Lawsuit from Terminator rights-holders to follow – Guardians of the Galaxy #39

I’ve never been able to get into the Legion of Super-Heroes, so it follows that I’ve never been able to muster much enthusiasm for their rough Marvel far-future (alternative far-future, at that) counterparts, the Guardians of the Galaxy. Apologies to whatever fan base they may have, it’s just that I cannot possibly care less about Vance Astro and his cohorts.

But a large-breasted descendant of Wolverine and a Terminatorified Doctor Doom? That’ll at least get me in the door.

In “Skeletal Remains,” Rancor, Logan’s distant relative, certainly proves that his bad hair and bad attitude genes were dominant. She’s royally pissed here because Doom has blasphemed her ancestor by purloining his adamantium skeleton and using it as his indestructible chassis. Reasonable. Most of this issue focuses on the resultant dustup between these two, while the Guardians are off fighting something that I don’t really care about. A 31st century Loki even makes an appearance along the way.

There’s a lot of this, and by “this” I mean “growling and bombast”:

Rancor manages to get the upper hand:

She’s finally able to electrically shock Doom to his apparent death, but it’s clear that she’s never seen a 20th century horror film:

I’m a bit surprised that Doom didn’t break out a “Bah! Richards!” just out of ancient habit, but “Insolent cow!” is a hell of a substitute. I’ll have to remember that one for any future sour romances.

The Guardians then bust in to save her life and one-eyed Doom beats metallic cheeks out of there. Then there’s some nonsense about Vance Astro or Major Victory or whatever his name was at the time presenting Captain America’s shield to the new president of the universe or whatever. I really don’t care.

Michael Gallagher wrote this one, with Kevin West and Steve Montano providing the artwork. Bless them for trying, but there’s really nothing on this Earth that could get me to care about this title. I can remember seeing these on the rack during my early teenage years, and I think the phrase “not with a ten-foot cattle prod” adequately summed up my apathy back then.

Come to think of it, it applies now, and probably will until the 31st century finally rolls around.