Captain Am and Blanche the Snake


The language oh no the language don't mean a dime to me. Not when I'm in the arms of Blanche Sitznski. Oh groin toil, let plausible solutions rule over this universe.
I had to return my brain and logic at entrance. Then there it shone, glamorously, the eternal light - or else a day of decline.
They said everything was possible in Blanche's arms once I turned myself in. My brain a swollen muscle, needed compression.
Everything possible, if only I didn't feel bad for it - for it, for myself. A lot of baskets of goodness would come to me. Plenty awesome manicured matriculated stuff. Masticated.
Wow-ho-hoh!
That is life then, I thought, a turmoil on the axis of the chart of soon-termination. No more thoughts, Blanche commanded, in her snake arms, was to return the key to my neuro-linguistic patterning to her as well. 
The lights slowly go out. I should hit her, but you don't hit girls. I won't make that mistake again. You do hit girls. But why did I agree to let her hit me?
Kawoom, straight onto my conk. Conquered more and more manspace, manhood gathering attention as brain functions diminish. Swollgland dementia down my throat and up my arse.
I didn't know I would be eternalised in Marvel's #310.
No one's gonna come to my rescue now. I could have a doughnut, anyone care for a coffee? A note of jazz? A new universe with me intact, imploding next to this one? The sheer frantic motion of particles rearranged, as Blanche and I picnic over papers in Central Park with a summer breeze stroking over her soft skin. She's 6.2ft and all, not bad, my type of girl, but here it works to my disadvantage.
Her snake fangs extend to blowing bubbles and boxes containing nuclear material explode all around me. Pang. Pang. Pang. She encircles me with chaos, and soon the entirely enticing suffocation starts. Doctor's orders. But it doesn't matter to me. My brain was overrated. I was never the hero America wanted me to be. Now I am thinking with my guts, against 6.2ft of womansnake. Whattodo? Helpmenow! Whereyouat?
It could have been an easy breezy night on a slender mission with high impact success. The sort of stuff that cavorts out of the fingers of more talented artists in charge of me. But they arrived me into this dead end of a woman.
The Snake Empire dawns now with Anaconda in full force.
Weirdly, I didn't know that suffocation could feel so good. I can't make a sound. My mouth is pressed between her breast-plate-armour and not a mousey whisper escapes it. Lousy man I am, if America hears about this I will be a shame and there will be no more Captain Am comic runs. But it feels too good here, without power, in her serpentine entanglement, I don't want to do what I have to do. Not anymore, not quite now. 
I know I have one last way out. It's the shield.
I could give it a twirl and it'll come tumbling towards her blond locks. It'll soon have her crumbling in ashes. Otherwise the perspectives are golden-bleak, even with 30x the power of man I couldn't loosen this embrace.  
Oxygen races greedily out of my lungs, as I dream in quicker succession of the alternate story. Welcome to:
'Blanche and I'
Well, start off with picnic, then maybe the proposal and wedding ring? I could get her 6.2ft blondeness into bed quicker that way. I could enrol into her service without redo, while she still chews on the biscuit and watches the kites in the sky. I buy her a house. A great big hound, to stand guard, while we make love and howl.
She's always on top.
We make love all the time.
I don't know anything about Blanche, her family's probably from Eastern Europe somewhere, but what I see is what I get is enough for me - a day of eternal light, or else decline.
Or else decline.
By now buried under a litter of radioactive boxes in this unrecognisable place, still quietly breath-terminated between the snake's breastplates.
And the news goes out, heralded by trombones:
America's Captain is a fucking masochist. He fucking loved to lose against the snake.
For my average white trash reader that might come as a big disappointment.
But didn't they ever have an inkling?
I mean, the way that nylon costume clings to my skin! I was never all that normal. Wowwow, careful, here comes a hero that likes to lose.
Who serenades the womansnake even as he is obliterated into comic book oblivion by a young Eastern European mightily enhanced woman.

Paul Neary and Dennis Janke go mental in 1968. This is not the way the story goes. This is not the way the newly emerged Captain America ends. Not in the arms of Anaconda. They give a call to one Mark Gruenwald, in charge of the story. Mental Mark was probably not all there last night. The story boards the artists have in front of them are complete bullshit.
'Our Captain is not a masochist, or whatever you call this, capisce?' Paul sighs.
'I'm not drawing this crazy weird stuff.' Dennis agrees. He's not gonna draw this weirdo shit either.
'Finish her off with the shield, as is proper' the creative team demands.

And so it was then. The Captain, after a brief pause of breathless joy, twisted his metal shield and knocked the snake on the head. Whambam! She was out flat. He frees himself from her extended arms. Comes up from under the litter of boxes. Emerges a proper straight-faced American hero (albeit in nylons, but aren't they all!). Before he leaves he gives Blanche Sitznski a last look. Damn pity. Damn pretty this womansnake thing. 6.2ft and blond. And busty.
He bloody well liked it in her fangs. 

END