Sunday, November 12, 2017

Red Nightmare: Some Good Old Fashioned Bad Propaganda

    This was commissioned by the Department of Defense Directorate of Armed Forces Information and Education, whose primary duties were producing training films, but also moonlighted with propaganda shorts to inspire the nation. They began mass producing these during World War II. Once that conflict was over, they turned gears and churned them out, attacking communism and the Soviet Union. Not that the Ruskies didn’t have it coming, but some of this material is downright bad and trite.
    The difference for this short is that while commissioned for release as a short and educational film, it also premiered on TV in the GE True series. The program was a series of shorts, sometimes starring big names, which recreated articles that had appeared in True magazine. True, put out by Fawcett Publications (the same group that created the original Captain Marvel) advertised itself as a men’s magazine that specialized in articles about adventure, true war stories, sports profiles, and the like. 

The episodes falls into a “what if” scenario of the propaganda genre. It imagines an average slob from an average town suddenly placed in that same town if there had been a Communist takeover of the country. This is certainly a scare story, but not without merit. Various aspects of what happens in that town are based on true events in other countries. What makes it hysterical is the main character’s flabbergasted hysteria on finding himself in his altered town, and how everyone else’s acting talent suddenly evaporates upon becoming commies. Like Data from Next Generation, they cannot figure out how to use contractions. “Do not interfere,” instead of “Don’t interfere.”
    The feature is presented like an episode of The Twilight Zone with infamous commie despiser and law-and-order advocate Jack Webb taking the Rod Serling narrator role. Jack Webb, for those who don’t remember, is best known for his detective drama Dragnet where brutal moral lessons are rotely clipped out between gunshots and drug addled hippie vermin. This story isn’t much of an exception. 

    The protagonist, Jerry, takes his sweet life and hot wife for granted. He refuses to participate in the social structure that keeps America strong. He ditches the PTA meeting to go bowling and he intends to blow off his Army Reserve training because it's a pain- which it is. The narrator appears and explains how safe Jerry is in his world but when Jerry goes to sleep,  he will  have a Red Nightmare, here in the Twili...whoops not there. 

    Suddenly, he has no freedoms. Jerry is forced to address the PTA on the glories of communism. His children are turned against him by school teachers and other evil minions of the state (not much different from today). The local church has been converted to a museum dedicated to communist propaganda. His daughter has been brainwashed into volunteering to spend her life on a collective farm (and probably starve to death). And Jerry, poor Jerry, is eventually put on trial for speaking against the state. He is allowed no defense. After his wife testifies against him, his execution is ordered. Jerry makes a speech about the Soviet people awakening one day to overthrow communism, then gets a bullet in the head. Jerry emerges from this nightmare to appreciate America and all her glory, and promises to never, ever, take her for granted again.
    The entire episode is below. Caveat Emptor.  

Saturday, October 21, 2017

Christmas Evil: Best of the Killer Santa Genre (Santa-spolitation?)

I’m not sure if santa-spolitation is recognized as an actual sub-genre of the horror film, but it should be. The tradition of having a sadistic killer dress up as Santa Claus has a long and storied one, dating back to the 1950s and EC comics Tales from the Crypt. Naturally this was one of the first stories adapted to film in the 1972 Tales from the Crypt film with Joan Collins as the killer Santa’s victim, and was adapted in the first season of the HBO show of the same name.
The tradition carried on with Silent Night, Deadly Night and its four sequels. Don’t Open Till Christmas, Yule Die, Satan Claus, To All a Goodnight. And it even continues on today with 2005’s Santa’s Slay (though this one is about the actual Santa killing people), 2010’s Rare Exports, and 2015’s A Christmas Horror Story.
But the best of the best of all these tales of yuletide slaughter has been, and will always be, Christmas Evil. Essentially it is the tale of a man who likes Christmas too much. Having had a shock as a child when he sees his mother being felt up by his father who is dressed as Santa, Harry grows up to be a disturbed individual. Well if he hadn’t, we wouldn’t have much of a film. Of course if such a little thing sets a guy off, he probably had some other issues as well. Eventually he morphs into a weirdo that spys on the local children, logging their activities into the “naughty” or “nice” book.  
The vent that triggered the murders.

Harry isn’t very well liked by anyone. His co-workers at a toy factory use and abuse him. Even his own brother doesn’t really want him around. After learning how few adults respect Christmas, he cracks. Again, if he didn’t, there would be no film. Unlike most of these slasher films, Harry alternates the slaughter by bringing presents to needy children and people deemed “nice”. Eventualy it culminates into a bloodbath between local police and Harry, and results in one of the best endings I have ever seen in a Christmas slasher film.

Strange as this may sound, what sets Christmas Evil apart is that the film has heart. Despite the murders, Harry is a likeable character that you cannot help but root for. He genuinely wants Christmas to be nice for everyone and wishes the whole world would get presents. He simply becomes irritated (a little too irritated) at those who are consistently “naughty”, thus the inevitable murders. If you have to see one film starring a maniac dressed like Santa Claus, make it Christmas Evil

The entire film is below. Enjoy and Caveat Emptor.

Thursday, October 5, 2017

Across the Wounded Galaxy

Across the Wounded Galaxy

by Rex Hurst

Softcover 267 pages
Amazon Listing 

        A forced grown Gen-Human, only three months from his decanting bottle, is shanghaied by a sadistic pirate clan. Three aliens track a gleeful villain who is hell-bent on destroying his own world. A military failure on a ruined planet finds only one chance left for personal glory. All their paths collide together in a galaxy at war. Worlds destroyed. Civilizations ruined. Cities devastated. Join them on this trek across a wounded galaxy. Included here is Chapter 1. 

Across the Wounded Galaxy- Visual Glossary


Zen Rigeln


                   Chapter 1

Species: Gen-Human

Planet of Origin: None
Description: An artificially engineered species, designed to shore up the ranks of the genetically wounded Human race. They are force grown in vats with an average gestation period of four months. Their occupations are predetermined according to commercial demand and a skill set is chemically implanted into their brains. They are mostly employed in bureaucratic and middle management careers or commissioned as lower echelon military officers. While their memory and physical skills are a step above the average Human, their emotional growth varies greatly from their parent race.
Freaky Fact: Due to a lack of childhood indoctrination and societal bigotries, Gen-Humans tend to be attracted to people who they feel are “interesting looking”; ie those who differ wildly from the high standard of beauty to which Gen-Humans themselves are sculpted. Those people usually believe that they’ve hit the jackpot.

            There was a splash of gore and intestines. The masked Phentari whirled, a chainsword clutched in each of its four tentacles. The guard fell apart before him, sliced into four sections across the torso. Ah what skill, what nerve, it took to do that. An accomplishment requiring hours of practice. The Phentari swiped at a cowering nurse, carving off half her face. It was an act of pure sadism, doing nothing to advance the plot. The Phentari revved its swords and lurched into the maternity ward.
            There were two guards in the ward, both firing pistols with impunity. Rather risky thing to do in a hidden room filled with babies. After taking a few hits, the Phentari summersaulted over a crib and speared one guard in the abdomen while simultaneously decapitating the other. The obstacles dealt with, the Phentari raised its weapons. Remember, babies were worth 10 points and preemies 20.
            With the second warning Drake flipped off the game, Lone Phentari 2: Mass Murder is My Hobby, and sat up in his steel chair, pretending to be engaged in his work. He had uploaded a restricted program into his system that warned him whenever the supervisor or any of his cronies were logging in to monitor Drake’s work, giving him time to spruce himself up.
            Drake- DKE-k0018 (as was his full name) was employed in an administrative capacity on the Brethia Stargate Project. Stargates created a stable wormhole from one gate to another. They allowed a ship to move easily from star to star, galaxy to galaxy, without needing to employ warp drive or dip into hyperspace. Easily the quickest method of travel, the demand was so great that a ship could wait for weeks before getting clearance to enter. And with the energy required to maintain these holes, the cost for Stargate travel was appropriately astronomical.
            The Brethia Stargate was an attempt by the Mutzachan Trade Council to create a structure to power hundreds of stargates. To achieve this, they were building a Dyson sphere around the system’s star (with a surface area of 92 billion Earths) to absorb every iota of solar energy emanating from the heavenly body and, after 104 years of construction, it was only 35% complete. It was, quite simply, the single greatest feat of astro-engineering ever attempted. And Drake was bored silly by it.
            By its nature this amazing attempt created incredible amounts of administrative difficulties in all areas- from storage of construction supplies, to housing the ten million workers, to the acquisition of enough paper products so that everyone could clean themselves. This is where Drake came in, or rather Drake’s batch. The entire DKE series, all 50,000 of them, had been developed to address the organizational issues, specifically spoiled food indexing, hazardous material disposal, and septic management. Laugh if you want, but the amount of excrement generated each month could have created its own small moon orbiting the station.
            Day after climate controlled day it was the same grind. Type figures, check figures, adjust figures, order figures. Then walk back to his designated rest area, consume the daily food allotment, complete the regulation exercise regimen, engage in the compulsory social hour with his assigned friend group, watch the film being shown that night, and pass out in his sleep cylinder. One day meshed invisibly into another.
            A waterfall of tiny numbers streamed over Drake’s monitor. It took all of his effort not to sigh or yawn. To the average supervisor (and Drake’s was very average) it looked as if he was sitting in rapt attention, taking in each integer flooding his vision. In reality, his mind was elsewhere.
            After I take care of the Maternity Ward, I should double back and see if any patients have respawned in the Leukemia Ward. If they haven’t, I can toss an incendiary device into the Burns Unit and see who blows up. If that goes well, I should have enough points to earn the Blood Soaked Achievement!
            A further buzz indicated that his Mutzachan superior’s omnipresent eye had cast his gaze at another hapless middle manager. Drake slouched back in his chair and sighed. He wasn’t bad at his job. He couldn’t help but be competent. Having been decanted only three months prior, practically the only knowledge rattling around in his head was the implanted managerial skill suite. It’s just that the thing he was bred to be good at didn’t interest him. 
            Technically the Gen-Human species were designed to be fanatically enthusiastic about their assigned field, but as Drake himself was a living testament to, it was extremely difficult to genetically engineer a body’s personality. One minor fluctuation in the DNA coding could result in a host of new quirks and mental disorders. It was probably why the species had such an abnormally high rate of schizophrenia.
Jake-DKE-r0865, Drake’s co-worker from down the hall, popped his head into the pod.
“Hey,” Jake said. “Did you see? I got in the upper twentieth for Mazian Bubble Bounce this week! Now that’s a feat!”
“Great, buddy. Congratulations.” 
Mazian Bubble Bounce was a game where you tried to keep an amorphous grey blob afloat using a combination of green, red, and blue bubbles, while avoiding random dropping needles. This was a favorite among the DKE series as it depended primarily on muscle memory and required no actual higher brain usage. Some of the others had created a secret leaderboard where they competed for the high score, but Drake didn’t partake. He just liked to lazily shoot things.
“When are you gonna join in?” Jake asked. “That way we can challenge each other. It’ll be fun. Match our wits.”
“I dunno if I want to.”
“Ahh you never know what you want,” Jake said and left.
            What did he want? He wasn’t so sure. Something exciting that he could brag about. Something on the edge. Something that others would ooh and ahh over when they heard. Like a hero from the movies, or the Spiff Blasthandy Tri-V show. They’d slap him on the shoulder and call him brave, maybe buy him a beer. He’d never had any alcohol, but the vids made it look great. Yeah that was Drake’s dream, as vague as it was.
            He snapped to. There had been a noise far far away, one that was distinctly different from the usual hums and buzzes of his artificial environment. He couldn’t exactly place it. Then his screen flickered and the near fleshless face of a Zen Rigeln appeared.
 Drake knew the species without having met any, they being one of the 12 core races making up the Galactic Alliance. They tended to adhere to a religious philosophy of pacifism and healing, codified in a series of interminable rituals and exhausting canons that was of little use to any outsider except as a cure for insomnia. The Zen’s had a reputation for being sanctimonious, but this one seemed different.
“Hello,” the Zen said in the standard trade dialect, “I don’t know you… but I hate you!”
            Drake heard the words echoed in the hallway and stepped out to see that every monitor and screen had been hijacked. If this unknown person had managed to send his message to the entire station, it was indeed an impressive hack.
            “I hate you because you live. I hate you because you breathe. I hate you because you can think. I hate you because you have ideas other than my own.”
            All of the overhead lights turned to a warning red and the evacuation alarm boomed, drowning out the rest of the figure’s words. The monitors cut in with a yellow circle- the universal symbol for emergency. Drake panicked. He knew the routine, had been drilled on escape procedures, but when imminent atmospheric collapse loomed all discipline deserted him.
            He ran down the hall screaming and shoving others out of the way. The hysteria was infectious. Soon the entire section broke down into a free-for-all with Gen-Humans, Mutzachans, Orions, Goola-Goolas and a host of other races all pushing, kicking, tripping, and biting each other to reach the survival bubbles.
 Drake had just accidentally knocked another Gen-Human down a flight of stairs when an explosion rocked his section, bowling everyone over. Then what had just been a confused struggle turned into a murderous riot. People clubbed and stabbed whoever was ahead of them. Mutzachans let loose fatal blasts of matrix energy to clear the decks. Sporadic gunfire was heard further down the section.
“Remain calm! Remain calm!” a voice yelled over the intercom.
But the toothpaste was out of the tube. Drake stumbled, his knees nearly buckling with fear, and steadied himself on a desk. He picked up an oblong paperweight and judged that it might be a good weapon. Several voices, overlapping each other, squawked through the monitors. 
“Sebe engaging… electrical systems compromised, launching fighters… flux shield holding… configuration unknown, seems to be a hodgepodge of inconsistent parts…..”
Was the station under attack? No way, it had to be sabotage. This was the best defended area in the quadrant. They had three battle cruisers in rotation around it at all times. Any assault would be a suicide run. And yet…
White gas vented into the room. Definitely not part of the evacuation procedure. It was some sort of acidic mist that liquefied any flesh it alighted upon. The mist was scrubbed away in seconds by the station’s atmospheric conditioners. But the damage had been done. Jake, who had somehow gotten ahead of Drake, lurched before him, screaming. He had taken a spritz dead in the face. His eyes had melted and were running down his cheeks like giant globulous tears. Large chunks of meat still clung to his face, attached by thin strands.
It was enough to make a person vomit and Drake was no exception. He heaved his stomach contents onto the floor as a further explosion shook the station. Drake knew that he had to get out of there now. He readied his paperweight and…
“Help… help me,” Jake hoarsely cried.
… paused. Damn it! He couldn’t just leave the guy. He’d known Jake his entire life (all three months of it) and he deserved better than this. Drake hoisted him up and helped him walk down the hall. Unfortunately this slowed them down greatly.
“Hold on buddy,” Drake said, “We’re almost there.”
Jake said nothing more. Most of his tongue had plopped out of his mouth and was smeared down the front of his shirt, yet the jaw continued moving in a foul mimicry of human speech. Drake vomited a second time.
By the time they finally managed to make it down to the evac chamber, most of the section had already ejected. There were a few broken figures lying about, some burned, some bleeding, some trampled, but otherwise it was empty. He boarded the bubble (a device designed only to be a short term solution) and hit the large, idiot proof, eject button.
Hope you enjoyed it. Here is the Amazon Listing for a full copy.

Saturday, September 9, 2017

On Getting Ready for the Flood

     The end of the world is coming and her name is Irma!
    One of the most destructive hurricanes ever recorded (or possibly the most destructive) has hit the country and it is rapidly churning my way. There seems little doubt it will hit my neck of the woods. It has destroyed several islands (literally wiped them off the map), caused millions in property damage, killed a bunch of people, and has the survivors scrambling to pick up whatever’s left. And still for some reason, I’m dragging my feet about getting disaster supplies.
    As some of you may recall last year I was faced with a similar situation where the flooding of the city was ridiculous and I hadn’t bothered to plan ahead.  I still defend my lackidaziness then, there had been so many false alarms up until then, I figured the actual storm was just one more time “Crying wolf”.
    But now it is a credible threat. The beast has risen. A flood of biblical proportions threatens. And yet I still can’t get off my ass to get things together. As I cast a lazy eye over my unkempt apartment, eating all of the non-perishable foods like I shouldn’t be, I notice all sorts of things I need: crackers, water, toilet paper, some other food that’s nonperishable- whatever it might be, I’m blanking at the moment- wooden matches, candles, toilet paper, candy, thick woolen socks, and so on.
    Luckily I have a girlfriend to nag the shit out of me and spur me into action in order to cease her cackling.
    Rex, we need the fooooood!
    Rex, did you get batteries?”
    Rex, are you going to crush this pussy before we all drown? Well, are you?”
    These little interplays reinforce the basic dynamics of our relationship, of many American male-female relationships in general. While it was perfectly possible for her to go and stock up on food before the inevitable deluge, she viewed it as her job to kick me until I did it. As if she was supervising the management of our house. As if the place that I pay for was somehow under her control. As if my agency were somehow diminished when she was issuing orders, and her agency was limited to only issuing said orders.
    So what happened?
    I got the goddamn food, what else?
    Did you think I was going to let myself starve in the case of a flood? No amount of power control identity politicking is going to stand in the way of me getting what I need. And I suppose she can eat some of it too.
However, to add a little snuke I primarily stocked up on things she doesn’t like. Bologna, ugh. Pickles, vomit. Cocktail onions, double vomit. Grapes and its elderly cousin raisins, you know those are like just little cubes of sugar and not very nutritious, right. Ha. Score one for me! 
Course, I don’t really like those things either, but that’s beside the point. From a power politics lens of our relationship I had wrested back control. From a feminist perspective, me buying the grapes was the equivalent of blowing a hot load right in her face. An absolute display of my pungent masculinity.
But no, no. These things all pale in the vicious majesty of mother nature’s wrath. Who cares about what squabble emerge between man and women when the planet wants you dead? Let us put all petty aside and help each other, regardless of what the fanatics say.
I stand naked with my woman on our porch, linked hand in hand, watching the dark clouds roll in.

Friday, September 1, 2017

On Staring Up at the Sun

This past week its seems like half of America dropped everything they were doing to gaze at our life giving celestial orb. Being stuck here in Columbia, South Carolina, I found myself accidentally trapped in one of the best places in the country to watch the majesty of the 2017 eclipse, or as the ancients called it, the “moon devouring the sun”.
In ancient times, such an event would call for a massive human sacrifice or a collective public scourging of oneself in penance for the sins of humanity. Nowadays we are more sophisticated. Presently, we run out into the streets to clog up traffic and stare upwards stupidly, all the while gibbering “oooh” and “aaah”. A much more primal ritual, in a sense, than any of the ancients had concocted. The eclipse started at 1:41 on August 21st, 2017, briefly showered us in darkness around 2:35,  and then departed  roughly at 3:15.
And while the experience was fun, watching the sun slowly slip away like an accelerated moon cycle, listening to the crickets flare up in the middle of the day, watching people slowly get holes burned into their eyes. But the real story, my real story, lies in the preparation. As in, what a pain it was to actually get the goddamn glasses!   
Now part of this, okay most of this, was my own fault. In the weeks leading up to the great solar event I was very preoccupied in trying to make it to work on time, finding copies of Mary Hartman, Mary Hartman, and re-arraigning my Fallout 4 settlements (which I spent more time on than cleaning my actual house). And as I never bother with things like the news, I missed completely the impending date of the this celestial event. Despite everyone talking about it at work, despite the growing number of discussions about it on social media, despite Google constantly throwing articles about it in my face, I forgot that it was about to happen.
It wasn't until my girlfriend came and kicked me in the shin, demanding to know how we would celebrate it and that I would have to get some glasses so we wouldn’t have holes burned into our retinas. Nevermind that she could’ve done something, I as the man would handle the situation… somehow.
Upon scouring the local stores, I discovered that every single place had sold out of glasses. After whining to the acne-scarred blimp behind the Walmart counter, she suggested I check out the local libraries as they were rumored to be giving them away free. I went, they were, but they were out. The gaunt sexless librarian stared at me through dead cow eyes and said they could send me a email list of places that were still supplying the needed spectacles. It took them an hour for their fat fingers to push in my email address and hit send. I waited on pins and needles, ready to spring into action the moment it arrived. And when it did, there was only one placed listed. Amazon.
Now let me describe these glasses to you, so you understand my reaction after looking the damn things up. The eclipse glasses frames are from cheap cardboard stock, very similar to what you would find in those old three-d glasses. The lens, instead of one being red and the other blue, were made from a pitch black film, so dark that only the brightest of lights, ie directly from the sun, could penetrate it. But this in itself did not look much different from the old camera film used back in the prehistoric days before digitalization.
These damn things!
So you can imagine my shock when I looked on Amazon and discovered that not only could I not buy individual pairs, the lowest being a block of five, but the whole mess would cost me a whopping $35.99. For essentially comic book X-Ray specs that I would only use for about an hour. But being henpecked as I was, I bit the bullet and ordered a pair.
For a day, all was right with the world. Then I went back on the website to check the order and I discovered the estimated delivery date was Tuesday August 22nd- exactly 24 hours after I would any possible use for them. Turns out that a run on the item was causing shipping delays. Well I helped the company out a little by canceling my order.
Then I had to go back to Amazon and order again. The problem was I had picked the cheapest package before, now I was forced to buy a group of 20 for $79.99. Ridiculous, but it shows the lengths a man will go to shut a woman up. Fine, problem solved. A little expensively, but solved. Right?
Wrong! I’m some of you might be aware of this, but there was a mini-scandal at this time, roughly four days before show time, because it seems many of the glasses peddled on Amazon weren’t up to snuff. And anyone trying to use them, would have neat little blind spots permanently burned into their vision. Very nice. So while I did dodge a bullet, I was left with nothing.
Bummed and upset, I dragged my perpetually squawking significant other, the light of my life, out for a night a sushi and saki- hoping beyond hope that raw fish and rice booze would cushion the blow. We went to nearby Japanese restaurant, noted locally for the lack of any asians working in it. And I was glad that I did, for on the specials board was the Eclipse Roll - Shrimp, avocado, seaweed wrap, topped with roe. Nice, but an order also came with a free pair of eclipse glasses!
Well halle-fucking-lujah. I grabbed the first waiter that glanced in our direction and immediately demanded two of the rolls. Startled, the waiter backed away at my New York brashness, but a further yell from me sent him scurrying for our sets of glasses, while a blonde southern belle wrapped our sushi. I sat back on my now soothed hackles and sighed in relief. I was the man, like the pioneers of old I went out into the freezing cold to chop down redwoods with my bare hands, strangling animal all along the way, to provide for my family. The laurels of godhood would soon be mine.
Then the unthinkable happened. The waiter in his scuttling servility scuttled back up to apologize. Apologize? Apologize for what? Ohhhh, there’s only one goddamn pair of glasses left. Well, how nice. Thank you for the skewer of roasted shrimp to make up for it. Now get out of my sight!
So who got the glasses? Well I offered them to her, on the condition that she was not to speak to of what she gazed upon through those smoky lenses. I could stand not viewing the event, but I wasn’t going to allow it to be rubbed in. In her infinite compassion, she offered to come to my work during the eclipse and we could take turns using them. Good enough.
Well the day came and the city shut down for several hours. My girlfriend appeared at my work and everyone in the building went out into the rapidly darkening day to stare at the sky. As I stepped out into the empty street, someone tapped me on my shoulder. I turned and a pair of eclipse glasses were shoved at me.
“What’s this?”
“We bought enough for the whole building awhile ago.” Came the reply, “You didn’t pick up yours.”
“Oh. Thanks.” I should start reading office emails.
“We’ve go a few extras. Do you need one for your girlfriend?”
“No. No. We’ve got that covered.”
I was given a pat on the back. My woman and I gripped hands and looked upwards.

Friday, August 11, 2017

Spider Man on the Electric Company

Spider-Man, where are you coming from?

Spider-Man, nobody knows who you are!

Spider-Man, you've got that Spidey touch

Spider-Man, you are a web-slinging star!

Now this will probably only be remembered by those that grew up in the drug ridden 1970s, but yes Spiderman’s first jaunt out of the comic pages into live theater happened on a kids show called The Electric Company. The Children's Television Workshop, who produced the still famous Sesame Street, wanted a follow up to keep the kids educational market cornered and beat down those bastards at Zoom.
        At first this show was nothing new. Another kids educational show set up with sketch comedy style bits. Basicly it was like Sesame Street without the muppets- so you see the problem. It needed a hook to grab the kids in. And then it found it. SPIDER MAN.
        Hell yeah! When that happened the pre-pubescent me was all over that show. Tuning in every chance I got to catch up on the crime fighting action of our friendly neighborhood web slinger. Twenty nine segments were produced, along with another- presented here with The Blue Beetle. Each has the web slinger fighting against a unique foe and narrated by a cast member, the most famous one being Morgan Freeman, presented in the first two segments Spider Man Meets The Sack, and Spiderman Meets The Spoiler.
        Stay tuned true believers. The style of these sketches were amazing. And as demonstration of lack of budget spurring imagination. No special effects were used, instead comic book panels were peppered through each episode. Also, to encourage kids to actually read, Spider Man's dialogue was supplied as word balloons. These details gave the segments a truly unique look, that are decent even today. No one has ever done Spider Man like this.
        Permission for use of the character was apparently given free of charge, I assumed this allowed Marvel and it’s parent company to have a nice charitable tax write off, as Spider Man at the time was Marvel’s most popular figure and its licensure would have garnered triple digits at the time.
        I enjoy them even now, granted only for a hoaky, look at this weirdness, chuckle. But they were artistic, stylish, and definitely of their time. So enjoy and caveat emptor.
                                               Spider Man Meets the Sack
                                           Spider Man Meets the Spoiler
                                          Spidey Up Against the Wall
                                             Spider Man Meets The Prankster

                                                     Spider Man Vs. The Blue Beetle