White light.

The haze of the teleport beam cleared, and the first Predator ever to leave the Wall stood on the smoking pavement of a New York alleyway. Tentacles squirted from its obsidian back, tasting the atmosphere. In outer space, its tentacles could smell subatomic particles, sucked up psychic residue from thousands of miles away. Here, in an atmosphere teeming with life, the stewing sac of acids and dissolving body parts in its leathery abdomen lurched, and the Predator near-swooned from the sensory overload.

“Grrrreeeeeennn Lahn-trnnn,” it hissed, placing a hand to its forehead. Its sibilant voice was at once chilling and childlike, vicious and scared.

The Predator turned its silvery eyes to the half-metal/half-flesh face that covered its opposite fist. The creature had shoved its hand into the cyborg’s head so as not to lose it. The cyborg’s meaty half had begun to rot the moment the Predator had brought it aboard the Coluan ship. Thin ropes of purpled flesh oozed from one side of the steel skull. The Predator’s tongue slid from its mouth to lick once more at the hatred that bled from the cyborg’s eyeless sockets.

Oh, yes. When the Predator had come upon the remains of this cyborg, its boundless hunger had compelled it to eat. The meal was enriching in ways the Predator could not have imagined (the Predator had little imagination anyway). The Predator’s mind was simple, uncomplicated; but the cyborg’s was comparatively complex, and the mechanical man’s memories and desires impressed themselves upon the blank slate of the Predator’s brain with ease.

Now, tasting the cyborg’s intellect, the Predator saw the cruel emerald man with the white in his hair destroy the cyborg in its mind’s eye, and it was as if the violence were being done to the Predator itself. The creature’s pulse quickened as it and the cyborg died, for at least the hundredth time since it had found the cyborg’s remains. The Predator had been too primitive to have known fear before experiencing it secondhand, and found it did not care for the sensation. But the taste of a desire for vengeance....

That suited that Predator.

It withdrew its tongue from the cyborg’s skull...and its face was split by a grin full of silver razors.

“Hlllll Jrrr-dahn....”

The creature could sense the residue of...something nearby. Not quite what the cyborg’s ghost memories had spoken of. But...somehow...the same. A glowing green-ness that seared the scent-catchers on the tips of its tentacles. Power.

The power of the Green Lantern.

But that power was rapidly moving away from the Predator - was probably already many miles distant.

This would truly be a hunt, then. A chase.

The Predator cast the worthless skull over its shoulder. It - he, for now enough of the cyborg’s vestigial psychic remnants were a part of the Predator that he thought of himself as such - no longer had any use for dead things. Not here. Not on Earth.

The smell of life was in the air, all around him. And that smell was good. Very good.

Nearby, a group of young humans played with a small, white sphere. They lost control over it, and it struck the pavement to roll toward him. One of the children came dashing into the alleyway after his ball. The Predator, invisible in the shadows, turned unblinking silver eyes toward the small creature who, unawares, ran to him.

“Heh heh heh,” the Predator said to himself. Humor was also new to him. Another thing he liked. The Predator could see that many things were funny...at least if you were the Predator.

“Dihn-ner...issssss ser-vhed.”

The child’s eyes went wide at the sight of the alien. The boy opened his mouth to scream, and a black tentacle snapped out like a bullwhip to encircle the child’s head before he could utter a sound.

The Predator had the feeling he was going to like Earth a whole lot better than he had the Wall.

First, a quick bite. Then he would find this Green Lantern.

And then the fun could really begin.

	The Emerald Gladiator..... "WIDE OPEN ROAD" Part 1
Green Lantern #6 - June, Year One	by Mike McGee and Russ Anderson

They’d been driving for four hours, the convertible top of the rental car rolled back and the stereo system pumping out a steady stream of Nine Inch Nails and Linkin Park. A steady stream, except for when they’d first left the Budget Rental in Jersey - Kyle had insisted that the road trip simply had to begin with “The Boys of Summer.”

Pennsylvania spread out before them...nothing but green as far as the eye could see, all under a big blue sky. Compare it to the steel pillars and gray clouds of NYC, and this could have been a different planet altogether. They were both California boys, and no matter how much time either of them spent in the big city, New York would never feel like home the way the wide open spaces did.

Connor Hawke reached for the dash and turned the music down. “There’s one thing I don’t understand.”

“What’s that?” Kyle looked at him from behind the wheel, peering over the dark lenses of his Ray-Bans. The shades almost hid the purple leftovers of a black eye, but couldn’t do anything to conceal the bandage across his forehead, or the matching one over his left cheek.

“Why are we driving?” Connor asked. “I mean, I know I said ‘road trip,’ and I don’t mind, but your ring could get us there in minutes. Or there’s the JLA teleporters....”

“Good points all, my man,” Kyle said. “But come on, Connor. Didn’t you ever take a road trip in school?”

“I grew up in an ashram. We didn’t have any cars.”

“Right, I knew that.” Kyle sighed and fidgeted in his seat; his back had been burned badly two days ago, and even though it was wrapped up and thoroughly slathered in ointment, it still hurt like hell. “There’s just...something about the road, man. You’re right, I could get us there in a heartbeat, but...y’know, that’s not the point! All the rolling blacktop, the open air, the little David Lynch diners and truckstops - this is what it’s all about. It’s cool. We’re like two Jack Kerouacs.”

“Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy.”

Kyle blinked. “Kerouac and who?”

“Neal Cassidy, the guy he hung out with...you never actually read On the Road, did you?”

“I...no.”

“I have. And, not to ruin anything for you, but their great cross-country American adventure does not take place in a rented convertible.”

Kyle shrugged and grinned. “It’s the 2000s, what do you want? I appreciate you getting your mom to pick up the tab, by the way.” Connor’s eyes narrowed on some point in the distance. “It was the least she could do.”

“Uh huh.” Droppin’ THAT subject like a hot rock, Kyle thought. He knew Connor had issues with his mother’s current husband, an alleged arms smuggler who’d butted heads with Connor over and over again. Unfortunately, there was no way for Connor to put the dude behind bars without incriminating his mom, too. Looked like it was a safe bet that little family feud had yet to be resolved.

“Besides,” Kyle said. “We’ve got a tradition to hold up.”

Connor’s face brightened, and he finally grinned. “That’s right. Ollie and Hal did something like this back in the good old days, didn’t they?”

“Yep,” Kyle said. “Hard travelin’ heroes, that’s us. The next generation.”

“I really do appreciate this, Kyle,” Connor said. A few hours had passed, enough to kill any further interest in driving for the night, and they were winding down in a hotel room. “It’s a lot to ask for you to just pick up and split town.”

In the bathroom, Kyle leaned closer to the mirror, inspecting his freshly-shaven face. “It’s really no problem,” he called back. “After all that crap on Warworld, I kinda needed a break anyway.”

“Donna didn’t seem too happy.”

“Ah, she’s fine with it. You know, she’s been around superhero types ever since she was high school age, she’s used to people just dropping everything to go save the world from the diabolical machinations of Doctor Light or whatever. Relatively speaking, her boyfriend taking a few days off to play Easy Rider is no big deal. Besides, she likes you.”

“And I like her.”

The disposable razor fell from Kyle’s fingers and clattered in the sink. “Oh? I mean...oh, yeah. Well, you would. Donna’s very likeable.”

Connor chuckled, but kept it out of his voice. A blush crept into his cheeks, and he was glad Kyle wasn’t in the room to see it. “I don’t like her like her, Kyle. I mean....” He sighed, exasperated.

“Hey, man, I know that,” Kyle said, pulling on a t-shirt as he emerged from the bathroom. “I was just playing around.”

Connor sat at the room’s small table, sharpening the point of an arrow with his whetstone. He didn’t look up.

“I know. I guess it’s hard for me to joke too well right now.”

Kyle picked his bed and flopped down on it. “It’s got you that worked up, huh? So tell me: Whose throat are you daydreaming about ventilating with that bad boy?”

“Jefferson Jacks’.”

Idly, Kyle used his ring to build a pair of Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em Robots in the empty air above his head, just beneath the ceiling. The two automatons immediately began a miniature thrilla in Manila. To think those losers on Warworld had thought he wasn’t worthy of a power ring.

“Yeah,” Kyle said. “You mean the self-help guy, right? If I wasn’t a crusader for justice, I’d probably wanna whack that guy myself. I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve fallen asleep in front of the TV and got woken up by one of his infomercials. He’s a menace to society. But who really?”

“Him,” Connor said. “Really.”

“He gets on your nerves that bad? Jeez, dude, I thought you were the Zen master or something....”

“He’s the one who bought the ashram. The one I grew up in.”

“Oh.” The robots stopped fighting and turned to look at Kyle in unison. He shrugged, and they resumed combat. “Look...what is going on there, exactly?”

“Nothing good.” Connor tested the edge of his arrow, found it to be sharp, and pulled another from his quiver. “I got a letter from Master Jansen - my sensei - soon after I arrived in New York, informing me that Jacks had bought the land and...converted it.”

“How so?”

Connor furrowed his brow, frowning deeply as he began to hone the fresh arrow. “He’s apparently turned the ashram into some kind of resort. A hang-out for the wealthy. He’s trying to...’bottle Zen and sell enlightenment to the masses,’ is I believe how Master Jansen put it.”

Kyle scratched the back of his head. He couldn’t relate to Connor’s dilemma, not personally...where he’d grown up himself never really meant that much to him. But it was obvious that this place meant a hell of a lot to Connor.

“So what’s the plan, then?” Kyle asked. “Do we just march in there and say, hey, we’re superheroes and we think you suck, so give this place back or you’re a bad guy? If he owns it, what can we do? I don’t think either of us can rustle up the scratch to buy back that much California real estate....”

“Honestly, I hadn’t thought that far in advance....”

There was a knock at the door. The robots blinked out of existence. Connor set the arrow down on the tabletop. They looked at each other.

“You expecting somebody?” Connor asked.

“Uh-uh. You?”

Connor shook his head and stood. Kyle stayed in his bed, but paid close attention to the door.

“I bet Doctor Light heard me making fun of him,” Kyle said. “That’s him, coming to kick my ass.”

Connor sighed. “I think Doctor Light has to be about seventy now.” He opened the door.

“Room service,” the waiter on the other side chirped. He thrust at an impassive Connor a tray with a bottle of wine balanced atop it.

Connor lifted an eyebrow and looked at Kyle. “We didn’t order anything.”

“It’s from a young lady down the hall,” the waiter said cheerfully, leaning conspiratorially close. “Room 213. She saw you arrive, and she was hoping that you might be willing to come down and share it with her, sir.”

“But...I don’t drink.”

“With all respect, I think there’s a clue or two you may require, sir....”

“I get it!” Kyle called over.

“In any event,” the waiter said, “you’ll have to go tell the young lady yourself.” He shoved the tray at him. “The wine’s bought and paid for. And as I have already been tipped handsomely, I shall leave you to your own devices and bid you adieu.” He touched the bill of his hat, spun on his heels, and was gone, leaving Connor at the door, still sputtering and holding the tray.

Connor stepped inside and shut the door. Kyle was laughing so hard he almost fell off the bed.

“How do you do it, man? Teach me, sensei! Show me how to be like you!”

Not amused, Connor seized the wine bottle in one hand and tossed the tray onto his bed. “I suppose I’d better return this to the lady in 213. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“You will not.”

“I will.”

“You better not.”

Connor shrugged. “I don’t have mindless trysts with random women in strange places.”

“You say it like it’s a bad thing. I’m wounded. You just described my three years at art school.”

“I’m returning this now.”

“Connor. Dude. I’m not saying you should, like, compromise your principles or anything. But just...talk to her. Try to have a good time. All right? I know you’re stressed about Jacks and the ashram. Dwelling on that won’t help. Relaxing a little will. You’ll be better able to...center your chi, or whatever you ninja guys do.”

“I am not a ninja.”

“I know you’re not a ninja, Connor.”

Connor looked down, shaking his head, and cracked that same tentative grin he had back in the convertible. “For a crusader for justice, you’re a really bad influence.”

“I haven’t been a crusader for justice that long. I still encourage people to take a small risk if they need to get cheered up and it’ll help. You need to get cheered up. So get the hell out of here, and don’t let me see you again for at least two hours. Okay?”

“Heh. Okay.”

“...Now.”

He nodded. “Yeah.”

And then he did leave. Wine and all.

Kyle folded his hands behind his head and smirked triumphantly. Thank God Connor had sprung for a place that was somewhat ritzy. Full cable was a must-have if he was going to hang out in the room by himself. He hoped he was...for the sake of Connor’s sanity, and his own.

“Is this what you had to deal with, Hal?” Kyle asked aloud. “No wonder you went all flaky....”

Kyle swallowed the mouthful of hash browns he’d forked off the plate in front of him, swished them down with some coffee, and pointed his syrup-coated fork playfully at the unconscious man who was sprawled out the grimy, tiled floor beside his feet.

“Manoman,” he said. “Did you guys ever pick the wrong grub house on the wrong day.”

On the other side of the diner, Connor finished a jump and planted a sneaker in the face of the unconscious guy’s partner, a grizzled gent with a pair of pantyhose over his head. Pantyhose guy hit the floor, and the shotgun he’d been wielding fell from his grip and skittered across the tiles. Connor turned, flipped the gun up with one foot, caught it in his right hand, spun it, and aimed the wooden butt at his opponent’s face.

“Uncle?” Connor asked.

“Uncle! Uncle!” the gunman agreed.

Connor turned to the brunette waitress who was just now poking her head up from behind the counter. “Ma’am, would you mind getting me something to tie this man’s hands and feet with?”

The waitress, eyes wide, nodded and disappeared into the back room of the diner.

Kyle went back to his breakfast and the newspaper. He snorted over “Fox Trot,” then moved on to the crossword. He was halfway through it when Connor sat down across from him.

“Your waffles are getting cold,” Kyle said.

“Thanks for your help.”

“Like I could just start zapping people with the ring out of costume. I could have ducked into the john and changed, but I figured you’d have it sewn up by then. And, lo and behold....”

Connor laughed a bit. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, then.”

“As if you had any doubt,” Kyle said. “That could have been over in two seconds. Admit it - you were showing off at the end there. Just a little.”

“I would never misuse my skills for self-aggrandizement,” Connor replied, unable to suppress a grin.

“I’m gonna tell Master Jansen.”

“Bite me, Ringo,” Connor said. He sipped at his coffee cup, found it empty, and reached for Kyle’s instead.

“Looks like somebody beat me to it....”

“Shut up,” Connor muttered, trying in vain to pull the collar of his t-shirt up over the hickey low on the right side of his neck, smiling and flushing crimson. Kyle’s cup touched his lips - and then the coffee spurted out of his mouth and all over the tabletop. “Oh, my God!”

Kyle flinched. “What, dude?”

Connor looked at the offending coffee cup in abject horror. “Good Lord, man, how many sugar packets did you put in there? It’s like candy bar in a cup!”

“I don’t like things that taste bitter. I would suspect most people would agree that a thing that tastes bitter is disagreeable to the human palate.”

“I think I’ve been poisoned,” Connor said. Frowning, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Let’s just get these guys squared away and get out of here. I want to get to my grandfather’s before dark.”

“Connor!”

“Hi, Granddad,” Connor said in turn to the aging black man who descended the front steps of his home. Connor extended a hand, but the man ignored it and swept his grandson up in his arms.

“Damn, look at you, boy! I haven’t seen you since you were six years old....”

“I’ve grown a little since then.”

“Yeah, an inch or two. And you must be Kyle.”

“Nice to meet you, Mister Hawke,” Kyle said, taking the offered hand.

“Connor, I thought you said this fella was from New York. He’s too polite to be from the Big Apple.”

“I grew up in California,” Kyle said.

“Oh, well. There you go then.” Mister Hawke tipped his weathered black Stetson a little farther back on his head and nodded toward the car. “I got some goulash on the stove for dinner - vegetarian, like you asked, Connor. Let’s go get some food in you, and then we can talk.”

The Idaho night spread across the land like a cool blanket, and Kyle sat on the porch outside Nathan Hawke’s home, his belly full and his thoughts turned inward.

The front screen banged open, and the elder Mister Hawke joined him on the porch.

“Like some company?” Hawke asked. He dropped a chair before Kyle could answer, and offered the younger man an ice-encrusted beer. Kyle accepted it gratefully.

“Where’s Connor?”

“Inside,” Hawke said, nodding toward the door. “Said he wanted to meditate for a bit. He’ll be joining us shortly.” He set his beer down on the porch railing, drew a pipe out of the front pocket of his shirt, and began loading it from a crumpled tobacco pack he produced from his blue jeans. “How’d you like dinner?”

“Oh, it was great. Haven’t had goulash since I was a kid.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t exactly a world-class chef, but I get by. Kinda have to since Connor’s grandma died.” He held a match to the pipe bowl and puffed until it caught.

“This is really a gorgeous place,” Kyle said, waving a hand to indicate the flatlands that surrounded the house. “You raise cattle?”

“Yep.”

“I know this sounds stupid, but...I guess I figured there weren’t any places like this left. Like maybe McDonald’s owns all the cattle farms now or something.”

“There ain’t many, and most of them have been bought up by the big conglomerates. I imagine this place will go that way when I retire. Ain’t likely that Connor or his mom will want to take over the business, that’s for sure.”

Kyle was quiet for a while, counting the stars in the sky, so many more than he could see in New York, or even back home in LA.

“You don’t mind my sayin’, Kyle,” Mister Hawke said, “I don’t know what you and Connor are up to, but you seem like a man with a lot on his mind.”

Kyle’s eyebrows arched upward. “Well...we’ve both got people we need to see in California. A...co-worker of mine died recently, and I’ve been meaning to get out there and see his family ever since. Things kept happening, and maybe I kept them happening, you know? So I wouldn’t have to deal with it. But now here we are, on our way, and I guess I’m a little nervous.”

“This ‘co-worker’...was he a good friend?”

“No. I hardly knew him, really. By the time we met, he was already a...a shadow of his former self. And he wasn’t a co-worker so much as he was my predecessor. I want to do right by him, but at the same time I’m kind of tired of having to live up to his...title, I suppose. It’s like anything I do isn’t good enough because it’s not how he would have handled it.”

Hawke peered at Kyle through the pipe smoke. “So you spend a lot of time living up to this guy’s example.”

“Right. I have to constantly prove myself. Hell, I just had to again recently. Some people tried to, um, get me fired, bring in somebody new....” He absent-mindedly ran a hand over the bandage on his forehead. “So...yeah, so that’s that. I...I’m just not sure how the guy’s family is going to take me showing up on their doorstep.”

Hawke leaned back in his chair.

“Let me tell you something, Kyle,” he said. “I don’t care who you are or how good you are, you have to prove yourself again every time you walk out your front door. I’m sure that co-worker of yours had his own people who came before him, whose memory he had to live up to. Sometimes it seems like what that previous guy did is the most important thing in the world, and that it doesn’t matter at all what you did yesterday, just what you’re doing today. The only fella who can afford to rest on his laurels is the guy who’s dead. Like your co-worker.”

Kyle swiped a hand through his hair. Hawke took a thoughtful puff on his pipe before he continued.

“You seem like a good man, Kyle. You stick by your friend, do right by people you don’t really like because it’s the right thing to do, and lie through your teeth when somebody’s goulash doesn’t suit you.”

Kyle looked at him. “I - “

Hawke chuckled and raised a hand. “Nobody can fault you for doing your best, Kyle. And if they do, the problem’s with them, not you.” He set his beer - a little lighter now than it had been when he first walked out on the porch - on the railing, stood up, and stretched. “Think I’ll go check on Connor. You need another beer?”

Kyle told him he was fine, and Nathan Hawke disappeared into the house again, leaving his guest to ponder his words under the velvet cover of the Idaho night sky.

The single-engine roar of an X-13 fighter heralded their arrival at the outer perimeter of Ferris Aircraft. Kyle killed the engine at the fence and watched the experimental fighter swoop down towards the tarmac, the orange semi-circle of the setting sun turning its silhouette into an uncertain needlepoint of black.

“Well,” Connor said. “Here we are.”

“Yeah,” Kyle said. “Here we are.” He checked the clock on the dash. “Nearly seven. Maybe we should come back tomorrow.”

Connor dropped his shoulders. “Kyle.”

“Priorities, man. This isn’t why we came here. We’ll just take care of your business at the ashram first.”

“As long as you’re sure....”

Kyle gave him a sharp look. “Of course I’m sure. The last thing I want to do is keep the woman after work. I’m sure I’m not too high on her favorite people list already.”

Connor held up a hand in surrender. “I know, I know. You’re probably right. I just can’t shake the feeling that you’re kind of avoiding this....”

“Avoiding?”

“Yeah, Kyle, avoiding. In fact, I’m starting to think that’s the real reason why you wanted to drive here instead of just using the power ring.”

“I am not avoiding this.” Kyle put the car in gear and pulled back out onto the paved road that skirted the airfield. “I fought the son of Darkseid. I fought two of the sons of Darkseid. You think some thirty-something business owner scares me?”

“Obviously not.”

“No, really, if you think so, I’d like to know.”

Connor was quiet for a moment, either seriously thinking the question over, or just choosing his reply with care. “When she’s Hal Jordan’s ex-girlfriend...yeah, I do.”

“Screw you, Green Arrow.”

Connor heaved a sigh and put his head back against the seat. “Screw you, too, Green Lantern.”

“This...can’t be right.”

Two hours later, they pulled up outside a set of iron gates, flanked by stone walls that stretched for nearly a half-mile in either direction. The gates were wide open, two large Samoan men in loincloths standing guard at the entrance. There was light - electric light, and lots of it - spreading up into the night sky from somewhere behind those gates.

Kyle was the one who had spoken. Connor didn’t say a word, just pushed the door open and got out, moving stiffly around the front of the vehicle. His eyes were fixed on a large, brightly-colored sign bolted to the wall to the right of the gate.

“Oh, man, Connor,” Kyle said, as he got out of the car and ran to join his friend.

“Even after what Master Jansen told me...I never dreamed it would be this bad....”

Kyle’s eyes stole up to the sign Connor’s glazed stare was fixed on. It read:

Kyle looked warily at Connor. “This is...this is not good, right?”

“That...that’s putting it lightly, Kyle,” Connor said. “Very lightly.” And then he started moving toward the gate.

Nathan Hawke awoke with a start, his eyes darting uncertainly around the night-darkened bedroom. Had he dreamt the noise that had wrenched him from a sound sleep, or...?

No. There it was again. The sound of something heavy moving around downstairs, something apparently not too worried about conducting its breaking and entering in a quiet manner.

Nathan rolled over and reached down. His mattress sat on a solid frame with long drawers built into it, and he slid one of these drawers open now. Reaching past the piles of neatly folded socks and underwear, he drew out his shotgun and, quietly as he could, got out of bed.

It was probably just a raccoon that managed to get in through the window, or - at worst - a larcenous kid that would rabbit as soon as Nathan showed his face. No reason to take chances, though. He’d been living in this house for decades, and...even though some might think the days of such things were behind them...Nathan remembered a time not so long ago when a black man owning his own cattle farm out here was a bone in the craw of many white working boys in town. Hell if he hadn’t held this very shotgun on more than one trespassing white boy. Best to be prepared.

As he crept down the stairs, Nathan found himself wishing Connor and his friend had stayed over for one more night. Then it occurred to him that maybe this was Connor, come back because he forgot something and didn’t want to wake his grandfather this late at night.

Not very likely, though. Nathan shouldered the shotgun and, having reached the bottom of the stairs, moved slowly into the kitchen.

Nathan closed his eyes.

When he opened them again, everything in his kitchen was still a ghastly scarlet - just as it had been when he’d looked away.

The unpleasant truth about a man who works a cattle farm, has done all his life, is that he’s learned over time to push down the love he has for the animals in his care. He doesn’t have any choice, really. You’re not cruel to them, but you don’t get too attached, either. Because that man knows each and every one of those animals will one day die...and at his hand. Man’s gotta eat. It’s just the way of the world.

Such a man can still be affected by savagery, however. Proper slaughter is as fast and merciful as possible. This...

This was nothing less than evisceration.

The cow had been strewn from one end of the kitchen to the other. Miles of intestine pooled all over the floor. And in the center...making horrible smacking sounds as it ate its kill....

“What the hell,” Nathan Hawke said, and raised the shotgun. He cocked back both hammers, aimed true. “What the hell is it!?”

The Predator smiled.

The bloody creature tittered. “Wasssss...huhn-gree? So ate.”

Nathan Hawke trembled from head to toe. It dawned on him all at once that he was about to have a heart attack - and then he realized that didn’t matter, not at all.

“Stilllllll huhn-gree.”

Nathan wanted to shoot. He wanted to blow this damn thing off the face of the planet. But he was scared.

He was scared that it wouldn’t die.

Hey, all...Mike McGee here, or as I am probably known just at the moment: “Who the hell is this guy?”

I tried to convince Russ to write the lettercol, but no dice...which I guess means I’m stuck with the task of answering that question on my own, and you’re stuck with me. And we’re ALL stuck with that godawful name for a lettercol until someone thinks of a better one. Maybe it’s just me, but “Rub the Lamp” just sounds....

Ahem. Anyway. To address the above question, I write WEREWOLF BY NIGHT for MV1, wrote GHOST RIDER ’57 (also at MV1, in STRANGE TALES #44-#49), and also tend to my baby, NOTHINGFACE, at Frontier. The thing these books have in common (and, no, I’m not gonna say, “is that they suck”) is that they’re all...well...pretty dark. And nasty. And full of bad words. Sex. Violence. The whole enchilada. They’re...not pleasant stories.

So. Does this mean that the whole book is about to do a one-eighty and move into territory that would make the production crew of “The Sopranos” blush? Does this mean that I’m about to turn GREEN LANTERN into yet another tired, grim ‘n’ gritty, revisionist saga of angst and bloodletting? Does this mean, most importantly, that anyone with an iota of, like, taste, should not bother to drop in on issue #7?

Nah.

As you’ve seen this very issue, things might get a little rough, from time to time. I won’t lie and tell you otherwise. Honesty’s an important part of storytelling, and evil should be...uh...evil. I wouldn’t want to shy away from that, and I don’t intend to. But if you’re reading looking for the ugly stuff...well...you’ll probably be disappointed. Kyle Rayner’s hand will not be eaten by piranha, his spine will not be broken in two as a prelude to throwing him off the Empire State Building, and he will not become a grim figure of heartless vengeance hellbent on the brutal destruction of his enemies. He won’t even say any words you won’t hear on prime-time commercial TV. It ain’t gonna happen.

Don’t get me wrong. I love every book I write. And I try to tell every story I tell appropriately. Sometimes that means going for the hard R-rating. But...not here. It just doesn’t fit GREEN LANTERN. And I wouldn’t want it to.

Before I go, I want to thank Russ for thinking of me when he decided to (don’t say it) move on to greener pastures (oh, God, I said it). Most of the real work that went into this issue was Russ’ work, not mine. If there’s something here you really liked, chances are, it was something Russ wrote. If there’s something you hated, odds are, that one’s all on me. Either way, I’d like to know what worked for you and what you thought blew chunks. You would probably not like me to babble like this ever again, and I don’t blame you one bit. The easiest way to avoid that is to write me at eddiethirteen@aol.com. Seeya in #7.

-Mike
December 6, 2001