BATMAN & ADAM WEST - WHAT IF...?

Back around 1988, when the BATMAN movie was going into production, ADAM WEST was trying to drum up support for him getting the opportunity of reprising his role as the Caped Crusader.  Interviewed on TV-am, he said he'd only be interested in doing it if it was a film noir, gothic, serious type of movie, but was certainly up for playing Batman on the big screen.

TIM BURTON wasn't interested in West though, beyond offering him a cameo role as Dr. THOMAS WAYNE, young BRUCE's father.  Perhaps West felt that Wayne Sr. being killed at the beginning of the movie would somehow symbolise the demise of his ownership of the role of Batman, but whatever the reason, he declined.  If he couldn't play Bruce then he wouldn't play at all.

At the time of the movie being made, West was only around 59-60, so it wasn't altogether impossible for him to have carried it off, especially if the producers had followed FRANK MILLER's concept of an older, retired Batman returning to the fray.  As Batman in action was mainly a stuntman in the suit, I feel there was no real impediment to West's participation.

Except one perhaps.  That being, with West's involvement, audiences would've anticipated the movie being like the '60s TV show.  In the end, it didn't matter, because that's exactly what they expected anyway.  On my first visit to see the movie, I overheard departing viewers at the film's finish saying "I thought it was going to be just like the TV show!"  They sounded disappointed that it wasn't, much to my surprise.

Perhaps I shouldn't have been.  A TV-am technicians strike in November '87 resulted in the '60s show being hastily drafted in to fill airtime and, surprisingly, it became quite a hit with early morning viewers, sparking a resurgence in 'Batmania' that almost rivalled its '60s heyday.  It was relatively short-lived, but the camp version of Batman was freshly re-established - in the minds of British viewers at least.

It would've been interesting to see West getting a crack at playing the DARK KNIGHT persona of Batman.  I think he could've pulled it off, but alas it was not to be.  On reflection, perhaps it was for the best.  Maybe Adam West's Batman belongs in the '60s, as much as The BEATLES and SEAN CONNERY's version of BOND - at least to people around my age.

And yet... I still think it could've worked, and it would've been great to see West finally getting what he so richly deserved - a major, motion picture blockbuster movie, reprising the role with which he'd been so long associated, but playing it straight and without the laughs.  C'mon, admit it - you'd have loved to see that movie too, wouldn't you?  Do tell.  

IF I HAD A HAMMER... (I DO, I DO! I'VE GOT TWO!)

Did you play superheroes as a child?  I did, but it was (with two exceptions) a rather solitary pursuit, as other kids didn't seem to regard dressing up (outside of Hallowe'en) as something to indulge in.  The two exceptions were JOHN FIDLER, who was ROBIN to my BATMAN, and PHILIP MARSHALL, who was WONDER MAN to my POWER MAN.  (Or might've been the other way around.)  In my neighbourhood at least, it was viewed as uncool, though I'm not sure if that word was in vogue back in the mid-'60s outside of the hippie community.  Even though I was only 7 or 8 years old, I came in for a fair amount of mockery for my costumed capers from my critical contemporaries.

The only time I saw anyone else playing superheroes was when I espied GEORGE COOPER and his wee brother BRIAN (or perhaps another brother, IAN) playing at Batman & Robin in the narrow lane adjacent to their back garden.  Obviously they didn't want to be observed out in the open street, and that was the only time I saw them indulge themselves.  However, there was a couple of other occasions when caution was thrown to the winds by other of my peers, who, perhaps intrigued by what I found enjoyable in the pastime of assuming a costumed alias, deigned to join in my escapist escapades.  In fact, they asked if they could, as if I'd be bestowing a favour on them.

The first such occasion was during a 'playtime' break in primary school one fine day.  IAIN MORRIS and a few others who I no longer recall as being associated with this rare event, asked me if they could play superheroes with me.  "Sure", I agreed.  I would be SUPERMAN and they could all be Superman's robots.  They instantly fell into 'mechanical man' mode, favoured in more modern times by robotic street performers, whereupon I in- formed them that Superman's robots walked and talked just like normal humans (or Kryptonians), not robots.  It was to no avail, and they simply did their own thing, leading me to abandon the exercise as a lost cause.

The other time was when some of the neighbourhood kids enquired if they could join in my superhero antics.  I was surprised, but acquiesced, wondering if their usual games like football and whatever else they got up to had perhaps temporarily lost their shine, prompting them to investigate the allure of pretending to be super-powered crusaders.  I was playing at THOR when they asked me this, so I said they could be any hero they liked.  ELAINE BAIRD decided on WONDER WOMAN (I think - we'd no concerns over cross-pollinating MARVEL and DC heroes back then - if the distinction even occurred to us), and the others took on the roles of various popular heroes.  We decided on the DAVY CROCKETT hut in the nearby swingpark as our 'hero headquarters' and set about our play.

I should mention that when I assumed the mantle of Thor, I had two accessories.  One was a homemade mallet, the other was a gnarled tree-branch which served as Dr. DON BLAKE's cane.  I'd hit my 'cane' on the ground while supplying a vocal 'thunder' sound effect, whip my 'uru' hammer from behind my back, then substitute the cane in its place of concealment.  (This was done in reverse when I changed from Thor to Blake.)  Trouble was, my intrepid band of heroes were unable to grasp the concept (regardless of however many times I explained it to them) that only Thor performed this ritual to change identities and other heroes had their own methods of transformation, such as mundanely switching clothes.  To see them striking invisible hammers and hiding invisible canes to the 'sound of thunder' was simply ridiculous and frustrated me no end.

As you can imagine, dissatisfaction was felt on both sides, and we each returned to our own favoured means of entertainment, which was probably for the best.  After all, you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it a superhero!  Anyway, speaking of homemade Thor hammers, you may be wondering what mine was made from.  Well, back in 1968, there used to be a toy called, I think, ZIP-ZAP - which was a twin-coloured bit of oblong sponge with a long elastic cord running through it.  The idea of this 'game' was for two players to stand at opposite ends of the room and quickly swing the sponge between them, trying to grab it between their knees.  Whoever managed it 'best out of three' was the winner.  My 'mallet' was the sponge tied to a cane with thongs painted onto it - with blue HUMBROL paint no less.  (I didn't have brown or yellow.)

Anyway, it's time to wrap up this self-indulgent post, and I'll do so by telling you all something that I probably shouldn't admit to.  A few years ago, I purchased a replica toy hammer of Thor (a large one) from my local comicbook shop - the one bearing the inscription "Whosoever holds this hammer..."  One dark night, I got a pal to run me along to my former neighbourhood, and unobserved (I hope), I walked over the remaining half of the field where I'd played Thor as a kid (the other half had become the site of amenity apartments for the elderly some years before), clutching my mighty uru (okay, plastic) hammer, remembering and re-creating a moment from my childhood, and bringing the past closer to the present in the process.  Sure, bonkers I know, but what the hell...!

I now have a newer version of Thor's MJOLNIR - more like the JACK KIRBY incarnation - and I may well be tempted to take it along to my old environs one fine ebony evening and repeat the glad event.  So, if things suddenly turn quiet on this blog for a while, you'll all know what's transpired.  After all, I can't publish posts from the cells of my local cop shop - there's no flippin' internet access.  Oh, just one more thing... "For ODIN!  For ASGARD!" 

 (Nurse, I feel much better now.)

******

I've just remembered re-creating Thor's battle with HERCULES (which I'd just read in the 1968 FANTASTIC Summer Special) with STUART MUNN, in a corner of the school playground, either on a weekend or during the summer holidays.  Doubtless another time when another kid was so bored, he played along with my superhero fantasies.

RECOMMENDED READING: THE SILVER AGE DOOM PATROL OMNIBUS...

Images copyright DC COMICS

Here's a great book I got a few days ago - The SILVER AGE

DOOM PATROL OMNIBUS.  Intrigued?  Then read the official

spiel on the back of the dustjacket below, then race around to your

neighbourhood comicbook shop and buy a copy.  You'll be glad you

did, or my name isn't ARNOLD DRAKE.  (What's that?   My name

isn't Arnold Drake?  Well, whaddya know?!  Never mind -

you'll still be glad you did anyway.) 

BABE OF THE DAY - STEFANIE POWERS...

If STEFANIE POWERS is The GIRL

From U.N.C.L.E., does that make her my

niece?  If so, I'll have to sit down and have a

HART To HART with her, but it won't be

easy - in fact it'll be 'moider'!

HERE'S A BUBBLY WEE DALEK...

Apparently, this DALEK bubble bath from

1976 is regarded as quite collectable.  A friend

saw it in a charity shop for £1 and bought it for

me.  A nice addition to my Dalek ranks, eh?

RECOMMENDED READING: TRUE BELIEVERS - AMAZING FANTASY #15 & AMAZING SPIDER-MAN #1 REPRINTS...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS

Here's a pair of comics that every True Believer will want to get their hands on - SPIDEY's origin tale and the 1st issue of his very own mag.  Available now from all good comic shops! (Psst, here's the best bit - they're only around 75 pence each - buy a dozen!)

STAN LEE'S WIFE JOAN PASSES AWAY...

I'm sure that all Criv-ites would like to pass on their condolences to STAN LEE and his family, on the sad death of Stan's beloved wife JOAN.  British-born Joan was a model when she and Stan met, and it's believed that Stan came up with The FANTASTIC FOUR in response to Joan's suggestion that he write comics the way he'd like to see them written.  The rest, as they say, is history.

BABE OF THE DAY - GABRIELLE (TRIVAGO) MILLER...

Hey, it's 'Miller time'!  Here's probably

the hottest burd on the telly at the moment -

GABRIELLE MILLER.  Wotta babe.

HAUNTED HORROR COVER GALLERY - PART ONE...

Images copyright GUSSONI-YOE STUDIO, Inc.

A friend gave me the first 16 issues of HAUNTED

HORROR recently (as well as as the first 6 of WEIRD

LOVE, and no it's not porn), so that's all the excuse I

need to have a cover gallery.  Here's the first half, the

second will follow before you know it.  And away we

go!  (Now that's what I call a short intro.)

(BOND) BABE OF THE DAY - JULIE EGE...

Here's the delectable JULIE EGE sitting

on a drum.  (She's always banging on about

something.  Dare I say "Boom-boom!" ?)

THERE'S BEEN A MURDER...

I witnessed the aftermath of a murder a few days ago.  The body was cordoned off behind yellow tape and bits of the corpse lay about on the surrounding grass.  The victim?  A tree I'd known from when I was 7 years old, situated in a far corner of the grounds of my old primary school.  I'd seen it only the week before, I'm sure, and had been glad to note it still guarding its space, but just a short time later it was dead and dismembered, and yet another old friend from childhood had bitten the dust.

I presume it must've been diseased, hence the tape around it warning people to keep their distance in case branches fell onto them, or the old tree collapsed on top of someone.  Still, it was yet alive when the chainsaw made its first cut into its trunk and it must've felt each burning blow.  It's at peace now, though I miss it standing like a sentinel in the grounds of my old school, which is actually now a new school as the old one was demolished (and replaced) a few years back, yet another victim of time.

The base of the tree and its roots remain in the ground however, and maybe new shoots will sprout from it, as I've seen happen with other trees.  I once saw one that had been shattered by lightning and wasn't much more than a husk, but after several years, it grew back to its former glory.  I have 'before and after' photos somewhere, which I'll post whenever I find them, so that's something for all you Criv-ites to look forward to.  (He said modestly, ever the optimist.)

Some of you may wonder why I mark the passing of this tree, but it's like seeing yet another piece of my childhood being consigned to the dustbin of history, and with that comes the chilling reminder that my time to join them isn't so far away as it once was.

******

Incidentally, I was standing at the foot of this tree (perhaps even clambering over its lower trunk) when my primary school dinner-bell rang on the day that this incident occurred back in the 1960s. 

THROUGH THE... BEDROOM WINDOW...

Back in 1983, when my family moved from this house, the tenancy still had almost 3 weeks to run.  We moved out early because the house we were moving to was new-built, so it was lying empty waiting for us.  We left the odd piece of furniture at our old address, to be collected at our leisure before our tenancy officially ended.  During that period, although we were living in our new home, I'd now and then pop into our old one and sit on a wicker chair and gaze out of my old bedroom window at the sun going down on the horizon.

I knew I'd miss my old view, and never quite felt that I'd ever get used to the 'new' one.  Well, as regular readers know, just over four years later, we returned to our former domicile and I was reunited with that view, and for the next 20 years, I seldom thought about the house we'd vacated, or the view from its bedroom window.  Now, however, another 10 years down the line, I find myself recalling it with almost the same kind of fondness I had for the one I returned to.  I find it strange that I immediately fell into the familiarity of my old view and never gave the 'new' one much thought - until relatively recently that is.

I just accepted being back in my old home to the extent that it almost felt as if I'd never been away.  However, I looked out of my window tonight, and I think it was the first time since being back that I realised I'd taken it pretty much for granted.  Tonight was the first time it'd struck me that the view I'm again so familiar with was once part of my past life, and not (for just over 4 years) my then-present one.  I sometimes feel as if I only dreamt about living in another house, but now and again I'm reminded that, no - it was for real.

You know what?  I reckon that if for some reason, I had to live in that house again, then I'd probably feel as if my 30 years back here were a dream, not the other way around.  No real point to this by the way, I just thought I'd share with you the strange thoughts that can occur to a fella from glancing out his bedroom window. 

MONSTER OF THE MONTH - FRANKENSTEIN...

The best FRANKENSTEIN Monster

of all - British-born BORIS KARLOFF.

DOCTOR WHO - AN ANNUAL EVENT...

Images copyright BBC TV

Actor DAVID BRADLEY (as WILLIAM HARTNELL)

holds aloft the very first Dr. WHO Annual - or does he?  In

actual fact, it's a re-imagined version for the 2013 programme,

An ADVENTURE In SPACE And TIME.  That's the cover

of the published 1965 book, below.  Note that it doesn't feature

a DALEK, though the original mock-up of the cover (which

didn't much resemble the finished item) did.

And below is the very cover mentioned in the above

paragraph.  Maybe it was ditched because of the red

(or so it looks to me) TARDIS.

BABE OF THE DAY - MICHELLE KEEGAN...

MICHELLE KEEGAN is playing

'hide and seek'.  I'd better explain to

her that she should stand behind the

pillar in that case, not in front of it.

(Maybe she wants to be found?)

CRIVENS' ALTERNATIVE COVERS: THE MIGHTY THOR #144...

Images copyright MARVEL COMICS

Above, the published cover of The MIGHTY THOR #144, pencilled by JACK KIRBY and inked by VINCE COLLETTA in 1966.  Below, the rejected original cover, inked and lettered by MIKE ROYER in 2000.  In the second picture below, is a 1975 reprint of the above ish.  Some diehard Kirby fans often criticise any changes to his art, resenting even the slightest variation from the original.  I've even seen the change to the baddie's mace in the above cover being questioned, but to me it's blatantly obvious why - the original looked like a cartoon duck's head!

Thor would've laughed himself to death on sight of it, before it had even hit him.  The fact is, STAN LEE often knew best.  As for the rejected cover, it's a belter sure enough, but perhaps it was felt it made Thor appear to be losing the battle, or was considered just too difficult to ink.  (Mike Royer showed that wasn't so.)  Any theories as to why it was rejected?  Let's read them in our ever-lovin' comments section, frantic ones.

SPACE - THE FINAL FRONTIER...

You'll never know how I suffer for my 'art', Criv-ites.

"Art?" you say, "isn't that a rather pretentious word for a

mere blog?"  Maybe as regards my written content, but not

for its 'cosmetic' appearance as regards the paragraphs of text.

I spend a good deal of time trying to keep everything consistently

symmetrical and well laid out, but I hadn't allowed for the effects

that different browsers have on the layout, or even the fickle

nature of individual browsers, which infuriatingly differ

from one minute to the next.  Wait and I'll explain.

If I finish a post and it looks perfect on one browser, it

might not look quite the same on another.  Also, if you access

this blog from Facebook, the layout is haphazard and nothing

like it looked when I pressed 'publish' at my end.  Even on the

same browser, the font size changes slightly every so often,

throwing my carefully prepared spacing out of kilter.

AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!!!!

So if you see any little (or even big) departures from the

norm in the spacing of an occasional sentence or paragraph,

and find yourself thinking: "H'mm, ol' Kid's been a bit careless

there", chances are that it's down to the vagaries of Blogger,

not myself.  Honest.  Try accessing it on a few different

   browsers and you'll see precisely what I mean.   

CRIVENS' CRACKING COVERS: STAR WARS WEEKLY #71...

Image copyright relevant owner

Seeing this cover on ebay recently, reminded me that it used to adorn my bedroom wall back in the late '70s - mainly due to the fact that I found the picture of PRINCESS LEIA seriously sexy.  Know what?  I still do!

BABE OF THE DAY - IMOGEN HASSALL...

The lovely IMOGEN HASSALL

waits patiently for me to change into my

trunks before we go for a dip in the ocean.

Only one problem - I can't swim.  Never

mind though - it shouldn't be too difficult

finding something buoyant to grab

onto to help me stay afloat.

A MOMENT IN TIME, NOT FAR REMOVED...

Chances are, dear readers, that you've moved house

at least once in your life.  Do you remember the night before

flitting, and the day you arrived at your new home?  I do - in

all my houses but the second one.  I no longer recall actually 

leaving the house, but I do very much remember arriving

at our new home, the third one.  Why do I ask?

For quite a while after moving into a new house, one's

repertoire of memories is still very much anchored in the

previous one.  On your first day in a new home, if you wish to

recall anything that happened more than a day ago, your recol-

lection of any event is set in the time of your former home, for

however long you happened to be there.  Was it five years -

ten?  Then, as I say, most of your accessible memories
are rooted in your old house, not your new one.

What am I on about you may be wondering?  Well, I

sort of feel that, until you can cast your mind back any sig-

nificant amount of time and it's a memory of something that

occurred in your current residence, then it's almost like you're

still living in your old one and haven't yet fully 'acclimatised' to
the change.  I'm maybe overstating things to make my point,

but it's perhaps not 'til the balance of memories of both

houses is at least equal that you've fully settled in.

What I'm trying to suggest is that, when the majority

of your recollections are based in a different location, in

an unconscious sort of way you're still living there.  It's a bit

like your partner dying (or you getting divorced) and you re-

marrying soon after.  The day after your wedding, you can't

think of your spouse beyond that point without it being your

previous one.  It takes a while to build up a new stock of

memories so that when you think back any length of

time, your new spouse is part of the picture.

Okay, I'm stating the obvious in order to prepare

you for the ground along which we're headed, which is

this.  Sometimes, when I wake in the morning, because it's

the same room I slept in when I was 13, it's easy to imagine

that it's my first day in that room.  Meaning it's only the day

before that I was sleeping in my old room, making the time I

resided in my former home feel much more immediate and

recent than it is, which I find comforting.  It feels like my

time in that former home, and therefore my child-

hood, is no further away than the day before.

That feeling is fleeting and only lasts 'til I see the

old man in the mirror staring back at me, but for a brief

instant, a cherished moment in time is resurrected and it

feels like I'm not so far removed from it.  Trust me, that's

mainly a good feeling - until it passes and reality once

again reminds me of the cold, hard facts of life.

THE ORIGINAL DOCTOR IS BACK...

The best 'cliff-hanger' moment in DOCTOR WHO is probably the end of the initial episode of the first DALEKS serial in 1963.  (Which was actually episode five of the BBC's new teatime programme.)  The sight of a Dalek 'plunger' coming into view sent viewers into a frenzy of anticipation for what was to come next.  Just what was on the other end of that sucker arm?  I really can't recall any other moment in the show's history which matched that moment for making viewers determined to tune in for the next episode.  Until tonight that is.  (Though you might have to be around my age to feel that way.)

A while back, I suggested that the Beeb should make a series of Doctor Who starring DAVID BRADLEY as The Doctor.  David is a talented character actor who brought the late WILLIAM HARTNELL back to life in the 50th Anniversary programme, An ADVENTURE In SPACE And TIME in 2013, and now, by the looks of things, he's playing The Doctor himself.  This confirms the rumour that the 'original' Doctor was going to be the current (but departing) Doctor's companion in this year's upcoming Christmas special, but I still reckon the BBC should give David Bradley a series as the time-travelling Time Lord, or occasional specials at the very least.

Anyone agree?  Let's hear from you.

BABE OF THE DAY - LESLIE BIANCHINI...

Women, eh?  It's only just turned July

and LESLIE BIANCHINI is already look-

ing out her Christmas decorations.  That's what

I call being prepared.  Surely she was never in

the boy scouts?  (There's a joke there some-

where, but I ain't going near it.)

THE GOING RATE...

Lee looked at the strange figure in front of him and eyed it up and down in a quizzical sort of way.  He wasn't quite sure if red was really Nick's colour... and as for those horns and the tail, well... but he'd let that lie for the moment.

"How much?" he asked at last.

"Two cents" came the reply.

"Two cents?  Are you kidding me?  It's gotta be worth much more than that.  C'mon!" he bellowed, indignantly.

"That's the going rate for a soul these days" Nick said, dismissively.  "You think you'll get more upstairs?  He pays nothing... figures they all belong to Him anyway."

"But two cents, man.  That ain't worth spit."  He began to wonder if he'd made a mistake getting involved in this deal.

"Take it or leave it" came the reply. "Now, I'm busy... either sign or stop wasting my time.  There's plenty more fish in the sea you know."  He stood up as if to leave, fully aware of the effect it would have.  He'd done it too many times before.

Lee panicked.  This might be the only chance he'd ever get... the only chance for getting his name in lights short of changing his name to 'Exit'.  The only chance of attracting women (men, even... he'd always wanted to try), the high-life he'd always craved, back from he was a little boy that nobody liked because he stank of pee and looked at other boys' 'bits' in the toilet.  His one and only chance of escaping the obscurity which defined his life, slaving away in his little basement room night after night, in that drug-induced haze which freed him from his inhibitions and allowed his imagination free-reign.  A twisted, sick and perverted imagination, true, but it was his ticket out.  Or so he thought. 

He seized the paper in front of him greedily, and scrawled his signature in the space provided.

"We're done" said Nick, as he headed for the door.  "I'll be in touch."

His laughter as he ascended the stairs from the little basement apartment stayed with Lee for the rest of his days.  It haunted his dreams and allowed him no peace for the remainder of his empty, miserable, wasted life.

And short, too. 

THE RECYCLER (A CHARACTER PIECE)...

Agnes liked the watch.  It was an expensive one and the woman was dead with no friends or family, so what harm would it do to take it?  She slipped it into the pocket of her uniform and made her way to the hospital canteen.

"After all," she thought, sipping her gin-enhanced tea, "it'll only go to waste.  It's not really stealing, it's... recycling."  She was pleased with this analogy, and a self-satisfied smile spread across her smug face. "All the work I do, I'm entitled to a few perks."

Agnes was a nasty piece of work.   The kind of person who only 'helped' others so that she could feel superior to them.  "Look at them," she would think, "lying there in their own filth.  I clean them, I fetch and carry for them - they'd be nothing without me." And thus would she wallow in the misery of others to validate her own existence. Like a parasite needs its host, Agnes needed the sick and needy.  Her life was nothing without them.  The irony of her needing her patients as much if not more than they needed her was lost on her.  If ever a more selfish, spiteful, sickening and soulless creature strode God's good Earth, their existence was lost to recorded history.

Every act of 'goodness' did not go unannounced.  Every tenuous opportunity to introduce her latest act of 'charity' into a conversation did not go unexploited.  She was her own best public relations officer when it came to relating all her many splendid and 'unselfish efforts' on behalf of the disadvantaged.  It is the nature of vultures to feed off the dead, and Agnes strode the corridors of the dying in much the same way.  She fed off their groans and screams, and drank in their agony.  When they expired, she feasted on the tears and misery of their loved-ones, revelling in the fact that she was in the midst of it all and that it gave purpose to her being.

Like I said... she was a nasty piece of work.

WHERE MORTALS FEAR TO TREAD...

The stranger rode through the gates of the city with a determined frown upon his scarred but not unhandsome features.  His ebony steed trotting proudly under him, his hand resting easily upon the ornately fashioned hilt of the sword which hung by his side, he slowly made his way into the heart of the sprawling township.  He had travelled long and far, but his quest would soon be over he told himself.  Thank the gods!

Directing his mount down the narrow, uneven streets of the crowded market place, his dark, smouldering eyes, like fiery embers, stared hard at each trader, obviously in search of someone.  Those that noticed his piercing stare shuddered and quickly averted their eyes, pretending unconvincingly that they were unaware of the stranger's gaze.  "Pity the man he's looking for" they thought, each one relieved it wasn't them.

The stranger, for his part, as if ignorant of the eyes which fixed on his back as he passed, wound his horse through the swarming populace, until, eventually, his attention was arrested by an elderly, cadaverous individual, who stood stooped over a stall with a variety of menacing-looking instruments displayed upon it.  Congealed blood crusted the instruments, and also stained the stall-holder's threadbare habiliments, and when the stranger noticed this, not for the first time since he had begun his mission, he trembled inwardly.

He dismounted and approached the man, who, regarding the stranger with interest, drew back the flap of the tent behind the stall, entered, and beckoned him to follow. The stranger cautiously obliged and stepped inside.  He scrutinized the gloomy interior at great length and then studied the stall-holder nervously.

"Are you Korath?" he at last demanded from the man, who, compared to the stranger, seemed almost like a dwarf, though in truth he was of no mean stature. Sensing hesitation in his voice, the stall-holder allowed a contemptuous sneer to flicker across his vulture-like features.  "And what if I am?" he enquired softly, unintimidated by the other's height.  His sepulchural tone sent an icy chill of fear down the stranger's spine.  "I seek a man named Korath" said the stranger edgily, "and from the description I was given, or rather, extracted......"  Here he faltered, as if from somewhere far away, a long-suppressed, unpleasant memory had suddenly resurfaced in his mind's eye.  Recovering quickly from his momentary pause, however, he went on "......from a whelp now dead, you appear to be he whom I seek!"

As he spoke, a black servant, easily equal to the stranger's great height and almost twice as broad, entered the tent bearing the various strange implements that had been exhibited outside and set them to rest upon a rough-hewn, bloodstained wooden table.  The stall-holder edged his way closer to the bench, trying to conceal his furtive manner with a casual air, but the stranger, with a sudden look of fear and anger, swept the man's legs from under him with a powerful kick.  "Your actions betray your identity!" he thundered.  "I was a fool to come here!"  "Do you truly believe you had a choice in the matter?" the stall-holder cackled, picking himself up from the floor.

The stranger, puzzled by the man's words, momentarily stood undecided in his actions.  The stall-holder, taking advantage of this weakness, shouted a command in a strange tongue to his ebony servant, who instantly moved towards the stranger in an attempt to subdue him.  However, the stranger, now galvanized into frenzied activity, drew his mighty sword from his side and beheaded the servant with one fierce, swift stroke. The bloodied torso tottered for a moment, and then, like a marionette whose strings had been suddenly severed, fell to the ground, a lifeless husk.

Unnoticed by the stranger, however, the stall-holder had meanwhile crept around behind him, withdrawing something from under one of the folds in his robe as he did so.  There was a sudden flash of movement as a vicious bludgeon cleaved through the air towards the stranger's unprotected head.  The next moment, consciousness was racing abruptly away from him, to be replaced by the fearful, terrifying clutch of an all-enveloping, icy darkness.

******

When the stranger came to, he found himself reclining on several cushions of a luxurious purple velvet, which, though oddly at variance with the other rather spartan trappings, were spread of the floor of the tent.   For a moment he wondered where he was, and then, remembering, a look of dread flashed through his eyes, but disappeared when he realized he was alive and unhurt.  The emaciated visage of the stall-holder appeared before him, nodding benignly.  "Is it done?" the stranger asked, incredulously.  "It is done!" replied the man called Korath.

The stranger rose to his feet and removed six gleaming gold coins from a well-worn leather pouch hanging from his belt and tossed them onto the table.  "One for your services, the other five to replace your slave" he said, nodding in the direction of the corpse, which still lay undisturbed where it had fallen.  "A thousand pardons for my disrespectful behaviour earlier" begged the stranger. "Some demon must have possessed my senses.  I... I just lost my head".  "As did my servant" said Korath, good-naturedly.

"I trust you won't reveal my cowardice to anyone" continued the stranger, nervously toying with his cloak in an attempt to cover his embarrassment.  "I swear by Krell, old one, that it was totally unlike me. Usually I'm quite stout-hearted.  A curse on my head if I'm lying to you!"  "Never fear" soothed Korath with a twinkle in his eye.  "Even the bravest of men fear a visit to... the tooth-extractor!"

He chortled inwardly to himself as he handed the stranger his recently removed molar and watched him depart.