Help a fellow geek out, ComicVine!

Okay I'll admit it... I don't post here often.

Many of you have seen "The ABCs of Death." They're making a sequel and opening the entry for the letter M to independent filmmakers. I just so happen to be in a few of the entries.

As fortune would have it, one of the entries that I am acting in is holding in the Top 6 as a potential finalist. With only two weeks, left though... we may well be knocked out of that standing.

I'm asking for your help. Please go to the attached link and vote for the entry titled "M' is for Merchandise" (You'll see me as the tall gentleman in the black suit and hat) by clicking the "Like" button located above the video player on the page.

Thank you in advance ComicVine

"M' is for Merchandise"


The Groaning of a B-movie Actor

You may have heard of me outside of my comicvine activity... but probably not. I tend to be cast in movies that are SO b-grade, that they will only be seen in the all to unwatched Cinemax 3AM time slot.

Ultimately, this blog has been posted as a shameless attention-getting attempt at building a fanbase. Face book users are encouraged to go to  and join the revolution at or at least become a fan. The site is relatively new and naked but will soon provide pics, clips, and updates concerning my film.

I'm done occupying your time. Thank you!

North Roberts

I've a dumb sounding question...

Okay, to anyone who can answer... Can anyone name a "social worker" from the Marvel U? It's an odd, trivial need-to-know for a role-playing game that I'm running. One that's tangential to the Marvel U.
Even if you can't think of one, maybe you know someone who might.

So... any ideas?

Please hit me back.

"The Change?" also called "Boston had Kennedy"



According to legendary author Carl Sandburg…


Hog Butcher for the World,

Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,

Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;

Stormy, husky, brawling,

City of the Big Shoulders


As written by Fred Fisher and sung by Fred Astaire in the motion picture The Story of Vernon and Irene Castle


                        That toddlin’ town


            As written by Sammy Cahn and sung by Frank Sinatra in the motion picture Robin and the Seven Hoods


The Wrigley Building,

The Union Stockyards,

It’s my kind of town


That was then… things change


            A Harvard grad that could’ve had the any job in the legal field that he desired came to my hometown to dedicate his career to making a change for the betterment of a neighborhood in need. He called this place his home. He made it his home. It wasn’t that long ago.


Hog Butcher,


            Tool Maker,


                        City of the Big Shoulders,




                                                My kinda town…





Welcome to New Camelot!
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Problem!!! To whom it may concern!

A recent submission of mine for the Band of the Bland has been posted as two separate entries and can be found at the following URLs

I am hesitant to further build on anything concerning this team (a recent pet project of mine) until such time as I know which one will stay and which will go. Any advice or action that you can offer will be greatly appreciated.

North Roberts

Ambivalence in the Accomplishment of Whole New Depths of Geekdom

Just when I thought I couldn't find a more public way of revealing my geekhood than arriving at a sci-fi convention wearing my Yoyodyne Propulsion Systems security jumpsuit, I managed to surprise even myself.
While perusing the many informative pages here on Comicvine, I noticed a discrepancy as concerns Superman's Pal, Jimmy Olsen. The page had previously stated Jimmy's first appearance was in Action Comics #6. Thinking nothing of it, I sallied forth on my tour of this wonderful site.

That's when it hit me...

I couldn't just let it go.

I began to fume within my own skull. As still and calm as I may have seemed on the outside, I was seething cauldron of rage within.

"That wasn't Olsen!" I imploded. "That was a nameless copy boy! Jimmy Olsen was an invention of the April fifteenth episode of the radio program The Adventures of Superman, which came out in 1940, well after action comics issue six. Jimmy wouldn't appear in the comics until Superman issue thirteen."

My rage subsided and was quickly supplanted by fear. "Oh my GOD!" I thought. "What if some unsuspecting young student has to do a grade school report on Jimmy Olsen?"

I'll wait until you're done laughing at me before I continue.

Needless to say, I submitted my edit suggestions and the oversight was addressed. So why the ambivalence? Simple answer...I was both proud and embarrassed. Why feel embarrassed? Just stop and think about it.

If I had reacted this way to a piece of X-Men minutia, it might've seemed spastically charming. Had it been a piece of Batman trivia, my reaction would've been a little geeky, but otherwise socially acceptable. But this is Jimmy Olsen we're talking about... Jimmy freaking Olsen... I had just managed justify the cruel actions of every playground bully that gave me a wedgie in grade school. Even I wanted to kick my own ass and take my lunch money.

The Origin of the Silver Skull

So... This friend of mine asked me to write an origin story in prose for his character, The Silver Skull.

So I did. As this site seems to offer writers and artists the opportunity to showcase their work, I've decided to do just that. If you like it, I'm open to commission and can scrape together a few pages as in the sample below.

Tell me what you think.

Sit back and enjoy...

The Origin of The Silver Skull

Written by North Roberts for The Silver Skull

Eamon Airgead stood out from the rest of his family. Everyone in his immediate family was known for their ruddy features and jet-black hair, “black Irish”, as it were. All of them were of sturdy stocky build, rosy cheek, freckled skin and raven-colored hair… all of them, except Eamon. It was his slight frame, fair features and silver-blonde hair, which drew his father’s suspicion… that drew his father’s ire.

“Whose boy is he?!” his father, Neil Airgead, a thug for the outfit howled while battering the soft face of Eamon’s mother. “Tell me who his real da’ is! Tell me, ye faithless tart!

Eamon had seen his father’s abuse before, but never so savagely. It was that brutal sight, coupled with the sound of his mother’s breaking neck, which would forever change his life… more than a boy of five years should have to endure. His mother was gone and he somehow knew that it was because of himself. It was at his mother’s funeral that his weeping father held Eamon close and whispered, “No one must ever know.”

In the years to come, Eamon would spend every day in the cemetery at his mother’s gravesite until the groundskeeper would usher him out before closing the gate. He would then sneak back in for an evening vigil. One such night, the boy took to exploration of the cemetery. Falling through crumbling stone architecture, young Eamon found himself inside of an old mausoleum. The boy was unafraid. Rather, he was enrapt, fascinated. The bodies before him invoked aesthetic wonder instead of fear. He marveled at the way that the moonlight shimmered off of the waxy corpseflesh that clung to the bones of the dead. “How like a precious metal,” the Airgead boy thought.

Too scarred by his mother’s murder to attend a public school, he received the best private education that ill-gotten cash could provide. His education proved to be two-fold, being raised in the Irish mob. Every job, every heist would bring the painful phrase to surface anew from his father’s lips, “No one must ever know.”

Eamon’s reclusivity and disturbing behavior would sentence his teen years to a military academy, where he quickly excelled in all things. Neil Airgead went from being a resentful father to a proud one as report cards and letters from the academy spoke loud praises of his son. Words like “prodigy”, “polymath” and “well-grounded” were employed. It would seem that discipline was just what the doctor ordered… until the fire broke out.

The tragedy splashed across the news page…


Neil Airgead spent a decade mourning his son, as his son did mourning a mother.

Neil continued to succeed as a lower echelon member of the mob, considered worthy of respect from his peers. His name would carry an uncommon amount of dread when spoken by the rivals of the Irish mob. Several offers were made to alter Neil’s loyalty, all of which he refused. It would seem that they never found his price.

One night, as Neil left the pub, three sails to the wind, a voice crept up his spine and into his ear.

“Neil Airgead,” the voice leathered, “you will join me.

Turning to see its source, Neil blanched at what he saw… a wraithly vision dressed in bright white finery, a wide-brimmed hat and a skeletal silver mask. There was no doubt in Neil’s mind that the black coachman had come to drag him to hell below.

“Ye’ve come to take me life, have ye then, grizzly reaper?” Neil replied.

“It’s not your life I seek this night, but your services,” the wraithlike man spoke. “You work for me now. You’re the best at what you do, and I seek only the best.”

“Heh, you and everyone else,” Neil dismissed as he turned to walk away.

“You will answer to me, or the police.” The masked man’s words froze Neil in his tracks. “Perhaps a written statement from your son’s therapist at the academy might help shed some light on your wife’s murder. Interesting that there’s no statute of limitations on homicide.”

“What would ye have of me?!” Neil demanded.

“Go tomorrow night, after sunset, to the cemetery where your son and wife rest. There, you will dig a grave. Before the sun rises you will have taken a life and filled that grave.” As the masked man spoke, he reached into his coat with his right hand to produce a manila envelope. “Contained within is a single page of the psychological profile the academy kept on your son. Every night you’ll receive a different page, acquiring the most damning evidence last.”

“You’re blackmailing me?” Neil asked.

“I’m conscripting you.” His left hand produced a heavy roll of cash. “A retainer for your services… and Neil? Don’t try to double cross me.”

That night Neil went home to read about cemetery visits and shimmering corpseflesh from his son’s dossier. Every sentence that he read raised his ire and hatred for the man in white.

“That bastard,” Neil grumbled. “Who in the hell does he think he is?” There was no doubt in Neil’s mind that his masked blackmailer was none other than the school’s psychologist. Employing all of the criminal knowledge of more than two decades, Neil found the residence of the doctor. With a skill and stealth possessed by only the most practiced villains, Neil crept into the therapist’s bedroom with murderous intent. Cautiously, he raised his pistol and turned on the light to awaken the slumbering psychologist, only to discover that the good doctor had already met his demise… his throat was slashed ear to ear.

Neil’s confusion was only compounded as the phone rang. He reached forward to answer it.

“I warned you not to double cross me, Neil,” the masked man’s voice chided. “Now you have a chance to prove your worth. Somewhere in the house is another damning page of your son’s profile. All you have to do is find it before the police do, remove any evidence that you’ve been there, and escape the house unseen. They’ve already been called, Neil. See you tomorrow night.”

Neil worked with fevered haste, counting down from eight minutes as he tore through the house in a panic. Finding the page, he snuck out the back as the police knocked on the front door.

After that night, Neil would never again question his mysterious employer. Night after night, he dug graves and fulfilled their purposes. At first, Neil found himself set upon the enemies of the Irish mob. Soon after, his targets were his cronies in the mob. The grim labor of it all began to take a toll on him.

The night soon came in which he would receive the final page of evidence from his son’s profile, the page which could send him to the chair. He scraped the last shovelful of soil from the damp hole in the cemetery ground. He shuddered with the realization that this hole was adjacent to his late bride.

“My wife’s buried in that plot.” He explained to the man in white.

“I thought it appropriate. After tonight, you will have gotten away with her murder.” Neil winced at the sardonic humor of the man in the silver skull and the laughter that came with it. “Since this is our last night working together,” the masked man continued, “I’m willing to answer any one question that you have for me.”

“All right,” Neil readied, “Why all the bodies… all the killin’?”

“Good question,” replied the sharply dressed blackmailer, “but I would have thought the answer to be obvious… to pave the way to my undisputed seat as the most powerful criminal mastermind in the city. You, Neil Airgead, have single-handedly eliminated all of my competition. Now perhaps you can answer a question for me.”

“Fair enough,” Neil said as he began to gather up his implements from the bottom of the hole.

“What does it feel like, to kill someone that you’re supposed to love?”

Neil looked up from the hole he was standing in to see a nickel-plated silver pistol pointed at him. With saddened resignation, Neil voiced the pains of guilt that he had felt for over twenty years, “It’s a feeling that gnaws at ye fer the remainder o’ yer days. It’s a terrible feeling.”

“I’ll be the judge of that… father,” The Silver Skull hissed as he pulled away his mask. He finished the old criminal with a shot to the head.

“See, Dad?” Eamon said as he crumpled up the final page. “We’re not so different after all.” With that he tossed the page onto his father’s stilled body.

Eamon Airgead rested the mask across his eyes once again. He walked over to the elderly groundskeeper and slipped a thick fold of cash into his calloused and wrinkled hand.

“Pack the soil as seamlessly as you can to match the surrounding earth. After all,” The Silver Skull said to the groundskeeper, “no one must ever know.”


DC Ultimate?

They did attempt an "Ultimate" universe of sorts. It was the "All-Star" line, which was not well received. I understand why it wasn't. In All-Star Superman, Doomsday was... Jimmy Olsen.  All-Star Batman, featured a dark detective who exhibited a marked propensity toward calling an understandably confused and frightened little boy "retarded". 


If you don't consider the "All-Star" continuity as DC's attempt at an "Ultimate" universe, it's probably best that they never do. It would just lead to another dimension of realty and, with it, another excuse to cross-over every title into some damned multiversal, alternate-dimension-deleting crisis.

Seriously... It's like were stuck in a never ending loop that could be titled "Crisis of Infinite Crises".

The three smartest people on Earth are.... no particular order: Reed Richards, Lex Luthor and Victor Von Doom.

Reed has managed to consistently one-up scientific law, Lex Luthor is the worlds greatest criminal mastermind (just ask him... he'll tell you), while Dr. Doom just seems to know every f@#%in' thing in the world!
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