The Sensational She-Hulk 3 (1989) . My Guest-Star... My Enemy! . Written and Penciled by John Byrne Inked by Bob Wiacek Colors by Glynis Oliver Lettered by Jim Novak Edited by Bobbie Chase and James DiGiovanna . Spider-Man found and fought Mysterio, thus learning about She-Hulk's kidnapping. He found the Headmen and fought them to save She-Hulk... . #shehulk #spiderman #headmen #chondu #rubythursday #mysterio #avengers #fantasticfour #hulk #80s #johnbyrne #bobwiacek #shrunkenbones #gorillaman (at New York, New York) https://www.instagram.com/p/CeMMYC8sx8s/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=
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Tales Of Suspense 9
May 1st 1960
While chasing an adventure, a few unlucky men encounter a demon from the Fifth Dimension! And, the first appearance of Chondu the Mystic!
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December 28
Chondu was once a sideshow magician before becoming a professional criminal. In his first appearance in Tales of Suspense #9 (December 28, 1959), he lectured on yoga and sent an escaped convict to Limbo. Chondu can perform intermediate magic as he is a adept in the mystic arts. In his monstrous demonic-like form, he had superhuman strength, flight and the ability to constrict objects with his tentacle-like arms. Chondu later joins the Headmen. Dr. Arthur Nagan transplants Chondu's brain into Nighthawk's body in a bid to exploit the Defenders. Doctor Strange defeats him in a fight and mystically places Chondu's consciousness in a fawn's body. Meanwhile, Nagan and Ruby Thursday carry out a series of alterations to Chondu's original body. His altered body is a monstrous, demonic-looking form with eight lampreys for arms, bird-wings, a horn from his skull, fangs, a forked tongue, and eagles' feet. His consciousness is placed in an artificial brain made out of the same material as Ruby's head. In this form, he had superhuman strength, flight and could constrict objects with his tentacle-like arms. Chondu attempts to kidnap a construction worker to use in a brain transplant, but encounters Valkyrie and is arrested by the New York City police.
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i love all of you.
This was not what he was here for.
A ball in the Cotswolds involving the new intellectual elite he wished he would have had the sense to run with back before his Icarian demise both was and wasn’t a coincidence. There was a couple of men there - barkeep’s ears that always heard too much, and in this case were the singular supplier of some vicious continental absinthe and țuică - who he needed a word with and had spent all but the last of his scrimped money and waning will to live to track down outside of London.
What he needed wouldn’t save him, but in a sealed letter that could well be his last, it would save a family the loss of their innocent mother, who was only waiting for the barristers to determine the date of her hanging. As the last act of a failed physician and now half-time, half-decent occultist, it seemed a fitting final salvo.
Of course he knew more than a few of the crowd in the front of the house, had watched from the shadows as they assembled a better world, together. A world he would have loved to contribute to, if only he’d found the time to be worthy of inclusion sooner than his folly had hunted him down in the end. If he’d gone out to them, revealed himself from beneath the cloak of his own disappearance, some of them probably would have even been pleased to see him. And, out of politeness, maybe offered him a guinea and a brandy and a cot on the floor. They didn’t know it, but he could feel it in his bones that they were soon due to be snowed in - a charming turn up for yuletide, and one of the many reasons he wasn’t sure if he’d ever make it back to London.
He was leaned into the wide bubble of warmth emanating from the busily popping stoves, set back into the deep soapstone hearths in the kitchen as they worked through the pastries and vittles being methodically proceeded to the gentry’s tables. Chondu was getting more smuggled vodka and gin from the cellar, the staff faithfully ignoring him once he’d been established as a non-event.
It was a single moment of emptiness in the kitchen, where the servants were circulating, the cooks were smoking, and his heartbeat the only murmur in the room.
Until the least likely sentence was launched at the threadbare coat on his back, and sank in like a hot knife right between his ribs. He turned, a beauty who perhaps alone among all those other beautiful minds in the house might have reason to remember him fondly. Or to hate him, entirely.
“I should have figured you’d be here. The defenders of the faith,” he said, nodding toward the hallway she’d secreted down, to the party she was needlessly forsaking. “Their like is lucky to have you. And this a fitting reward for all that you are, all that you’ve become.” Without me, which was better in the end.
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