic project.

Of course, it was a one-shot, so it wasn't a regular gig. And it was magazine-sized, so a lot of shops didn't have room for it on the stands. And they probably only printed up 5000-10000 copies total. OK, so it wasn't Secret Wars, but dammit, it was a big, colorful comic with my name on it!

And they even made an action figure of Adon, a character I hadn't created, but had largely fleshed out and brought to life.

And Acclaim liked it enough to offer me more work, including one of the three issues in their big company crossover that was going to restructure the whole Acclaim Universe.

And, as with 98% of everything else in my life, the gig went south. They eventually lined up Jim "Little Fucks" Shooter to script the event, and truth be told, I never even bothered to read the thing.

Unfortunately, a short time later, Acclaim was no more, at least not as a comic book publisher.

But I'd had my fling with them, and I'd gotten my name out there a bit more, and I'd worked on a character that at least comic book fans had heard of. And that was something.

Something that would have to tide me over for the next four years...

Next: Whatever Happened to Roy Hobbs?

Troy Hickman? Doesn't He Work With Margaret Weis?

So, back to our heartwarming tale of a stranger in a strange comic book land (hey, it IS strange; haven't you ever been to a convention? It's 65% desperate, sexless nerdiness and 35% stench).

Anyway, my comics "career" was doing ok for what it was. I was doing a bunch of relatively successful, critically-acclaimed mini-comics, and an occasional indy gig here and there (like the aforementioned Cosmic Waves, or Tyim Court's wonderfully irreverent Narcoleptic Man, which can now be read online).

But I didn't feel "complete" yet, as I hadn't published a superhero comics, which is what brought me (and truth be told, the majority of us) into the comics vocation/avocation in the first place. Luckily, a series of coincidences eventually threw me together with my small press cohort and pal, Jerry Smith, and the two of us began work on a series I'd created called Holey Crullers. The premise of the book was that of a donut shop for superheroes and villains, a place where characters could talk without all the fisticuffs, allowing me to do what I really love: writing dialogue.

So we put out a digest-sized comic, Holey Crullers #1, featuring two stories. The first was about the super-fast Speeding Bullet, whose powers were slowing driving him into a deep depression. The second features teen hero Deb-U-Ton encountering, and taking advice from, a rabbi with dissolving powers called the Acidic Jew.

The first issue did well with my fellow small press pals, but there was concerned among them that this "talking heads" format wouldn't be dynamic enough to carry more than a single issue of a comic.

Naturally, being the contrary SOB I am, I decided to make it a continuing series, and eventually cranked out six more issues, and almost no fight scenes whatsoever. What they did feature, however, were superheroes and villains conversing in adjoining bathroom stalls, Crullers' waitresses thwarting evildoers, crimefighters driving VW bugs, homeless superbeings, overweight superbeings, elderly superbeings, giant monsters eating donuts, the creators of the comic being besieged by escaped baboons and errant bluesmen, and just about anything else I could think of that was the antithesis of the average superhero comic.

Given that I was trying to do everything the opposite the way capes & tights book are normally done, it should have been a recipe for failure and ridicule (like the rest of my life). But darned if it didn't work somehow.

Then, somewhere around Crullers #4, I set up my usual table at the Chicago Comicon. It was an average year, but as always a very pleasurable time. About a month later, however, I received a letter from a guy named Jim McLauchlin, one of the high muckety-mucks at Wizard Magazine. In it, Jim told me he'd picked up issues of Crullers at the convention (based solely on thinking it was a cool name). Moreover, he absolutely loved the comic, and was going to make sure Wizard did an article on the damned thing.

Homina-homina-homina...

And so they did. I was interviewed for the mag, and within a couple of months, in Wizard #79, there was a story about me and my comics. In fact, there was four pages about my stuff, in the most mainstream comics publication in the country, four pages about an unknown black and white mini-comic, right there alongside articles about the X-Men and Grant Morrison. How did it feel? Well, take the best sex you've ever had in your life, combine it with the satisfaction of a great meal and the release of a really fine poop, multiply it by ten, and you'll have some small idea of how it felt.

The Wizard folks pulled out all the stops, too. They even had some of their staff dress up in makeshift hero costumes and sit at a donut shop counter for photographs that were included with the article.

(Here's a little known fact: when I sent Jerry the script for Crullers #6, I requested that he take the main photo from Wizard, of the heroes at the counter, and incorporate it as an image into the "Loose Ends" story that dealt with the origin of the Crullers franchise, which he did. Then, when the stories were redrawn for Common Grounds years later, I asked the same thing of artist Dan Jurgens, and he also played along. There's something about the self-fulfilling prophecy of all that which really appeals to a part of me).


I really felt I'd arrived because of that article, and it began changing things for me almost immediately. My mail orders for Holey Crullers increased exponentially. My sales at the next year's ChicagoCon were so brisk that I had to send home for another box of comics before the weekend was over. A couple of comics shop owners asked me to do signings at their shops. It was certainly a different reception from the dog-and-pony show I'd previously had to put on to get anyone to notice my comics, or the sneers I'd received if anyone DID notice.

The biggest change was yet to come, though. What I didn't know is that Jim had passed on my comics to a fella named Fabian Nicieza, and...well, let's leave that for next time.

Next: Troy Hickman Destroys the Acclaim Universe!

Troy Hickman: Let My People Go (But Not To This Movie)

Sweet sassy molassey, I've lost the will to live.

As a few of you may know if you've read my posts elsewhere, I've maintained that Terror Toons is without a doubt the WORST movie of all time. Well, I'll stick to my guns with that contention, but I think I may have found First Runner Up.

But let me start at the beginning. A few weeks ago, my son Gabriel and I went to our local Blockbuster to exchange some movies (we belong to one of the "all you can rent for $20 a month" plans, and you're able to take the DVDs you receive in the mail into the store for immediate replacements, making it twice as good a deal).

So there we are, wandering through the racks when Gabriel, who has a real gift for camp, picks up a DVD box and says "Hey, how about this?"

There before me was something called The Watermelon Heist, with a cover depicting a lot of smiling black folks, including TV favorite John Amos, and Last Comic Standing's Corey Holcomb. It looked like a particularly goofy grade D comedy, and we had a good laugh over the cheesiness of it all.



"OK, we'll get it next time," I said to Gabriel, CLEARLY joking.

But genetics are a powerful force, and my kid has apparently inherited both my sense of humor and my penchant for tossing a monkey wrench into the ointment. So when we stopped into Blockbuster yesterday, I found myself once again face-to-face with The Watermelon Heist.

"You said we could get it this time, Dad."

Sometimes I think the part of me I most abhor is my near-obsession with keeping my word. Before I knew it, we were driving home, with John Amos' grinning face staring up at me.

Today, before I knew it, we were putting the DVD into the player.

An hour ago, before I knew it, I had spent 89 minutes of my life watching The Watermelon Heist.

And dying a little bit inside.

I...I really don't know what to say about this movie. I'm not even sure I can call it a movie. It's more like something Josef Mengele might have used to test human endurance. It's like something out of Lovecraft, except that if it were, at least it might be mercifully unspeakable.

But how can I truly convey how gut-wrenchingly awful this THING is? How can I get across that it makes a Stygian septic tank look like an Al Jaffe pile of doggy doo?

Do I tell you about the...er...for lack of a better word...plot? That it's about half a dozen black hillbilly types who have spent their lives on welfare, can't pay their property taxes, and therefore have to steal watermelons from farmer John Amos to win a "best watermelon" contest and collect $25000?

Do I tell you that, while the movie is mainly filmed, about 10% of it is made up of quick shots taken ON VIDEO? Do I tell you that the closest thing to a laugh you'll get here is when Amos is watching Chris Rock on TV for about two minutes, so they just insert the stand-up footage directly into the movie (and I'm guessing it's not with Rock's permission)?

Do I tell you about the "characters"? Included are Holcomb as Nicodemus "Nicker" Brown, his semi-retarded, constantly humping and masturbating brother Horny, his brother Numbers (thus named because he...uh...loves to count things), their Bryant Gumbel-sounding brother Whitey, and their sisters, the head-bobbing, talk-to-the-hand twins Mercedes and Caprice.

Do I tell you how the film seemed to have been written and directed by the Grand Wizard of the Novi Michigan chapter of the Ku Klux Klan? Do I tell you about the main characters dressing in chicken costumes to make a buck when the welfare checks just aren't cutting it? Do I tell you about "Horny" professing his love for "blond white women" and his attempts to hump his own female relatives? Do I tell you about how practically every other black character in the film is a Kool-Aid swilling, menthol-cigarette smoking, collared green-eating pimp?

Ya know, I would be remiss if I didn't point out two things about the film's "big name," John Amos: (1) He played the adult Kunte Kinte in Roots. (2) He left his role on Good Times in part because he (and his co-star Esther Rolle) believed that Jimmy Walker's "J.J." character was insulting to blacks (which in itself was ironic; while Walker was possibly the only thing funny about that truly awful sitcom, the influence of Rolle and Amos gave us such war atrocities as the episode about racially-biased testing in schools, a bit of excrement that may well be one of the most offensive and singularly mind-numbed episodes in all of 1970s television).



Given that, you'd think he'd be at least a LITTLE hesitant of taking part in a movie that makes David Duke look like Desmond Tutu. But not only does he dive into the dung heap headfirst, but also brings his entire family along for the trip (the film is directed by his son K.C., and supposedly "inspired by a true story" told to him by his father, John Amos Sr.).

Shame on you, John Amos. Shame on anyone who had anything to do with this drizzingly shitburger. And not because it demeans blacks, but because it demeans us all. I would suggest some appropriate punishment for your crimes, but truth be told the only torture sufficient would be to make you watch Terror Toons, and I'm afraid that would just give you ideas.

The Watermelon Heist is the only movie to ever cause my son to turn to me and say, sincerely, "I'm sorry I picked this one, Dad. I really am."

On the plus side, we feel closer than we ever have, much like the guys who braved mustard gas together in the trenches of Ypres.

If you find yourself staring at the DVD box of this film on your video store's shelves, folks, just remember that sometimes the abyss stares back at you.

Troy Hickman: I'd Buy That For a Dollar!

You know where I love to shop? Dollar stores. Love 'em, love 'em, love 'em. Whether I'm here in my Hoosier home, trying to fend off Malachai, or hanging out with my sweetie in Canada (where they're often called "loonie stores"), I just can't get enough of that bargain-basementy stuff. Sure, call me trailer trash if you will. Call me a cheapskate if you must. Hell, call me "Tiny" if you've seen me naked. Just call me if you're making a trip to the dollar store. Why do I love 'em so much? Here are just a few reasons:

(1) Cheap food. Yeah, it's off-brand, or more often no-brand (ya gotta love a can marked simply "dinner"), but it'll get you through the night. I'm especially fond of the corned beef hash, which is 34% lard, 49% nitrates, and 17% prayers that an employee didn't lose a digit in the production. Fry some of this stuff up, slap it on a plate with a couple of eggs and some butter-slathered toast, and I guarantee every death wish you've ever had will come to fruition. It's coronarilicious!



I'm also fond of their knock-off candy bars. Not only are they considerably less expensive than the "real" thing, but you can often find clones of candy that otherwise would elude you. I'm partial to the generic version of the "Munch" bar, the original version of which is about as common around here as diamonds, or kids from the public school system who can conjugate a verb. The knock-off, which is usually marketed as something like "Peanut Bar," is not quite as good as my beloved Munch, but it's close enough for jazz (just make sure you don't accidentally buy the suppository version, the Butt Munch).



(2) Cheap import wrestling figures. Yes, I know their paint jobs look like they were applied by Joe Cocker on a three-day bender. Yes, I realize that third-world kids with names like Xiang and Lupita probably had to assemble a thousand of them just to pay for a plastic bag to hold all their nothing. But damn, they're a dollar! Vince McMoney can kiss my rosy red backside. They're close enough to real wrestlers to fool most folks if they squint...from another room...and really pathetic children seem to enjoy them just fine. My son collects wrestling figures, and few things overjoy him more than when I bring home a new sack of these ultra-cheap grapplers. And you find some real oddities among them, too, like Gravedigging Gene, who looks pretty much like Sting (the wrestler, not the guy who hopes the Russians love their children, too), except he's...I dunno...he's COOLER than Sting somehow. Or the figure that looks suspiciously like Paul Stanley from KISS...well, provided Paul Stanley put on his make-up in the back of Matthew Broderick's car. And for a buck, you can replace these things the minute you break 'em, and believe me, you will!
(3) Cleaning products. What kind of sap pays full price for this stuff? Look, the simple fact is that eventually being in the proximity of these chemicals is going to give you impotence or brain damage (and truth be told, I'd prefer both; if I can't function as a man, I'd rather not be cognizant of it). So if it has to happen, why not let it happen on the cheap? Especially with toilet paper. Why pay premium prices for something you're going to put...UP YOUR ASS. Now I know some of you are going to say "But Troy, doesn't your ass deserve the best?" And my answer: apparently you've never seen my ass. Its main contributions to western culture are flatulence and the opportunity for sarcastic teen-aged girls to hang their heads out car windows and shout "Ooooh, baby, I want me some of that!"

(4) Sqwincher. Yes, I know I've already covered bargain foods, but Sqwincher is its own category. I first encountered it at a Big Lots store here in town (Big Lots, while not a "true" dollar store, has some wonderful closeout deals, and I'd highly recommend it to folks like myself who hold on to a dollar tighter than a dead nun's sanjaya). I bought a jug of this stuff thinking it would be akin to my dear, dear Gatorade, but...not only was it unlike a sports drink, it was unlike anything mortal man has produced on this big blue marble of ours. I took it home, put it in a glass with some ice, took a sip and was disappointed to find out it hadn't gotten cold yet. So I swished it around, and waiting a few minutes. And still it wasn't cold. So I added more ice cubes and...dear lord, where's the cold??? I put it in my freezer...overnight...and not only did it not freeze...BUT IT NEVER GOT COLD! What kind of NASA-engineered alchemy was this?

After some investigation, I've learned that Sqwincher is an electrolyte-replenishing drink formulated especially for people who work in an "extreme heat environment." It's like Tang, but apparently for our brave astronauts currently exploring the face of the sun! I never drank another bottle of Sqwincher after that, but I do put a couple of gallons of it in my radiator every November.

Anyway, put away your elitism, my friends, and don't be afraid to step into the cool confines of your local dollar store. You might not walk out with a treasure, but you will leave with the knowledge that you purchased something not "high-falutin'" enough for those snobs over at Wal-Mart.

The Continued Floundering of Troy Hickman

Part 2: There's Always Trade School

Where were we?

Oh, yeah, so there I was publishing my own mini-comics, and having a grand old time of it. Because my books were so well-received, I was asked by approximately nine million other mini-comics publishers to contribute to their books. I was busy, and I mean busy like Michael Jackson at an "Oil Up a Sixth Grader" convention. For a while my whole life became a blur of writing comics, correspondence (we actually still wrote letters in the early 90s, the Luddites and Amish that we were), and mailing out orders for my stuff. Any "free time" in the midst of all that was spent churning out articles ABOUT mini-comics for publications like Small Press Feedback.

In retrospect, it may sound like a lot of work for little pay off, but truth be told, I was having the time of my life. I was making lots of very cool friends, going to a ton of conventions, receiving a ton of great comics in the mail as trades (a staple of mini-comic society), and just generally doing what I love to do.

Along the way, I was also approached by a number of fledgling publishers about contributing to their full-sized indy comics, and I was overjoyed at the prospect of actually having a "real" comic sitting on the shelves of fine comic shops everywhere.

It was just around this time, however, that I realized two things about the comic book industry: (1) publishers are weasels, and (2) 95% of the best laid plans o' mice and publishers gang aft cattywampus. I don't know how many (probably well-meaning) small time folks with a grand idea and a vanity press contacted me about doing something for them, but it was damned near equal to the number of them who went under before ever producing a single issue of ANYTHING.

The worst was when a west coast company (which will remain nameless, not to save their pride or for legal reasons, but because I can't freakin' remember what they called their imprint) asked me to do a regular series for them. After some brainstorming, I came up with what could have been a very lucrative comic in the 1990s, a superteam book called Dawnrunners. The company paired me up with a very talented young artist named Brian Ching who was also new to the world of "pro" comics. Together we hashed out the basics, and went to work.

In record time, I'd written the first two scripts for the book, and Brian finished the penciled artwork for the first, and started on the second. We were stoked, and couldn't wait for issue #1 to hit the stands (I'm sure we both thought it would make us the next big thing in fandom). So we waited. And we waited. And...as you might guess, the company went merrily down the tubes, taking our beloved Dawnrunners with it. Unfortunately, as is always the case with these things, it was done on spec, so we didn't even get a little pocket change for our trouble.Eventually Brian would go on to do various comics, including Star Wars for Dark Horse (interestingly, we would both end up working on Witchblade, though not at the same time). And me, well, as you know, I became the hardcore legend of professional wrestling.

But that's a story for another time. The point of all this is that I would see my hopes for full-sized comics glory dashed on the rocks yet again. I began to think I just wasn't meant for comics that I didn't fold and staple myself.

Until...enter one Andrew Ford, a fellow mini-comics guy. Andrew had decided to kick it up a notch and publish a full-sized, b&w science fiction anthology, and he recruited from the ranks of his small press brethren for talent. I was teamed with artists Verl Holt Bond and Michael Neno, and we produced what I still consider to be a lovely little story called "One Small Step," a just slightly autobiographical piece about a man's love for the space program and the promise of space travel.

Because I was so happy with the story, I prepared myself to see it go down in flames like everything else. But for once my cynicism was thwarted. Andrew may not have had the money or resources of some of the other small publishers (as I recall, he and his uncle WERE the entirety of their AMF Comics imprint), but what he had that they didn't was chutzpah. His drive carried the project through, and within months, Cosmic Waves #1 hit the stands.

Well, OK, hit the stands is a bit melodramatic, especially since probably only a couple of thousand copies were printed, meaning that the chances of actually finding a copy in your local comics shop was about 100 to 1. And yeah, even if you did find it, the cover might not have induced your patronage, with its garish colors and unusual depiction of a boy choking a goblin (apparently his mom never told him he'd go blind from that).

But dammit, it was a full-sized comic book carried through Diamond and available in shops, and that was good enough for me. Yeehah!

We won't flash forward a few months to the first time I found a copy of Cosmic Waves #1 in a quarter box at a convention. You folks don't know me well enough yet to watch me weep like a widow woman...

Next: My holes are all cream-filled!