Therapeutic Skin Jobs #1

For a couple of years in the late 1990s, all I wanted to do is write fan fiction about a character I'd created called Doctor Skin. I'd been writing things on the Never Ending Board at the almost original comicbookresources.com site for a year or two, and had one bad day at work, and when I got home I wrote something called Therapeutic Skin Jobs to help me feel better.

It took me half an hour. I was heavily into late Britpop and The Prisoner and getting drunk as fuck and the Jerry Cornelius books and genuinely thought The Invisibles was the greatest comic in the history of forever, so of course it was about those kinds of things.

It was also, of course, absolutely terrible, but I put it up online anyway, just like I did with the next 23 stories in the series. Some of it was cannibalized into a longer attempt at a novel starring the good Doctor a decade later, which I've already inflicted on the world here, but this is where it all started.

I also saved them all, and only just found them in a file on buried on the computer the other day.

So of course I'm going to share them again, every Sunday for the next few months. The version of CBR that originally hosted them is barely even a memory anymore, and the stories can live on here for a little longer.

I really do apologise for the roughness of the first couple, I really didn't know what I was doing. They do get much, much better, I promise. Looking at them now, I thought I should probably clean them up, but then thought: fuck it. This is me aged 22-24. Why look away when I can gaze on in horror?

Therapeutic Skin Jobs #1 

By Max Zero 

    This is true hardcore, and don't you forget it. Screaming across the desert sands at a trazillion miles per minute, leaving electrons dancing in the wake. This is what life's all about. Squeezing it by the privates and letting it know you exist. 

    Least, that’s what the man says. The man in question? There he goes. At the wheel of the Car With No Name, laughing his head off as Ray Davies sings of his true love for a man on the CD. 

    His name is Doctor Skin, though he has nothing in common with either. It's his car, and that's his girl by his side. The desert makes a wonderfully wide road, pity about the lack of pedestrians. (Always good for points. Little kids are good for a bonus.) Post modern? You bet. 

    "Oh fuBLEEP," cries the good Doctor, revelling in his self imposed censorship, as he glances in his rear view mirror ($29.95 from all good motor parts outlets) and sees dust in the distance. "It looks like they've found us." 

    Claudia, Skin's one true love, the one he can't live without because why would you do this alone, takes off her sunglasses, yawns and looks out the back window. 

    "I told you, you shouldn't have tried it with the Emperor's wife. It was bound to lead to trouble." 

    Skin cocks an immaculately curved eyebrow at his love. "But you only said that because you thought she had an inordinately large head. Never trust anybody with a head larger than your own, you said."

    "Maybe," says Claudia, putting on a cold stare that would send stars cold. "But I still think there was no need for you to do her on the throne." 

    "Style, baby. Style." 

    Skin glances back and sees that the dust has gotten closer. He's screwed and there's no two ways about it. The Car With No Name might be the coolest hunk of metal this side of forever, but it just wasn't that fast. Mores the pity. 

    Skin spits out the window, narrowly missing the last sane gecko left in this wilderness. That's a pity too, because it's dying of thirst. 

    "Christ!" blasphemes Claudia as she rummages through the rubbish on the floor of the car. Old McDonalds burger wrappers, a dazzling array of bright and breezy clothes, a few issues of ‘Sgt. Rock’, eviction notices from seven different parallels and bags of meat all conspire against her. "Where's the bloody gun!" 

    With a primal whoop of joy, Claudia pulls out the finest non-demonic handgun in the multiverse - the extravagant Testosterone XL. When you really need something to kill, go with the Testosterone. 

    Just in time too, because as Claudia sticks her fine blonde head out of the sunroof, the pursuers catch up with our intrepid heroes. The car is instantly surrounded by dozens of rejects from the unknown fifth Mad Max film - all steel and spikes and spit. They’re angry as hell, and they’re all outta bubble gum. 

    As the intrepid Dr. Skin avoids inevitable collision and total destruction, Claudia fires again and again upon those who would do her harm. More often than not she hits and sheer wonderful life is snuffed out by the cruel hand of death. What a shame, but the splatter of blood on the bright sand makes for a lovely effect. 

    It’s all in vain. Too many more replace those Claudia despatches. Our heroes are screwed. 

    "Not quite," screams Dr. Skin, struggling to be heard over the roar of engines, the cracks of gunfire and the screams of the dying. "Get your fine cranium in here, my dear. We’re jumping." 

    Claudia hollers with delight and sits back down on her fine, fine ass. Skin flips a switch and prepares to unleash the latest Jump Unit from Spunkmeyer Technologies. ("If you’re sick of this world, try another!’) 

    "Here we go, here we go, here we go," hollers Doc as he gets ready to do the interdimensional shuffle. He can barely contain his enthusiasm. He’s five years old and it’s Christmas yet again. 

    "In it for the money!" sings Dr. Skin flawlessly as he hits the switch and jumps between worlds, leaving a bunch of angry people behind them.      

***

    But what does it mean? The purpose is achieved. The title is self-fulfilling. A rotten mood has blossomed into one of joy, all through the power of random words. How cool is that? 

    Should we quit now? While we’re ahead? 

    Nah….. 

    Tie it in, give it a sense of closure. 

    You know it makes sense. 

***

     The glorious trippy technocolors that make up the space-time continuum fade away, leaving cool after effects dancing in front of their eyes. Dr. Skin slams on the brakes, bringing the car to a screeching halt. 

    "Dig it!" he cries, a pure rush of the highest order already fading. 

    Claudia runs a hand through her long hair, sweeping it back and giving Dr. Skin a minor thrill. "Where are we?" 

    "Check out the sign," answers Doc, pointing ahead. Claudia opens the car door and steps out, stretching her six foot five frame out to it’s fullest. The black tights she’s wearing show off every inch of her fine body. She reads the sign. 

    "Welcome to J Street. Time’s funny here." 

    "About time," says Skin, stepping out of the Car With No Name and pulling on a long leather jacket, just like the one Al Pacino wore in Carlito’s Way. Together, the two lovers stood and stared down the street. Adventures, danger and chocolate ice cream awaited them. 

    "Let’s get it on!" whoops Dr. Skin, leaping back in the car and pumping the accelerator, feeling a cheap thrill every time the engine roars. He floors it and the car speeds off down J Street, destination unknown, because that's as hardcore as it gets.