From: lawrence@ctron.com (Gary S. St. Lawrence)
Newsgroups: rec.arts.comics.misc
Subject: POCKET MAN meets THE EX-MEN!
Date: 6 Nov 92 22:12:16 GMT
Reply-To: lawrence@olympus.ctron.com (Gary S. St. Lawrence)
Organization: Cabletron Systems INc.


			POCKET MAN MEETS THE EX-MEN
			  Clash of the Tight Ones


	The wait wasn't too long at the dry cleaners where Pocket Man
was having some new pocket designs placed on his orange workman's jump
suit. He'd seen some crisp new patterns in the fashion magazines which
he knew would work well on his multi-pocketed outfit.
	As he sat in the vynil-covered green chair, awaiting the calling
of his number, he vaguely noticed a group of strangely clad and unusually
large women enter the store. From the corner of his eye he counted five
of them: two rather thin, one nearly obese and the other two were of
average size ... for professional wrestlers. A twinge went off in his
mind. Maybe this was danger. Maybe these women were villains about to
embark on some heinous plan for world domination! Maybe they were a
quintet of biker women with a fetish for spandex! Maybe ... naaaaaaah!
Pocket Man went back to reading the five-week old issue of "Persons"
magazine, the magazine for politically correct gossip junkies.
	Suddenly, a booming baritone voice blared though the laundromat.
One of the two mid-sized women had produced a large cannon-like handgun,
very similar to any weapon ever drawn by Rob Liefield. In a thick
Philadalphia accent, she roared, "Alright, nobody moves and nobody gets
air conditioned! We're the Ex-Men and we're here to put a stop to
blatant sexism in the fashion industry!"
	Following suit, the other four produced equally bulky, wide
nosed incredible weapons, which prompted pocket man to wonder just how
they carried them in under spandex clothing without causing rippling
bulges in their clothing, much the way all the equipment Forge carries
never seems to weigh him down and all fits neatly in smal 4" by 6" pouches.
	"We, the Ex-Men, are sick and tired of clothing designed for men
that have no style, no verve, no ... pinache," the apparent leader of
the group said. "By taking over every laundromat, dry cleaner and 
seamstress shop in the city, we can ensure that men never have to wear
drab, boring clothing again!"
	The dozen or so patrons of the shop lie quivering on the floor,
terrified at the obviously mad tone of the Ex-Men. Pocket Man sat still,
assessing the five villains, trying to think of ways of combatting them
calmly, without endangering the innocents.
	"Umm, excuse me," Pocket Man said, rising from his seat with
his hands raised to his chest. "If you have a problem with the garment
industry, why attack here where clothes just get cleaned or repaired?
Why not attack at the industry's heart in New York?"
	Pocket Man figured the odds of five to one, especially
considering the size and musculature of his opponents, was a losing
bet. So he figured that if he could trick them into leaving Net.ropolis,
the nearly ridiculous multitude of superheroes in the Big Apple could
handle the Ex-Men.
	"Who are you Ex-Men?" Pocket Man asked, hoping to stall until
he could devise a strategy. "What brings you to Net.ropolis?"
	The largest of the five, looking also the most stupid, stepped
forward, stumbled over the too-long hemline on her aerobic skirt.
	"Who tol' youse ya could talk?" She said, shoving the 65mm
cannon in Pocket Man's ribs.
	"Yeah," said another, who stood armed with a red hot curling
iron. "What're you? One a' them fancy, schmancy sooper-hee-roes or
sumthin'?"
	"Me? Oh no. I'm just here having some alterations done," Pocket 
Man said, trying to mentally inventory what he was carrying. "I just
think, you know, it's not every day that five rather large women
walk into a dry cleaners and demand world domination. I figure you
must have a pretty interesting history. That's all.""
	"Yeah?" said the leader. "Well, smatterfact, we got a real
kicker of a history. Siddown over dere and I'll tell ya where the
Ex-Men came from."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

SPECIAL     COLLECTOR'S     EDITION	    SUPER-SECRET     ORIGIIN    TALE

				OF      THE

		___________________________________________
		|					  |
		|	BIRTH      OF       THE      	  |
                |                                         |
		|              EX  -  MEN!!!		  |
                |                                         |
		|_________________________________________|

only 2,908,893,129,773,012,125,994,602 will be printed*

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	"We used ta be construction workers over at the Schmilton Towers,"
the leader said as the room became all wavy in typical flashback fashion.
"We was just a reg'lar bunch a' guys wit' reg'lar jobs and reg'lar
lives. Ya know, reg'lar guys. But what wuzn`t reg'lar about us is that
at lunch time everyday, we'd sit on the safety wall at the site an' watch
all the 9-ta-5ers walk by in their grey bizniz suits and the fancy 
corporate ladies in their dressy, snazzy work outfits. It used ta gall
us no end ta see all dem guys dressed in the same kinda dull, grey
suits while the wimmin wuz wearin really flashy, hot clothes, wit'
brilliant colors and patterns. And the accessories!"
	The leader went on to explain how day in and day out, the five
construction workers would watch the women routinely outclass the men
in their fashions, and that anger just seethed until one fateful day.
	"We was on the wall, watchin' as usual, when we sees dis guy
come walkin outta dat fancy clothing store 'cross da street from 
our site. You know the one? The one wit` the really stunning window
displays?
	"Well, this guy comes out in a striking stripe and solid
outfit that most anyone would die for and a band of them corporate
wimmin just jumped all over him," the leader continued. "They saw a
set of clothes and not the man in them and they went crazy. It was 
like bloodlust! They were ripping this poor guy's clothes right off
his body right there in the street. He was helpless and they stole
his entire outfit!"
	"It was den and dere," added the second Ex-Man, "dat we dun
decided to fight for the commonly dressed man, to win the war against
fascist clothing designers who continue to flood the markets and 
markdown outlets with cheap, poorly made and hideously designed
clothing for men, while the women of the world get all the paisleys,
patterns and materials."
	"We even got sex-change operations so we could infiltrate
the woman-dominated garment district unnoticed," the third jumped
in. "That's why we call ourselves ... the Ex-Men!"


*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	Pocket Man thought for a moment, eyeing a possible way out
of fighting the Ex-Men and helping them at the same time.
	"Listen," he said. "If there was a way for you to change the
way the garment industry treats men, without having to go to war,
would you take it?"
	"A'course we would," the big bruiserette said. "But dere ain't
no other way. Don' be a joik!"
	"No seriously." Pocket Man said. "I know a way you can drastically
influence the future of men's clothing and nobody has to get hurt! Let
me show you."
	Pocket man began reaching into his breast pocket, upon which the
five massive former males took close aim with their gleaming, metal
machines of doom, in a spectacular splash-page effect using the barrel
of the leader's blaster as the first point of a three-point perspective
panel which made the weapon seem incredibly oversized and far too 
heavy and large for even someone of the leader's size to carry without
help.
	"Hold on, I'm just going to show you all something I have in
my pocket here," Pocket Man said, slowing his hand. "It's not a 
weapon, I assure you."
	"Awright" said Ex-Man #1. "But, do it slow!"
	Working to the bottom of his breast pocket, the hero from
the Planet Kareol produced a sparkling new Singer Sew-Matic 9000,
complete with auto-spool, multiple thread bobbin, adamantium needle
and patented "cushion-eze" foot pedal (retails for $749.95). From
his hip pocket he pulled another, and another, and another, until he
was standing encircled by five identical models of the worlds most
advanced sewing machine.
	The Ex-Men cooed, their rippling muscles relaxing on the 
large triggers of thier impossibly complex weapons, none of which
could possibly contain less than the full power of a small nuclear
generation facility. Their eyes widened as they saw the olive
green, brown and white mechanical marvels before their feet.
A slight trickle of drool escaped the bruiserette's lip.
	"Why don't you take these and create your own men's fashions?"
Pocket Man asked. "Go ahead and take them. I don't need them cluttering
up my pocket anyway! Go on! Take them and revolutionize the garment
industry from the inside! You know you can do it!"
	THe five lunged for the sewing machines, clawing their way
to their favorite, humbly thanking Pocket Man as they scurried out
the door with their newfound tools.
	Noticing that each had dropped their preposterous bazooka
like weapons, Pocket Man collected them, straining a thigh muscle in
the process. They did, after all, weigh 240 pounds each. Mustering 
his unearthly, yet slightly above average strength, he managed to
store each of the weapons in a large cargo pocket on his left thigh.
The crowd of patrons rose from the floor, cheering Pocket Man and
pulling several groin, back and stomach muscles in their attempts
to carry him on their shoulders.
	
________________________________________________________________________

	The next morning, Pocket Man was reading the a.m. edition
of Galaxy Today, and noticed a small article in the business section
which was headlined "New men's line produced by former men, setting
trends like a house'a'fire." He smiled to himself, knowing that he'd
done a good thing in preventing the Ex-Men from embarking on their
life of crime.
	A knock came at his LNH quarters door. Typo Lad stood there
holding a package addressed to Pocket Man.
	"Ths cema fro uyo a lttile wil agu," Typo Lad said. "Three
inst' a retrrn adrssed on ti."
	Pocket Man took the package from Typo Lad, noting that he
was going to have to take language lessons if he was to get along
with his fellow LNHers.
	Opening the package, Pocket Man found a suit inside,
a hideous mauve and olive skin-tight spandex suit with bright yellow
sunflowers adorning the sleeves and small purple beads lining the
cuffs and collar. 
	Holding the suit up to the light, Pocket Man winced, noting
other truly ugly design flaws throughout the stitching and make-up
of the costume.
	"Hmmm," he said. ""Maybe I should have fought them. Whether I
won or they killed me, they never would have made THIS!"
	He crumpled the suit into a ball and stuffed it into his
calf pocket and reached for the coffee.

			THE 		END

Pcoket Man - lawrence@Olympus.ctron.com