When it comes to the last part of the singularly defining phrase, “up, down, and out,” I have to let Little Pluck say it for me, as you know he would:

I’M LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA, AND I’M OUT!

And that reminds me of a story. The story I’m referring to, of course, was the infamous “Crashed in the jungle” strip also known as the Death of Little Pluck. Of course, I had heard references to his death before I ever was able to get my hands on one of the actual comic variations on the story. Even armed with that common knowledge, I was still completely unprepared for what I found both in the story and in myself when I finally read it.

Now, Pluck doesn’t say the line above exactly as such when he takes his final bow, and in the story that follows chronologically—and dozens more that appeared after that—he was back as if he had never even left. Here, I’ll let the description and dialog—written here word for word, just as I read them and later memorized them from the speech bubbles, after constant reading and re-reading—speak for itself…

PAGE 1

SPLASH PANEL WITH IMPRINT: BY INDUSCO

GUNG HO AND LITTLE PLUCK ARE WALKING THROUGH A FOUR-COLOR JUNGLE SPREAD WITH PALM TREES AND VINES. MALEVOLENT EYES WATCH THEM FROM DARK SHADOWS IN LOW PLACES AS THEY OBLIVIOUSLY MAKE THEIR WAY DOWN A DIRT PATH. THE LARGE FIGURE OF GUNG HO DOMINATES THE PANEL TENDERLY CARRYING A TINY BOX WITH A RED CROSS ON IT. HIS OTHER HAND IS ON HIS CROTCH FOR NO APPARENT REASON. RIGHT NEXT TO HIM, BENT OVER AT THE WAIST AND LEANING INTO GUNG HO FOR SUPPORT, LITTLE PLUCK STAGGERS BENEATH A CANVAS-WRAPPED BURDEN MANY TIMES HIS SIZE.

CAPTION

GUNG HO AND LITTLE PLUCK CRASHED IN THE JUNGLE! BUT, THEY HAVE A DELIVERY TO MAKE, AND BY CRACKER, THEY’RE GOING TO DO IT.

GUNG HO

WE NEED TO BE GOING, YO?

(cont)

OR NO GO FOR GUNG HO.

(cont)

WHOA, BRO, NO SLOPPY JOE.

LITTLE PLUCK

I'M LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA, AND I’M ON THE MOTHER. NO STUPID SICK KID GONNA DIE ON ACCOUNT O’ ME.

(cont)

I DIDN’T MEAN TO CRASH NO PLANE, BUT DAT BIRD WAS IN DE WRONG PLACE AT DE WRONG TIME.

(cont)

WHEN YOU AX ME IF I COULD FLY, YOU SHOULDA AX ME IF I COULD LAND THE BITCH...

PAGE 2

PANEL 1

GUNG HO AND LITTLE PLUCK RUN RIGHT FROM A COLLECTION OF PAWS, CLAWS AND BARED FANGS FROM ASSORTED BIRDS AND BEASTS ON LEFT.

CAPTION

“YOU KNOW WHERE YOU ARE? YOU’RE IN THE JUNGLE, BABY. YOU GONNA DIE!” [MUSICAL NOTES]

GUNG HO

NOT TIME FOR GUNG HO TO GO FOR GOOD.

LITTLE PLUCK

FOR GOOD OR BAD, EV’RYBODY GOTS TO GO SOMETIME.

(cont)

WHEN I GO, I HOPE TO BE STUPID OLD, PISS DRUNK OFF MY ASS, AND NECK DEEP IN HOT WET PUSSY... BUT DAT’S JUST ME, I’M LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA.

PANEL 2

COVERED IN SCRATCHES AND BRUISES AND LEANING BACK TO BACK, GUNG HO AND LITTLE PLUCK FIGHT WILD ANIMALS. GUNG HO IS WEARING A LOBSTER BIB AND POSING IN KUNG FU TIGER TECHNIQUE AGAINST A BEAR EVEN LARGER THAN HE IS. LITTLE PLUCK USES A SNAKE TO WHIP A PANTHER IN THE FACE WHILE HOLDING BY THE NECK A WOLF STRAINING TO EAT HIM.

GUNG HO

GUNG HO FEEL BAD HURTING LITTLE ANIMALS. THO...

(cont)

ALL THIS FIGHTIN’ MAKE GUNG HO HUNGRY, SO...

LITTLE PLUCK

GOLLY GEE, GUNG HO, I’M SURE ANIMALS FEEL JUS’ MIGHTY AWFUL ABOUT HAVING TO EAT ME. BUT I’M NO ONE’S LUNCH. I’M LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA.

(cont)

AN’ YOU MESS WID ME, YOU GO DOWN HARD. AT LEAST, I HOPES TO MAKE ‘EM FEEL ALL TRULY AWFUL FOR THE REST OF THEIR SHORT BUT DELICIOUS LIVES...

PANEL 3

BLACKOUT--NIGHTTIME IN THE JUNGLE. MEAN-LOOKING EYES FILL THE SHADOWS. THE BEAR FROM PANEL 3 HAS BEEN SHAVED BALD ONLY LEAVING TWO BANDAGES IN THE SHAPE OF AN X ON ITS BUTT ROASTING ON A SPIT. GUNG HO IS FASTIDIOUSLY EATING FROM A BOWL WITH CHOPSTICKS WHILE LITTLE PLUCK IS VIOLENTLY BITING MEAT OFF OF A DRUMSTICK.

CAPTION

HUNGER MAKES THE TASTIEST SPICE, BUT KILLING AND COOKING YOUR DINNER IS NICE!

GUNG HO

GUNG HO EAT NOW AND REST SOON. MUNCH!

(cont)

TOMORROW WE TAKE MEDICINE TO REMOTE VILLAGE CUT OFF FROM ALL CONTACT. MUNCH, MUNCH!

LITTLE PLUCK

ALL THAT, HUH? THE SOONER WE BE OUTTA HERE, THE BETTER OFF WE BE.

(cont)

Y’KNOW, IF I GOTTA CARRY YO FAT ASS, LAY OFF SECONDS! YA KNOW I’M NOT GONNA GIT STUCK, SUCKA.

PANEL 4

BLACKOUT—STILL NIGHTTIME IN THE JUNGLE. HOWLS, CHIRPS, SHRIEKS AND CRIES FILL ALL AVAILABLE SPACE SURROUNDING CHARACTERS IN SCENE. GUNG HO HAS PACKED AND HOLDS TINY BOX OF MEDICINE IN ONE HAND, HIS OTHER HOLDS HIS HAT AS HE CROSSES PANEL TO RIGHT. FOLLOWING BEHIND, LITTLE PLUCK JUGGLES CRATES, PACKAGES TIED WITH STRING, GIFT-WRAPPED PRESENTS, A JUG LABELED XXX, MULTIPLE UMBRELLAS, ANTIQUE REVOLVER, ROUND LIFE PRESERVER, BUST OF LUDWIG VAN BEETHOVEN, RUBBER DUCK, COMPASS, AND A HOOKAH.

GUNG HO

NO TIME LIKE PRESENT TO PRESENT A PRESENT.

LITTLE PLUCK

SHUT YO FOOL MOUTH AND RUN, SUCKA!

PAGE 3

PANEL 1

JUST AS THE SUN RISES, GUNG HO AND LITTLE PLUCK HAVE RUN OUT OF PATH THAT ENDS IN CLIFF ON LEFT SIDE OF PANEL. THEY PUMP THEIR FEET ABOVE EMPTY AIR. GUNG HO, STILL HOLDING ON TO THE LITTLE BOX OF MEDICINE WITH ONE HAND, LOOKS BEHIND HIM AND GRABS FOR LITTLE PLUCK. LITTLE PLUCK REACHES FOR GUNG HO AND HAS LOST MOST OF THE ITEMS EXCEPT FOR AN UMBRELLA WHICH IS ABOUT TO BE HOOKED ON A VINE ON THE CLIFF.

GUNG HO

RUNNING OUT OF TIME AND RUNNING OUT OF ROAD MEANS ITS LAST TIME OUT ON ROAD FOR GUNG HO.

LITTLE PLUCK

NO WAY I’M GOING TO LET THAT HAPPEN, SUCKA.

PANEL 2

PARTIAL OUTLINES WITH ZIP LINES SHOW GUNG HO SCRAMBLING UP LITTLE PLUCK. ON CLIFF, FILLED-OUT GUNG HO REACHES OUT HIS HAND BUT LITTLE PLUCK IS HOLDING ON TO UMBRELLA JUST OUT OF REACH.

LITTLE PLUCK

I TOLD YA TO LAY OFF DESSERT. BUT I’M NOT GONNA MAKE IT.

(cont)

SAVE THE KIDS AND SERIOUSLY, GET LAID. I MEAN, JUS’ ONCE, SCREW A BITCH...

(cont)

AND SAY IT’S FOR...

GUNG HO

YOU KNOW GUNG HO DO ANYTHING...

(cont)

FOR...

(cont)

LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA.

LAST PANEL, HALF PAGE

FACING AWAY FROM THE VIEWER, GUNG HO WALKS INTO VILLAGE AT SUNSET WITH THE MEDICINE, ANGEL OF LITTLE PLUCK WITH HALO AND TINY WINGS FOLLOWING BEHIND, HOVERING A FEW FEET OFF THE GROUND, BUT STILL NOT QUITE AS TALL AS GUNG HO.

GUNG HO

WHERE YOU GO, GUNG HO GOES.

LITTLE PLUCK

I’M NO LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA. I’M OUT.

* * *

Of course, I can imagine exactly how the pages appear in my mind’s eye, but I can’t reproduce them here. I wish I could.

Sorry.

Of course, if you ever do get a chance to see one of the variations of the above story, you could see for yourself just how much is only hinted at in the description above. And, frankly, much of the story itself is only hinted at, given the limitations of language, artistic abilities, distribution, as well as the physical space on the printed page.

I read so much of Gung Ho and Little Pluck, that for awhile I thought they were real, and I was the comic book character. My life, after all, was only three things: up, down, out; repeated over and over. Little Pluck may have been crudely written and crudely drawn, but he went out in style. He willingly gave his life for his friend on a mission to save children he didn’t even know.

Or, not. Or whatever, it’s just a story for kids.

Well, maybe not—if you had seen the artwork, as it was just this side of—have you ever heard of Tijuana Bibles? Yes, I know I haven’t gotten to how I could know about them yet—please be patient. But the subject of the comic is instantly recognizable: sex. The splash page panel of the original comic has been drawn and re-drawn in nearly every conceivable medium and mix of media as Little Pluck fellating Gung Ho. In case you missed what I meant, the derivative artwork in most cases featured Little Pluck sucking Gung Ho’s cock.

The suggestive pose of the original—whether it was subconscious homoeroticism or merely subliminally exploitative—was reproduced both everywhere and nowhere. Let me explain. I mean to say that it was inked everywhere as graffiti on equipment or fixtures or even semi-permanently scratched into raw metal, no one would ever, ever claim ownership, even if caught red-handed in the act of replicating such a banal scene that cannot be acknowledged.

It may be just a story from a comic book, but it was also so much more. The comic inspired an equation of death and homosexuality that was always present in the mines. I mean, sex can be deadly, as a female can die in childbirth that was the result of sex. Anyone can fall victim to a venereal disease. And every one—even those who never read the comic would know at least some part of the story—thanks to that one particular comic and its underlying context and simultaneous visceral appeal.

Of course, I can’t analyze it as a cultural phenomenon or even as just a work of art, but somewhere—someone—might. And I could be a part of that study, as I acknowledge the profound impact that story—and every Gung Ho and Little Pluck story—had on me.

I mean, to be honest, that last panel was what drew me to this story and still emotionally resonates with me to this very day. While everyone—and I mean everyone, even people who had never, ever even come close to reading the actual comic—knew the first panel, the one with the sexual undertones in a comic that had no shortage of sexual overtones, no one else ever talked about the last panel. In that moment, when I first read that story, and every time thereafter, Gung Ho was talking to me.

WHERE YOU GO, GUNG HO GOES.

I mean, see if you can follow me here. Gung Ho couldn’t be talking to Little Pluck—he was dead—represented by the angel. And Gung Ho didn’t need to say that anyways. Little Pluck was obviously following Gung Ho, giving up going to heaven in order to stay at the side of his friend where he had always belonged. In fact, Little Pluck’s final line is a postscript to the story—he sums up the story neatly even as he denies himself. But Gung Ho remained, and said that he would go with me wherever I go.

And he did.

* * *

Indulge me for just a bit longer, please. If Gung Ho is always with me, and I identify with Little Pluck, what would I think Little Pluck would say now?

HOW THE FUCK WOULD I KNOW? I’M LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA, A FICTIONAL CHARACTER.

I’m interested in what you think, Little Pluck.

SEE? THAT SHIT RIGHT UP THERE? AND THESE SHIT WORDS RIGHT HERE? DID YOU NOT MAKE ME SAY THEM?

I’m telling a story, and yes. Yes, I did.

THEN WHY GO THROUGH THIS MENTAL MASTURBATION, JIVE-ASS MORON?

Why? Because only after and not until I have actually asked the question and start to see your answer, do I even know what it will be.

SOUNDS SERIOUSLY STUPID, OR I’M NOT LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA. AND I’M NOT.

WAIT, WHAT?

Tell me what you think of my predicament?

YOUR PRED-A-WHAT? YOU IN SPACE, MOTHER FUCKER. YOU AND THAT BITCH, WHATSERNAME—

I meant, what happened right after that. Indeed I thought I had brought that to closure.

CLOSURE? FUCK CLOSURE. YOU GET CLOSURE WHEN YOU’RE DEAD. UNTIL THEN, YOU HAIN’T GOT NOTHIN BUT WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT. I’M THE LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA, AND HAIN’T NO ONE TELL ME NO-WAYS.

RIGHT THERE! THAT AIN’T WHAT I SAID AT FIRST.

Yes, I change, make corrections, adjust as I go.

IS THAT WHAT YOU DO?

I am telling a story. Not just any story, either. My story, in particular. Except that it’s tough to get started, even when things have already started. Sometimes it just flows, telling a story does. Sometimes, the story just seems to tell itself. One can feel a great comfort in the universal nature of the story that tells its own tale, and for the teller—the distant remove of the vessel that only serves as the conduit of the story—that is a gentle and sleepy tale.

But that’s not my story. I can’t get far enough away to tell my story, although I’m hoping that Little Pluck would help.

I’M LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA, NOT YO FOOL. I KNEWS THERE WAS A REASON, AND IT ALWAYS COMES DOWN TO THE SAME REASON. WANTING HELP. LITTLE PLUCK WILL HELP! LITTLE PLUCK WILL HELP!

FUCK ALL Y’ALL. YA GOTS NO RIGHT TO EXPECT HELP.

No? But it would seem that I created your voice—as desperate an act as that might have been—and that I control the shit words you have to say.

I’M LITTLE PLUCK, AND I’M FUCKED, SUCKA.

* * *

IS THAT HOW YOU WANT THIS TO GO DOWN? IS THIS THE RETURN OF JOM? REALLY?

There, you said it. I couldn’t. It was just too painful, too incredible—and right after Alesund, also incredibly painful—and just way too freaky of a coincidence. Right? I’m ejected into the void of space, but who should be there but the same one who found me on 944-Hidalgo.

AND I’M LITTLE PLUCK, SUCKA, NOT YO SHRINK. YOU’VE GOT ISSUES, YOU WORK IT OUT.

Even though I knew you were going to say that—eventually—I’m still disappointed, Little Pluck.

FUCK YOU. YOU GOT ME CONFUSED WITH SOMEONE WHO GIVES A SHIT, LIKE GUNG HO.

He goes where I go. And I’m one of his.

* * * 

This was not my first evac. I’ve been in plenty of mines where the gravity generators malfunctioned, or some unpreventable disaster took out an entire section—that wouldn’t have been my section, of course, or I wouldn’t be able to relate to you this here story, of course.

I’m trying to say that I’ve been in space before. Of course, space doesn’t care if it’s a drill or the real thing, your first time or your last, space is just space.

A whole lot of nothing. That’s what space is. Well, that, and alpha particles, quantum foam and higgs field interactions. But that tends to not be as interesting as the occasional cometary fragment. And, after several billion years, anything can happen—but mostly doesn’t.

So, it tends to get one’s attention when little lights start up and appear in the distance. Of course, distance is all relative, and the lights—moving at their own speed, of course—are always in your line of sight, because if you’re lucky, there are no obstacles when floating out in space.

Alesund—sigh—and I ended up watching the lights for hours. Parallax is an incredible thing, as Alesund and I are were able to get a fix on a distant star, and then, lying feet to feet but oriented in opposite directions, used the distance between our helmets to get a fix on the new arrivals using that point of reference. The sampling software apparently took ages at that resolution, Alesund said…

She said a lot of things at that time. It hurts to even think about them, and I don’t dare to try to reproduce her words here while I’m in this space, so to speak.

The lights. I’m focusing on the lights.

The lights didn’t move much, as they were heading straight towards us. Of course, we felt exposed, as there was nothing between us and the lights heading straight for our position.

But that exposure is exactly what I wanted as I was that desperate for aid. I feared that if I looked away for an instant, then the lights would disappear, or worse, change course oblivious to our need, lingering out of reach, out of touch.

But I did blink, and was distracted even further by the recovered vessels alighting on the rebel carrier. To us, it looked like the appearance of more lights much closer to us before they hid themselves. Shielded against electromagnetic scans, they hid from all detectors, including simple chemical photonic receptors—otherwise known as eyes.

Hours passed, and then the lights of the new arrivals went out as well, right on schedule. They had entered the Chi Persei cluster but they hadn’t detected any em signatures upon their arrival. Obviously Alesund and I weren’t emitting enough electromagnetic energy to attract their attention or warrant a cautious approach.

But when the rebel ships powered up and came to life, everything changed.

The newcomers—I figure the rebels were here first, but that’s only an assumption—were about a light-hour away, and they had been looking in our direction—they were coming, whoever they were. Maybe they were other rebels, perhaps even someone Alesund knew. Who else could it be?

“Hey, Brownie!” My suit radio sputtered to life. “Can you see me? No, I know you can’t. Can you hear me?”

“Jom?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “How did you find me?”

“What, not a word of thanks? I travel a thousand light-years to save you from being stranded alone in space—”

“I can hear you.” Alesund joined the conversation on the suit radio. “You know—”

She didn't even finish her sentence before Jom shot her without provocation or even explanation, even though we still couldn’t see him.

I know I wanted—at times—to see Alesund burn after she broke my heart, but I suspected that she didn’t deserve that. It’s not in my nature to venture such vile thoughts even as a joke, as violence never solved anything.

As just then it certainly did not solve—in fact, it may have permanently closed the door upon—my curious riddle of love and loss. No one deserves death, despite being a certainty—it is the one guarantee of life—because who truly deserves to live? That gift of life is so precious, how can anyone be really worthy of just one moment of something so incredibly unlikely—even more unlikely than being sought for and saved not once but twice in two different parts of the galaxy.

I felt truly that Gung Ho goes where I go, and went with me even to places I didn’t want to go.

But Gung Ho in the comics didn’t shoot others, and… Well, Jom was here, but still hiding. Did he come all this way to kill me?

And as soon as Alesund had been shot, the space around me lit up with a thousand lights as rebel vessels powered up way past their stealth capabilities to hide in order to reach Alesund. They had been either using us as bait, or possibly searching for us and without Jom’s superior technology—if superior only by virtue of actually working—they hadn’t found us until the energy beam blasted Alesund like a high pressure furnace…

I know, I should probably show a little more emotion, remorse, regret if not guilt and self-loathing than just some miner who could calculate a lover’s melting point as readily as whisper sweet nothings—did I ever love? Did I actually mean my vows of desire, so that even if my heart was broken and reciprocity once taken up only to be denied I would be heartbroken a second time at the loss?

Alesund was lost to me, yet it was entirely possible she wasn’t actually dead. Horribly burned, electromagnetically fried almost to the point of both neutralizing free electrons and permanently blocking synaptic receptacles from carrying charges, she was toast wrapped in foil. She could be just a fraction away from death, as she was right about me not trusting the suit tech—or even knowing much about it.

The targeting lock from Jom’s scanner possibly gave the suit the ping it took as a cue to shut everything down. And in that instant, maybe it succeeded. I will likely never know the result, or learn how or if Alesund ever healed. But the rebels instantly moved en masse, and their actions showed me the resilience and the commitment of the alliance in their struggle against the order.

Maybe a more egotistical person would have thought that the rescuers were coming for them. You know, thinking to save one life after seeing one burn. But it didn’t occur to me. And someone else was here for me. He had been around for me before, too.

The rebels were true to their own.

And I remember that’s what Jom told me, too. He has said as much to me.

“You’re one of us, now,”

Next Chapter: II: DOWN, 1: Attack!