Once again, Ebay saves the day.  As the deadline for this column loomed closer and closer, I found my mind in that perpetually blank state of mental hysteria that the holidays always induce.  Sure, I can write pithy putdowns about funnybooks, and, of course, I can shop for friends and relatives whose continued commitment to interacting with yours truly frequently depends entirely on payola and the quality of the swag I score for them on holidays and birthdays.  (Would my little brother really still pretend to forget the innumerable times I forced him to dress up in a green bathrobe and smelly tin chestplate and pretend to be Dr. Doom, were it not for my promises that I would secure for him a Playstation 2?  Of course not.  Would my father continue to act like he forgave me for what I did with the money he had secured for my college education, if I didn't continue to buy him odd Japanese pornographic magazines showing nude young geishas trimming the toenails of squat cigar-smoking executives?  Let's be real.  And would my ex-girlfriend continue to return my calls after all the months we dated where I made her dress up in a green bathrobe and smelly tin chestplate and pretend to be Dr. Doom, were it not for the continuing series of books-on-tape-in-Klingon that I manage to procure for her?  Actually, now that I think of it, she's not returning my calls, which means I have a copy of "wo'rIv  ngaH janluq pIqarD" I have no idea what do with.)  But can I shop and make a writing deadline at the same time?  No, of course not.

Fortunately, I don't have to do both, not with Ebay at my disposal.  While trying to find a copy of that blue movie Toni Morrison made before getting her Pulitzer, I came across an item titled, very simply,  "Ultra Hot Morrison–X-Men."  For a certain small fee, I got the next best thing to Toni Morrison making out with Sherilyn Fenn in "Red Sula Diaries:"  a copy of Grant Morrison's first script for X-Men, still more than a year away from publication.

Now, this script doesn't really cover any of the various marketing rumors that have been floated about the Internet lately–there's no mention in the script as to whether the issues are going to be given alphabet letters instead on issue numbers and run from Z to A; no word as to whether there will be alternate hologram covers with the post-masturbatory sigil with which Morrison used before each issue; and there is, sadly, still no word if some of the issues will come packaged with samples of Skybox's new "Lickably Lysergic" trading card set.  All I know is that this script (written with various pages missing because, according to one of Grant's helpful margin notes, "I have become unstuck in time in order to avoid paying 50 quid back to scorpion loa.  Don't worry; should have all issues finished before D-Day.") with its clever characterizations, wild plot twists and dialogue straight from the t-shirts of Japanese teenagers, is recognizably pure Grant Morrison.  So kick off your shoes, fire up your Dagwood hookah, and enjoy!

PAGE 1:                      Splash page, Professor X, in the darkened study of his Westchester estate, clutching at his temples.  Above him, floating phantasmagorically, visions of space insects, cosmic flowers,
grayish miasmatic clouds of interstellar evil, soda machines dispensing newborn children; In short, weirdness on a universal scale.

PROF. X (thought balloon):      God, I think the acid’s finally coming on....

TITLE CAPTION:                   Mutate or Die!  [Margin note:  Still undecided.  Also strongly considering Mutant Sprinkle Starfish!  but that could just be the ketamine talking...]

PAGE 2:                      I'm thinking classic Byrne/Austin panel spread here.  Top tier, establishing shot.  Middle tier, three panels of general and tight close-up.  Final tier, dramatic action panel.  Definitely want the suits to know we know how the ship is run.

PANEL 1:                    Scott (Cyclops) Summers and Jean (Marvel Girl) Gray walking arm in arm at night through the bustle of arty Greenwich Village.  Scott is fashionably dressed in black turtleneck, long chocolatey brown trenchcoat, black leather pants, ultra-blocky spectacles.  He has the good looks and brooding sensitivity of a young Johnny Depp and the eyewear of Ray Milland in X: The Man with the X-Ray Eyes [margin note:  will send photo reference of myself in similar outfit.]  Next to him, is Jean Gray, beautiful redhead who is one part girl next door, one part amateur porn star, dressed in shimmering red dress whose plunging neck line and high cut mid slit conjure images of a giant X.  [margin note:  will send photo reference of myself in similar outfit.]  They are the vraiment chic harbingers of our ultra-orgasmic g-string dance party future.

JEAN:                          Isn't it a beautiful night, Scott?  So warm, yet the air's laced with the promise of summer rain.

SCOTT:                       It is beautiful, Jean, but we can't let ourselves be distracted from our mission.  The Professor is depending on us!

PANEL 2:                    Tight over the shoulder two-shot of Scott and Jean, still walking close.  This over-the-shoulder shot allows us to see how they view the world, while emphasizing the expositionary details–the crowds of regular people shopping for Christmas, the subway entrance at the street corner, a frustrated black man trying to hail a cab.  But the tightness of the shot draws us closer into our empathy with this gorgeous couple.  Sigh.  The beautiful simplicity of comics storytelling makes me weep like a child messiah.  [margin note:  will enclose photo of self weeping for artist's personal reference.]

JEAN:                          Of course.

JEAN:                          Scott, isn't there something a bit odd about where Professor X's sending us? Compared to our previous missions---

SCOTT:                       The Professor hasn't been wrong yet, Jean!

PANEL 3:                    A reverse angle; we're now directly on Scott and Jean's faces.  Her face is tender with affection and protectiveness; his is intense in concentration.

JEAN:                          Scott, I do love you, but you can be a bit... single-focused sometime.

PANEL 4:                    Roughly the same panel, but now on Scott's face, there is the slightest hint of a smile. On Jean's, the slightest bit of eye-rolling.

SCOTT:                       Are you saying there might be more than one reason they call me Cyclops?

JEAN:                          Well, I...

PANEL 5:                    A reverse angle again as all hell breaks loose in a long-shot.  Crashing out of the ground are a trio of futuristic looking Sentinels (called, for reasons soon to be obvious, Mentinels).  They are more dangerous, more manga, more T2 than our previous Sentinels.  Their expressionless faces now stare malevolently through a mask of shifting silver metalplasm.  Scott and Jean are thrown off-balance and pelted with heavy debris.

SCOTT:                       JEAN! LOOK OUT!

JEAN:                          Scott, I—Unhhh!

MENTINEL 1: Targets acquired!  Mentinel Squadron G1H4B ready to begin species-specific termination!  The future begins today!  Domo Arigato!

 PAGE 5:                     A not dissimilar arrangement as page 2, since the action is roughly the same.

PANEL 1:                    However, instead of Greenwich Village, we are inside an enormous warehouse.  It is the height of an underground rave, and beatific brightly dressed youngsters hop about like irradiated insects.  Making their somewhat inconspicuous way through the esctatic crowd is Bobby (Iceman) Drake in Dawson Creek-like civilian duds followed by the resplendently furry Hank (Beast) McCoy.

BOBBY:                      Come on, Hank, I'm not even using an ice slide here!

HANK:                        Sorry, Bobby, I kept getting delayed by all these people wanting to pet me.

RAVER 1:                    Oh my god, can we...touch you?

RAVER 2:                    Please?  You can have some red licorice...

PANEL 2:                    More tight on Bobby and Hank as they press through the fleshy pulse of humanity aching to become a sensually communal hive-mind.

BOBBY:                      This is what Ali’s into these days?  Wild!

HANK:                        Yes, lad, She’s worked very hard on her prestidigitationary skills to become a master turntabilist.

PANEL 3:                    As Bobby and Hank look up on stage, we can see Allison (Dazzler) Blaire at the turntables, supple curves of light undulating hypnotically off her bronze skin. 

HANK:                        Plus, her abilities to transform sound into light make her the perfect rave DJ.  A world-class light show on two legs.

BOBBY:                      World-class legs, too.  You know, Hank, I still can’t believe you had a thing for the old "Disco Dazzler."

HANK:                        What can I say, Bobby?  I’m a sucker for a woman with a good record collection...

PANEL 4:                    A Close-up on Allison at the turntables, looking up at the ceiling in a sweaty trance.

BOBBY (off-panel):     I don't think these hash brownies are doing a damn thing...

HANK (off-panel):       Give it a bit of time, lad.  Remember, your lower temperature gives you a slightly slower metabolism.

PANEL 5 (INSET):     Allison's eyes open wide in alarm.

PANEL 6:                    A sinister apparition of a man, a reverse-negative of a Santeria Moses:  instead of snakes, unreal strips of film and recording tape are clutched in his off-color hands.  This is the usurper of time and space; the man known as the Master Edit.

MASTER EDIT:          Brightly colored maggots!  Insensate pacifier-chewing grasshoppers!  Hear me!  I am the Master Edit!  Past, present and future are fodder are spliced to my choosing!  The multiverse is my mix tape!  I have come to fade you into the new world of my imagining!  You shall be shimmying servants in the  discotheque of my endless empire!

BOBBY (off-panel):     Okay, yeah.  That's more like it...

PAGE  8:                     Back to Scott and Jean in the rubble of the street.  Their sexy clothes are torn, albeit torn sexily.  The Mentinels surround them menacingly.  Nine to twelve page grid with appropriately joined panels for the action.

PANEL 1:                    While Jean rubs her injured head, Scott stands defiantly against the towering Mentinels.

MENTINEL 1: Squadron frustrated in its acquisition of targets!  Mentinel override requesting termination of muta-thwarters!

JEAN:                          They look different, but it's still like listening to Frampton Comes Alive...

SCOTT:                       Don't try to talk, Jean.  Just gather your strength.

SCOTT:                       You can't fool us, Sentinels!  We know who you're after!

PANEL 2:                    Mentinels pulling into position.

MENTINEL 1: You are in error!  We are not–Sentinels!  We are the Mentinels!  Sent from your future!  The exo-mutational future where mutants rule and humans are hunted–to extinction!  We have been sent to accelerate that coming time by the UniOpticus!

PANEL 3:                    Jean standing up shakily, Ruby glow on Scott's spectacles.  '70s disaster movie ambience in the background.

SCOTT:                       It sounds like my optic blasts have scrambled your circuits, pal!  You sound like you're just babbling the first bunch of techno-gibberish that pops into your head.

MENTINEL 1: Negative.  We are prepared for your optical blasts.  We have been prepared by the UniOpticus!

PANEL 4:                    Scott pulls off his glasses. Raw ruby-red optic beams stream utterly unopposed from his sensual eyes.  The Mentinels shudder like trees in a hurricane.

SCOTT:                       Have you, Mentinel?  Then, I guess you're prepared for...this!

PANEL 5:                    The Mentinels stand against the deluge of power, albeit barely.

MENTINEL 1: A...ffirmative.

PANEL 6:                    Back to Cyclops, looking frustrated.

SCOTT:                       Jean, quick, twist my nipples!

JEAN:                          Wha?

PANEL 7:                    Cyclops' face twisting defecatorily.

SCOTT:                       The pain will dilate my pupils, allowing a greater percentage of optical blast to pass through my eyes, causing a the upgrade in power we need.

JEAN:                          Scott, that doesn't make even the slightest bit of ----

SCOTT:                       Twist them!

PANEL 8:                    Jean twists Cyclops' nipples through his torn shirt.  The Mentinels are knocked back and apart like billard bills.

MENTINEL 1: SKREE!!

MENTINEL 2: YI-URK!

MENTINEL 3: Domo! Domo! Do-MREE!

PAGE 11:                    Blank.  [Margin note:  My currently exceeded thresholds for cannabis and psylocibin prevent me from currently explaining the page layout without falling into a confused daze trying to discern dual and tri-dimensional experience.  Basically, Professor X tries to come down by rubbing his attractively hairless head with sensual ice cubes, much like I'm doing now.  Images of his X-Men in trouble assault him, as does the sudden psychedelic realization that underneath his skin, his skeleton is naked all the time.  As he tries to come down, a mysterious shadowy figure appears in the doorway of the kitchen, saying, "Hey, I guess it's true.  The more things change..."  I would say more but I fear the scorpion loa are near.]

PAGE 8:                      Again, a variation on pages 1 and 5, as the third action-packed panel of our triptych comes into play.

PANEL 1:                    A pleasure yacht off the coast of Scotland, cruising through a sea the color of new bruises on a lightly overcast day.

PANEL 2:                    Green-haired Lorna (Polaris) Dane, stretching in her tiny bikini.  Next to her, the sexy, sensual (and Scottish) Moria McTaggart, wearing a skin-tight leather jumpsuit straight from the Avengers TV show.  [margin note:  Remind me to tell you related teen sigil imaging story.] 

MOIRA:                      Look at you, girl, you're dead sexy!

LORNA:                      Moira, you sexy Glaswegian smooth-talker.

PANEL 2:                    The two women relaxing in the sensuously torturing wind.

MOIRA:                      I swear, Lorna, I have no idea why you ever took up with Jamie Madrox. He's a good lad and all, but, well, I don't know if it's his outfit or all those D&D books he's got in his room, but he seems a bit of a nerd, y'know?

LORNA:                      Let's just say they don't call him The Multiple Man for nothing...

PANEL 3:                    Moira looking puzzled while Lorna smiles.

MOIRA:                      Of course not.  Jamie can create multiple copies of himself.

LORNA:                      Which might be helpful in bed...how?

PANEL 4:                    Horus's solaric awareness, in the form of a lightbulb lighting up over Moira's head.

MOIRA:                      Oh.  Aye.

PANEL 5:                    Sean (Banshee) Cassidy peers out from the cabin.

SEAN:                         Moira!  Lorna!  Grab hold!  Something is appearing on the horizon!

PANEL 6:                    A vast, drably yellow orb of entropic energy has appeared over the surface of the water.  This is the ultra-dimensional entity, The K-Hole.  Water is being pulled hopelessly up towards it.

K-HOLE:                     Finally!  I have achieved consciousness!

K-HOLE:                     Hear me, planet!  Your soul is mine!  I am the devil's pee-stain!  I am a fifth dimensional cancer made cognizant!  I am the K-Hole!  Your ruin is my triumph!  Your pain is my mint jelly!

PAGE 15:                    Action packed panels of sexually erotic action!

PANEL 1:                    Ravers thrashing about in the rapidly spreading pocket universes like orgiasts from the movie Caligula!

RAVER 1:                    I think this giant caterpillar might be, might be.....real!

RAVER 2:                    Drink more water!  Drink more water!

PANEL 2:                    Iceman freezing Kirbyesque ape-men emerging from the vortices of throbbing speakers!

ICEMAN:                    God, I hate icing up too quickly!  My shorts are wedged in my buttcrack like an icicle pressed between two hams!

PANEL 3:                    Beast and Dazzler fighting enormous poisonous dragonflies up by the turntables!

BEAST:                       I thought the high ticket prices were supposed to curb this sort of thing!

DAZZLER:                  We need to shut this guy down, Hank!  Infiltrations from hybrid universes will really screw up the chances of this rave's backers getting their deposits back!

PANEL 4:                    The Master Edit, unspooling more strips of invading realities!

MASTER EDIT:          I am developing a blockbuster of a slave empire as imagined by Bob Fosse and Gregory Dark!  I am mixing a dub tape where the music of the spheres is set to drum and bass!  I have a book on tape of Mephistopheles reading the Little Prince to Galactus!  For Galactus's bedtime!  In French!  It is passing from the projectors of my eyes into the developing lab of your universe!

PANEL 5:                    Back to Dazzler and the Beast!

DAZZLER:                  Beast, that's it!  If this is the developing room, maybe an intense concentration of light will overexpose the cosmic film!

BEAST:                       Yes, but isn't the noise here already at its maximum?  Your light blasts can't get any stronger!

DAZZLER:                  I have an idea!  Twist my nipples!  The current dose of 2 CB in my body has been causing extreme synesthesia for me all night.  The intensely arousing pain of you twisting my nipples will be experienced by my brain as sound, allowing me to emit high-frequency light blasts!

PANEL 6:                    Dazzler!  The Beast!  Dogs and cats living together!  Mass hysteria!

BEAST:                       Allison, I've always considered myself more of a prudent man than a prudish man, but---

DAZZLER:                  Do it, Damn you!

DAZZLER:                  Do it!

Panel 7:                        The Beast twisting Allison Blaire's bio-luminescent nipples, causing  white-hot tumescent laser beams to shoot from her breasts.

DAZZLER:                  That's it, Hank!!  Thattt's itttt!!!

BEAST:                       "Dear Penthouse Forum:  I always thought the letters to your column were made up,  but recently something happened to me that I just had to write you about..."

PAGE 21:                    Six or so panels at the Westchester mansion.  The shadowy figure follows Professor X at a distance from room to room as Prof. X switches on lights and looks at all the empty rooms.

PANEL 1:                    Prof. X rolls through one of the empty living rooms.

PROF. X:                     The-- the carpet isn't alive, is it?

SHADOW FIG:           No more than usual.

PANEL 2:                    The same, through a darkened hallway.

SHADOW FIG:           Where is everyone?

PROF. X:                     They're out.  Most are gone.  Cyclops are on a mission, trying to find--

SHADOW FIG:           A mutant?

PROF. X:                     Drugs.  We need more Ecstacy.

PANEL 4:                    In the control room of the Danger Room, now as silent and angular as a sleeping Rottweiler.

SHADOW FIG:           Huh.

SHADOW FIG:           "The X-Men."

PANEL 5:                    In closer on Prof. X.

PROF. X:                     It tends to be called "E" now, more than "X."

PROF. X:                     We're homo superior–but the society still trains us to think like homo sapiens.  We need new ways to think, to help us understand new ways to live.

PROF. X:                     But we can't cultivate our gardens when the insects are in season.

PANEL 6:                    The Shadowy figure over Prof. X's shoulder.

SHADOW FIG:           'Scuse me?

PROF. X:                     The planet is suddenly under siege, from at least three intensely powerful sources at once.   I have no idea if it's just a clustering such as one might find on a Poisson distribution scale--

SHADOW FIG:           Uh-huh--

PROF. X:                     Or if the relaxation of my vigilance has resulted in a wave of opportunists.

PANEL 7:                    Prof. X turns to face the shadowy figure.

PROF. X:                     All I know is that my X-Men need help.  I need help.

PROF. X:                     Your help.

PANEL 8:                    Tight on the determined face of Prof. X, overcoming his own disorientation through sheer willpower.

PROF. X:                     I know that we parted on bad terms, worse than I would have once thought possible.  But the fight will be to impossible to win if you don't help us. 

PROF. X:                     It may be an impossible fight even with your help.

PANEL 9:                    The Shadowy figure drops his travelling bag on the floor of the control room.

SHADOW FIG:           Well, that's all right with me...

PAGE 22:                    A full-page splash of our shadowy figure.  It is a heavily bearded Wolverine, shabby but also ferociously majestic.  His cowboy hat is tipped back on his head.  The hand that has dropped the travelling bag has let out its claws with a resonant 'SNIKT.'

WOLVERINE:            You know me, Chuck...

WOLVERINE:            I always did like a good fight!

WOLVERINE:            And the way the cold weather's been affecting the heightened senses in my nipples, I'm mean enough to make the most impossible fight into a damn good one!

NEXT ISSUE: FUTURE PORPOISE EMERGENCY NIPPLE!