Issue # 10

"And a Bottle of Rum..."

The faint of heart would do well to limit their experience of the French Quarter of New Orleans to picture postcards and the occasional Hollywood rendering. For all the rainbow colored photos of Mardi Gras parades and charcoal sketches of intricately filigreed balconies, the reality of the French Quarter is considerably less concerned with aesthetics and more devoted to base function. Recently, New Orleans has become a tourist destination. For far longer, New Orleans has been a port city, the last stop on a transit from the head of the Mississippi to the Gulf of Mexico. And those who abide in New Orleans often have reached the end of the line, with nowhere else to go, and little concern for the seamy appearances of their hometown.

The most crucial element missing from movies or snapshots depicting the French Quarter is the smell. Particularly in the summer, the musk of the city is an indelible sensory manifestation. The stench of rotting food, a pungent blend of shellfish carcasses and citrus fruit rinds sun-baked in garbage bins behind restaurants and bars, is only the beginning. The trash is collected with some regularity, and the aromatic evidence is constantly purged and replaced. Beneath it is the ground-in muck of the city, human offal and ancient grime that is never cleaned away by any time or elements. Alongside those smells are the acrid odors of ship fuel and diesel exhaust from construction machinery. And underlying the entire mélange, the earthy smells of fetid swamp mud and river water.

On a humid night blanketed by thick air, rich with all of those olfactory ingredients, certain denizens of the French Quarter seem to be physical manifestations of the smells: dirty, truculent, and offensive to gentler sensibilities. The older among them tend to keep to themselves, content to leave the tourists alone so long as they themselves are unmolested. The younger generation, however, tend to be more vocal.

Four teenagers, three boys and a girl, sprawled across the cracked sidewalk running along the Rue de Chartres. All four bore numerous tattoos and body piercings, and their clothes, varying shades of sun-faded black or combat green, were ratty with age and maltreatment. The teens alternately smoked cigarettes and mumbled to one another disaffectedly, leaning against the brick wall of a building the sidewalk ran past. Near the teens’ feet was a grimy plastic tumbler with a few coins at the bottom.

A well-dressed couple walked quickly down the sidewalk and, as they spied the teenagers blocking their progress, veered away, stepping over the curb to walk in the street and refusing to look at the urchins. "This is New Or-leeens, people," one of the boys said belligerently, drawing approving grunts from his friends. "This is the real city, the real deal, you like?" he demanded venomously. His words carried a threatening tone that caused the vacationing couple to quicken their pace, and the four teens laughed mockingly as they watched them go. Another set of approaching footsteps caused all four to turn their heads, ready to let fly more harassments at the passers-by. Whatever invectives may have been forming, however, died on all four pairs of studded lips as the pedestrians entered the circle of light from the nearest streetlamp.

They were two men, dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts. The first man looked ancient to the teens, which simply put his age somewhere over 40. He had black hair and a black beard, both peppered with a fair amount of gray. He had a strong physical build, over 6 feet tall, and an intensity about him that gleamed in his dark eyes. His companion stood another foot taller, and his prominent musculature seemed to threaten to burst through his clothing. The second man was bald, with a brown goatee, and his expression was neutral and untroubled.

The teenagers gaped silently as the two men walked past unhurriedly. Just as they began to relax, making darting eye-contact with one another after the men had gone a few paces farther along, the bald giant jumped back toward them with hands raised, and yelled "HAH!" as his huge feet hit pavement in front of them. All four urchins let loose involuntary cries of fright. The bald man chuckled as he walked away to the sounds of their barely-audible grumbles.

"Any particular reason?" the bearded man asked as his companion rejoined him.

"They just seemed like punks who needed a little perspective," the larger man answered.

"Fair enough, More, fair enough."

"Hey, don’t call me that when we’re out of costume like this, Johnny," Les Ample insisted. "I got a secret identity, you know."

Johnny Chancellor eyed him skeptically, "Yeah, yeah. Probably too late though."

"How do you figure?"

"Well ... everybody knows that Les is More."

"Really? Everybody?"

"Less is more? Less ... never mind," Chancellor laughed. "Let’s see who else is here."

Chancellor and Ample had arrived at the Crescent City Brew House, a bar near Jackson Square. It was one of the more subdued establishments in the Quarter, lacking the Mardi Gras festooning of many other nearby bars. Crescent City Brew House was a fairly new addition to the area, and its youth showed in its modern, large glass windowed front and its sleek interior. Just inside the double-door entrance was the main bar or high-polished cherry wood, and two huge copper kettles dominated the area behind the bar. The rest of the Brew House was furnished by tables and booths with green upholstery, and most of the seats in the place were already taken.

Chancellor and Ample worked their way across the floor, garnering a few sidelong glances as they did, until they reached a table near the back with seats for eight. Two men were already seated at the table, a twenty-something with auburn hair and a slightly older, somewhat taller and thinner man with dark hair. Empty pint glasses sat in front of both of them.

"Hey, guys, grab some seats," Jack Fenris, the younger man at the table, invited.

"Don’t mind if I do," Ample said with a smile, carefully testing the weight of his massive frame on the chair. Satisfied that it would hold, he relaxed into it.

"How’s it going?" Chancellor asked as he sat down as well. Fenris smiled, and inclined his head toward his companion, Ed Baird. Baird turned heavily-lidded eyes back and forth between the two new arrivals, a wide smile on his face.

"Guuuuuuuuuyyyyyssss," Baird drawled interminably. "Where you been?"

"On our way ... I guess," Chancellor answered, raising an eyebrow at Fenris.

"How long have you guys been here?" Ample inquired, lacing his fingers together and resting his chin on his hands.

Baird turned to Fenris, his head rocking slightly on his neck as he focused on his companion’s face. "How long’s five snakebites?" he asked.

"Usually a couple of hours," Fenris said with a grin, "but you were off and running pretty quick at the beginning, there."

"Hmm." Baird nodded once and developed great interest in his own lap. Then, suddenly, he looked up at Ample and Chancellor and demanded, "Didjou know that this bastard here’s invunnerble to alcohol?"

Ample and Chancellor laughed as Fenris objected, "Hey you’re the one who had something to prove about still being able to hold your own against a youngun."

"S’okay, s’okay, man," Baird said, putting an arm around Fenris’ shoulder, "we’re still friends, it’s okay."

"Yeah," Fenris nodded willingly. Then he turned to Chancellor and Ample and continued in a low voice, "You guys just saved me from the longest diatribe on nothing I've ever heard. I'm pretty sure Ed had a point in mind when he got started, but he lost it pretty quick ..."

"Gentlemen!" a handsome, well-dressed man boomed from behind Chancellor. "How are we all this evening?"

"Hey, Rob," Ample welcomed the newest member of the group. "We’re good, how are you?"

"Just fine," Robert McDowell answered as he seated himself at the table. He reached into his sport jacket and withdrew a billfold. "Rest of the rounds are on me tonight, boys."

"Hey, you don’t have to do that," Fenris frowned.

McDowell pulled a Corporate American Express card out of the billfold, which bore the words ROBERT MCDOWELL – WAYNETECH across the bottom. "I’ll expense it," he winked as he returned the billfold to his pocket. He looked around the room and headed toward the bar, intercepting a beautiful young waitress and handing her the credit card to start a tab.

McDowell rejoined the table and asked, "So we’re just waiting on Dirk and ..."

"Maybe just Dirk," Chancellor sighed. "I know ... he ... suggested this little casual meeting of the minds, but come on, the man doesn’t know casual."

"Stranger things have happened," Ample suggested.

"Or maybe ... he’s already here," Baird put in. With a violent jerk he pushed his chair back and stuck his head under the table. "Hellooooo? Pierce, are you cloaked under there?"

Fenris swatted Baird’s shoulder. "Sit up, you old drunk," he chided. Baird straightened in his seat, narrowly missing the edge of the table with the top of his head. "Maybe we should just get started," Fenris concluded.

"All right," Chancellor assented. "Our fearless leader seemed to think that something bigger than all of us is behind most of the craziness we’ve run across lately. So what do we know?"

"We know that someone made some kind of trade with Barter, in order to get that killer spell that tried to wipe us out,*" Ample said.

(* Kestrel, in an attack we witnessed in Bad Blood #6 – DWG)

"And we have reason to believe that a couple weeks ago someone was using that old mindwitch up at IMHS to strike at us specifically*, too," Fenris interjected, quickly changing the subject away from the mysterious Barter. "But I don’t see how there’s an automatic connection."

(* Just last issue – DWG)

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," McDowell chimed in, "what about the ... whaddayacallit ... the coffee table you guys have back at the Riverboat?"

"Magnaaaaahhhhh ... of ... Illuuuuuuuusionnnn," Baird answered sloppily.

"Right. You guys told me you believe somebody hired a bunch of thugs to attack the city with that*, too, right?" McDowell pressed.

(* The ‘bunch of thugs’ would be LocoForce, back in Bad Blood #3 & #4 – DWG)

"That’s right," Chancellor nodded.

"Sounds like a more logical connection to me, between killer spells and creepy magic mirrors," McDowell concluded.

"But what does that tell us?" Fenris growled with mounting frustration. "If we assume both of those magical attacks were aimed at us – and they both happened in New Orleans, so I’m not arguing that point – we still have no clue who masterminded them. Maybe we can rule out the usual gang of mad scientists, but there’s just about as many psycho sorcerers out there too, y’know?"

"Not exactly the avenue we should be pursuing, anyway," a new voice commented. All heads turned in its direction, where two more men stood patiently. The first, impeccably groomed with not a single light-brown hair out of place, was easily recognized as Dirk Walejcka. His companion, a deeply tanned man with longish sandy hair and van dyke, was the one who had spoken. His voice sounded somewhat different, unfiltered by helmet transistors, but there was only one person he could be.

"Will wonders never cease," Chancellor shook his head bemusedly.

"Hey, Dirk," McDowell said, offering his hand across the table as the two men sat down. With a wry smile he added, "Who’s your friend?"

"Gordon," the man they had all known only as Pierce answered. "Gordon Sumner."

Baird laughed at the name, drawing curious stares from his tablemates. "What’s so funny, Ed?" Ample asked.

"Gordon Sumner ... tha’ss Sting’s real name," Baird replied. He threw his head back and began to croon loudly, "Raaaaahhhhh-xxanne ... you don’ hafto put on dee red liiiight ..."

Pierce shrugged as the rest of the table chuckled. "It’s an alias that usually works in a pinch. Usually."

"And I suppose we can all safely assume that you look nothing like ..." McDowell twirled his fingers in the direction of Pierce’s face "... like you look right now?"

"Safely," Pierce agreed evenly.

"So, which avenue should we be pursuing, Pi-- um, Gordon?" Fenris asked. "You wanna just shoot straight with us and tell us what you’ve figured out?"

"I’ll walk you through it," Pierce answered. "The easiest way would be to work backwards. Our recent run-in at IMHS seemed like a set-up. Now I’m convinced of it. A bit of research revealed that the woman who mentally attacked us - "

"Who goes by the charming sobriquet of ‘Psikosis,’ by the by," Walejcka added.

"Yes, Psikosis," Pierce continued, "was remanded to IMHS custody by the Justice League. Their case files, in turn, show that Psikosis was a pawn used by Lord Naga of the Cobra Cult, otherwise known as Kobra."

Pierce waited a moment, gauging the reactions of his teammates. Most of them had heard the name, but none had first-hand knowledge. Pierce continued, "The rest of the clues seem to fit. The Cobra Cult certainly has connections to the occult, and could make use of weapons such as the Kestrel spell or the Magna of Illusion. Kobra’s vast resources would allow him to hire on a large retinue of metahuman enforcers, like LocoForce."

"Duzzat mean y’think Kobra set up th’ gang-bangers an’ the fake Joker an’ all that*?" Baird asked blearily.

(* A semi-coherent reference to issue #5 – DWG)

"I think we’re capable of finding some trouble on our own," Pierce replied.

Baird sighed, "I hate clowns."

The waitress arrived at that moment, with several pint glasses and pitchers of beer ordered by McDowell. The incognito members of Bad Blood filled their glasses, while McDowell made small talk with the waitress. She left the table reluctantly only when the bartender raised his voice for another pick-up.

"On the other hand," Pierce went on, "I think it is possible that it was Kobra who first unearthed the Moonstone Razor* and brought it to our attention."

(* Back in Issue #2 – DWG, leaving no story un-recapped)

"But that doesn’t make any sense!" Fenris blurted suddenly, slamming his pint glass down and visibly startling Baird.

"No, it doesn’t," Chancellor agreed. "That case brought the two of you and the four of us together. I’ve heard of master criminals embarking on some labyrinthine undertakings sometimes, but to augment Bad Blood and then take continuous pot shots to bring it down? Doesn’t add up."

"Kobra may not have foreseen that particular result," Pierce explained calmly, "and all of his efforts since then have been to correct for that oversight."

"Then what was he trying to do with the razor?" Ample asked, pouring himself another beer.

"Throw me off," Pierce answered.

"So you had contact with Kobra before all of this?" McDowell pointed at Pierce.

Pierce said nothing. Slowly, he turned to Baird and said, "You said a couple of weeks ago that sooner or later I’d have to tell you how I left Checkmate. I think that time has come."

Baird blinked, twice, then slurred, "Riiiiiighteous."

Pierce drew a deep breath. "I was a Checkmate Knight during period of conflict with the Cobra Cult. Kobra came damn close to dismantling the entire U.S. intelligence community, turning the various agencies and departments against each other. Task Force X, Checkmate, the Suicide Squad, NSA, all of them were at each other’s throats before Kobra’s involvement was even realized*. But just before civil war broke out, we got a lead on Kobra.

(*The Janus Directive, in Suicide Squad and various other DC titles – DWG)

"I’ll spare you the bloody details of the final confrontation. It wasn’t pretty. Most of the Knights on that mission died, that’s the upshot. The few that weren’t slaughtered managed to escape.

"Except for me.

"I had my chance to bail out when things went bad, but instead I tried to help another Knight, Ivan, get out with me. He slowed me down, but I didn’t care. And it was against procedure, each Knight is supposed to be self-sufficient to avoid exactly this kind of situation, but after seeing so many good men die I didn’t care about that either. I was going to get Ivan out or die trying. Kobra’s troops killed Ivan, and captured me.

"Kobra wanted information out of me so badly I could taste it. He had me tortured psychologically and physically, but never to the point where I wouldn’t be able to speak. And every time I thought he had run out of methods, he came back with a new regime."

"But you didn’t talk," Fenris concluded, only partially succeeding at hiding his awestruck respect.

"No. No, I didn’t talk," Pierce agreed. He sipped his beer. "I didn’t talk because I didn’t know what Kobra wanted to know, what he thought I knew. Maybe if I had ... I don’t know. But I had no choice."

The table fell silent for a few heartbeats. Pierce resumed his tale, "Kobra got angrier and angrier that he couldn’t break me, and lucky for me, got careless. I escaped. Made it back to Checkmate. Waller was no longer in charge. Sarge Steel was. And the ranks of Knights had been filled with men I didn’t know. I had no friends on the inside.

"Then the second Inquisition of Pierce began. Sarge Steel wanted to know what I had told Kobra. I told him nothing. He didn’t believe me, and asked me why I wasn’t dead if I hadn’t proven useful to Kobra. I said I had escaped. He didn’t believe me again – he had familiarized himself with Checkmate’s capabilities before he took over, and knew the Knights didn’t stack up against Kobra. Told him I got lucky.

"Sarge Steel has no sense of humor.

"One meeting in Steel’s office led to several depositions, which led to outright open hostility from most of the organization. I saw the writing on the wall and knew I was going to be brought up on charges soon. That was an unnerving thought in and of itself. In the upper echelons of Intelligence work, you don’t get discharged when they find you guilty. You don’t go to jail. You disappear. And with the witch hunt happening in the aftermath of the Kobra debacle, I didn’t like my chances at all.

"I took my gear and lit out before they could tighten the noose. I had known Dirk from before I ever got to Checkmate, and I went to him for help improving on the armor and weapons I had. He asked me why, and I told him I had a score to settle, with or without his help."

"And let me assure you," Walejcka put in, "that was all he told me. I’m hearing this story for the first time along with the rest of you."

"Little did I know how much help I was going to get, from my friend whose recently activated metagene gave him the warp powers of Enigma," Pierce conceded. "With my cranked up new armor and Enigma’s ability to get around, we spent some time trying to find nests of the Cobra Cult and work our way back to Kobra himself. Actually did find a couple, too, in between dodging Checkmate’s attempts to haul me back in. Luckily they gave up pretty soon. Sarge Steel had enough egg on his face taking over when he did, and one rogue agent was conveniently lost in the reshuffling."

"So ... how does the razor figure in?" Ample asked, his brow furrowed with concentration.

"We were getting close to Kobra, and he needed to distract us. As a self-styled avatar of chaos, it only makes sense for him to do so by unleashing an instrument of destruction in our path. Hence the razor, which brought Dirk and myself to New Orleans. Before that, you were under Kobra’s radar. And ever since then, he’s gone after all of us, to keep me from coming after him again.

"Or so I believe."

"Well that does lend a hell of a lot of weight to the case for Kobra," Fenris acknowledged over his beer.

"The question is, what do we do about it?" McDowell countered. "Sit around and wait for the next attack? Or go after the big snake on our own?"

"We’re not a hundred percent sure Kobra’s gunning for us, though," Ample pointed out. "But if we gun for him, he definitely will return the favor."

"Still," Walejcka interjected, "isn’t this the sort of thing we’re supposedly dedicated to? Whether Kobra’s interest is in the entire team or he’s completely forgotten Pierce and his agenda is something else entirely, he’s exactly the kind of evil we should be combating, correct?"

Baird had been staring toward the bar since Pierce had begun recounting his history with Kobra. His eyes remained focused some indeterminate distance away, but he slowly spoke. "Hey, guuuuuys ... mebbe we should ask LocoForce if they’re workin’ f’Kobra."

"Great plan, Ed," Chancellor chuckled over his beer. "Where do you suppose we find them?"

Baird exhaled loudly, vibrating his lips like a horse. "I think they’rrrrre at ... the bar."

As subtly as they could, those with their backs to the bar - Ample, Chancellor and McDowell - turned their heads toward it, while the others looked on from their seats. Standing along the copper rail were three men and a young woman. One man, bigger and broader than Ample, hunched over the surface of the bar as if trying to diminish his remarkable bulk. He was dressed in expensive and obviously custom-tailored clothes. To one side of the massive fashion plate was a man in blue jeans, boots and a flannel shirt, with greasy black hair tied back in a ponytail and a few days stubble on his chin. On the other side, a handsome man in understated casual clothing tapped a Navy Player’s Cut cigarette out of a pack, while talking to the young woman, a pretty, athletic blond.

Ample swore under his breath. "Ain’t no way there’s two people as big and gruesome as Minotaur in this whole world."

"Bayonet’s hard to miss, too," Fenris added through clenched teeth. "Which one of their playpals is the third?"

"Headhunter," Pierce surmised. "And the woman he’s with ... she’s a cop. I recognize her from the crew that arrested us after the encounter with the Kestrel."

"Headhunter’s making time with a cop?" Chancellor muttered. "What’s the world comin’ to?"

"So those are the LocoForce guys you all told me about. Now what do we do?" McDowell asked. "Wait for them to go into the restroom and ... I guess with Headhunter’s connections we can’t call the cops."

"All right, le’ss just get’m," Baird urged, wobbling slightly in his seat.

"I think this situation calls for a certain amount of discretion," Walejcka tried to restrain his comrade.

"Heyyyyy, I’ll be subtle," Baird assured him. "Tha’ss me, Mr. Subb-tull. No pro’lem." Baird closed one eye and pointed a single finger over Chancellor’s shoulder, toward the bar. A nondescript bartender materialized behind the bar, opposite Headhunter, with arms spread and hands resting on the polished wood surface. The bartender stood expectantly, until Headhunter noticed and gave the bartender a quizzical glance. At the moment of eye contact between man and illusion, the bartender image raised a hushing finger to its lips. Then, in a fierce explosion, hideous entities the colors of rotting flesh and dried blood spewed forth from the bartender’s eyes, ears, nostrils, and mouth. Each illusory creature bursting from the bartender's head was a nightmarish amalgamation of unearthly anatomical impossibilities and all-too-human details, and each one dove at Headhunter's face with gouging talons or barbed insect legs or tiny paws with sharp screws thrust out of their furry flesh. Headhunter bellowed in revulsion and threw his arms up over his face as he tried to duck under the psychic assault.

"Whoooaaaa where’d that come from?" Baird wondered aloud, wide-eyed.

"Well, that was about the most disturbing thing I’ve ever seen," McDowell grimaced.

"Yeah, thank you so much for tonight’s nightmare, Ed," Fenris said.

"All right, maybe they won’t realize it was – ah, hell," Chancellor interrupted himself. Headhunter had regained his composure and scanned the bar, with Bayonet and Minotaur quickly doing the same. All three mercenaries spotted the table at which Bad Blood was seated at the same time. Minotaur began pushing through the crowd toward the table.

"We need to get this fight out of the bar and away from civilians," Pierce commanded quietly.

"Right on," Ample nodded. As Minotaur arrived at the table, Ample slid out of his chair and took one knee in front of the enormous thug, his hands raised in supplication. Minotaur stopped in his tracks and considered Ample in his vulnerable position as if unsure how to proceed. Before his decision could be made, Ample lifted his knee and shifted his weight to his back foot, then launched himself with all the power in his huge leg muscles. His outstretched arms wrapped around Minotaur’s midsection and his lunge carried both men into the air, over the heads of the crowd in the Brew House, and crashing through the plate glass windows at the front of the bar. Screams mixed with the tintinnabulation of breaking glass on the street outside.

"Not what I meant," Pierce confessed. "Dirk, if you would...?"

Headhunter and Bayonet had reached the table as well, with unhidden animosity on their faces. Walejcka created two small red warp portals, one behind each man. As Fenris stood up suddenly, toppling his chair to the floor with a clatter, Chancellor drove an elbow hard into Bayonet’s gut, sending him stumbling backward into the warp. Without warning, Fenris dove into the warp after him.

Headhunter grabbed onto McDowell as the warp portal began to draw him in. McDowell shoved, and the pair tumbled into the warp. A moment later Headhunter, McDowell, Bayonet and Fenris were deposited on the Rue de Chartres in front of the Brew House. Pierce, Walejcka, Chancellor, and with slow deliberate movements Baird, hurried out after them.

As soon as they hit the street, ice began crackling outward from Headhunter’s hand, entombing McDowell from the shoulders down. McDowell simply smiled as his skin became a superheated yellow-orange and small flames licked away the ice. His fiery fist connected with Headhunter’s jaw, and Headhunter staggered away with a feral growl that weaker-willed men would have allowed to be an agonized scream.

Fenris’ leg shot out like a piston and his side kick drove into Bayonet’s sternum, sending the villain reeling. Pressing his advantage, Fenris reached out magnetically and could feel an iron sewer grate behind him. He ripped the grate free of the curb and flung it at Bayonet’s head. Bayonet saw the incoming attack and, with a flash of streetlights on steel, extended his forearm blades and chopped the projectile in half.

Ample and Minotaur threw punches that could knock down elephants but only served to enrage one another. Minotaur’s suit jacket was in tatters, and both men’s shirts were dotted with scarlet, from Ample’s split lip and Minotaur’s bloodied nose. Still they railed at each other furiously.

Headhunter moved farther and farther away from the bar, while Ember hovered over the street, daring him to retaliate. The burning anger in Headhunter’s eyes, however, was quickly replaced by a calculating coldness. "Minotaur! Bayonet! We’re getting out of here! We’re not even getting paid for this!" With a slight smile of triumph, Headhunter touched his belt buckle.

"Send Kobra our regards!" Pierce called out, locking eyes with Headhunter. The understanding in the gaze of LocoForce’s leader was unmistakable, even as he, Minotaur and Bayonet faded from sight in pale white nimbuses of light.

"We gotta stop ... breakin’ people’s stuff like thisssss," Baird mumbled.

"Right. Time for the quick exit, now, though," Chancellor said, patting Walejcka on the shoulder.

"Straight away," Walejcka responded, creating a warp portal big enough for Bad Blood to walk through. And as the portal closed behind them, the night was quiet again. The street was strewn with shards of glass and broken concrete, and the patrons of the Crescent City Brew House stood along the sidewalk talking in hushed tones of amazement. But the sultry delta atmosphere, and all of its accompanying smells and sounds and sights, reasserted itself and the natural order. At the mouth of the mighty Mississippi, where the heaviest, darkest elements washed up, explosions were inevitable. But the old city remained.

MESSAGES WRITTEN IN BLOOD ...

Send mail to badblood51@hotmail.com

Hey! You! Yeah, you! We broke into double digits with this issue! How's the read so far? Are you into it? Are you getting sick of it? As Bad Blood plunges into its second year, what would you like to see more or less of? Use the e-mail address above and let your faithful author know! I'm not above pandering to the crowd!

NEXT ISSUE: Bad Blood’s fears are confirmed when agents of the Cobra Cult attack, taking the entire state legislature hostage in Baton Rouge! Can our heroes rescue everyone while avoiding the obvious trap? What about the not-so-obvious ones ...? Be here as the countdown begins to the over-the-top anniversary celebration for FDC’s 99.44% original superteam!