#also like. the three peters are totally different characters but when its time for mischief they share one braincell

[tickle-bugs]

Lil idea for the 3 Peter Parkers!

Peter 1, the youngest, often gets snarky with the older two "brothers". They both eventually decide theyve had enough of his jabs about their age, and team up on him, working together to tickle him to bits and teach him to respect his elders

Attitude Adjustment

Okay so if you’re like me and literally can’t keep the numbers straight: peter one (referred to just as Peter here) is tom holland’s spidey, peter two is tobey maguire’s, and peter three is andrew garfield’s. I felt SO silly writing in the numbers but there really is no other way LOL

Also, au where they’re in sort of a Spiderverse situation and the other spideys are trying to figure out how to get back to their dimensions. Absolutely no canon, just vibes. 

“Hey Pete? How do you work this thing?” Peter Two huffs and flails his hands around through the holographic energy core in front of him. It spins listlessly, unsure how to interpret his gestures, and beeps at him. 

“Comin’.” Peter rolls off the couch, chucking his phone onto the rickety coffee table. His new place was small, achingly so, but it was starting to come together nicely. He had pictures on the walls, a rug on the worst spot of the floor, and a bedframe. All progress was good progress. 

“Show me how you’re doing it?” Peter squishes beside Two, who sort of swats at the hologram like an irritating bug. 

“Oh, okay. So, uh, the hologram maps its movements according to your fingertips. If it can’t get a good read, it’s not gonna respond. Here, like this.” Peter pulls his hands into the projected image, twitching his fingertips and twirling his wrists. The simulated core spins and zooms at his whim. Eventually, the image flashes green, and a small loading bar picks up at the bottom. 

“Neat.” Peter Two watches in awe as the computer begins to synthesize his formula. He idly spins the image around. “We didn’t have anything like this growing up. It’s crazy.”

“Glad I could help, grandpa.” Peter grins, giving Two’s shoulder a good-natured squeeze. Two rolls his eyes and shoos him away. 

“What a nice young man, helping the elderly,” Peter Three hums from the ceiling, typing away at his laptop as if his life depends on it. He looks a bit like a goblin, or maybe a vampire, hunched over all of them. 

“I do my part.” Peter salutes, flips back over the couch, and pulls his phone back into his hand with a web. He’d lost his place in the Fantastic Four interview he was reading. He sighs. 

“You both are hilarious,” Peter Two grumbles, watching a holographic array of complex mathematics spin in front of him. 

Peter sinks down into the couch, into the quiet buzz of technology and Peter Three’s terrifying typing. It’s not silence, not quite, but it still gnaws into his bones in a way he doesn’t like. He’s been avoiding being Peter as much as he can lately, instead staying out on patrol as late as his body can handle. Collapsing on a rooftop as Spider-Man is easier than coming back to Peter Parker’s shithole apartment. 

Spending time with people like him, people who get it, it’s…nice. Steadying. He knows it’s going to crush him when they leave, but having them now is more than he could ever ask for. He has no one, but he has them. 

“Hey.” Peter leans over the back of the couch and waves at Three. “Need help?”

“Hm? No, I’m good. Still compiling that list of compatible metals. Hoping to keep this matter projector the size of a rubix cube. Or, worst case scenario, like a suitcase.” Peter Three gnaws at his lip, then squints at his screen. He flings out a web and snags his glasses, catching them out of midair. He puts them on with care, pinning the laptop to his upside-down lap with his free hand. After fiddling with the lenses, he gets them to balance properly. 

“You’re still squinting.” Peter chuckles. 

“It’s part of the creative process.” Three waves an idle hand, then squints more aggressively. “I, uh--I’ve got shit eyesight. It’s fine.”

“The spider bite didn’t fix your vision?” Peter furrows his brow. 

“It did, but I wrecked it again. Too much blue light, too many flashbangs to the face--it all takes a toll, y’know? You should be grateful your eyes still work. Take care of them while you have them.” Peter Three nods sagely. He grabs his mug of long-cold coffee with a web and brings it carefully to his hands. He sips, gags, then comes back for more. 

“Okay, dad.” Peter huffs with no venom. He tries not to be jealous that Three can drink upside down. He’s tried. Repeatedly. 

“You have a remarkable amount of attitude for someone so tiny.” Three stares at him over the rim of his glasses, which shouldn’t be as funny as it is. Peter snorts. 

“Right? It’s his tone,” Peter Two hums. The computer chirps at him that his equation is only sixty percent viable, would you like to try again? He thunks his head into the desk. Three’s mug slowly lowers itself down beside him. Two takes a sip, gags, and deposits the mug in the sink. Three balls up a piece of paper and throws it at his head. 

“Alright, I’m starting to go a little stir crazy. How about we take a break?” Peter Two stretches, popping something in his back. He does the ‘keys, wallet, phone’ patdown on himself, turning in circles to make sure he’s set. 

“Like a patrol break?” Peter perks up. 

“No, a dinner break. I’m starving, and God knows when you two last ate. Or slept.” Two hazards a glance towards Three. 

“Oh, I’m good. Go without me.” Peter Three keeps typing. Two’s glare chills the room a few degrees. He pointedly clears his throat. 

“Y’know what, actually? A break sounds great. Super on board with the, uh, the break time.” Peter Three closes his laptop and flips down off the ceiling. He stumbles as he lands, hissing in pain. The laptop goes flying, but Peter just manages to snag it with a web. He cradles it to his chest. 

“Thanks.” Three nods. Peter nods back. The room collectively sighs in relief. 

“Is it your, uh--” Two maneuvers to support Three as best he can. They limp over to the corner of the kitchen together. 

“My back, yeah. Shitshitshit.” Peter Three inhales tightly and leans up against the counter. He tips his head back against the cabinets and focuses on breathing. 

“It just, uh--well, it locks up sometimes. No clue why.” Three shrugs, then winces. 

“I think I have some painkillers. If it’ll help.” Peter sets the laptop down. Three smiles thinly at him. 

“I’ll take you up on that. I’m usually fine after a few minutes. Just gotta wait it out.” Three winces again, gripping the countertop hard. The cheap vinyl cracks with the force of it. Peter tries not to wonder if he’ll have to pay for that--instead, he fishes out the pitifully empty bottle from his coffin-sized bathroom. 

“Gimme your hands.” Peter Two crowds in front of Three and starts helping him stretch, slow and steady. After a heart-wrenching cry of pain, Three hums appreciatively. He twists side to side, working out as many sore spots as he can. Peter shakes the bottle at him and tosses it. He catches it and dry swallows the pills. 

“Hm.” Peter leans against the wall. 

“What?” Two huffs.

“Nothing.” Peter shakes his head with a smile. Fondness blooms warm in his chest. May used to tell him that he’s the only person who knows how to take care of himself best, what he needs. He wonders if she ever thought it would manifest this way. 

“Alright, c’mon. What old man joke are you sitting on right now?” Two crosses his arms. His amusement is contagious. 

“I wasn’t going to make fun of you!” Peter laughs.

“One day you’re gonna be a twenty-something with a bad back. You’re gonna be like ‘oh wise and mysterious Peter, please help me with my ailing spine’. Then you’ll get it.” Three grunts. He loudly cracks something in his back and all of them wince. 

“What am I gonna do? Do a backbend over your walker?” Peter snickers. Three gasps and splutters, sending both of them into actual laughter. They’re terrible influences on each other. 

“You are such a brat.” Two chuckles, mostly in disbelief. Peter sticks his tongue out at him. 

“Were you like this?” Two jerks a thumb toward Peter. Three quirks a smile and regards Peter for a bit--the defiant jut of his chin and the fire in his eyes are heartwarming. 

“I mean…yeah. Kinda. Just tall.” Three smirks.

“I’m not short.” Peter scoffs. Two and Three exchange a glance. Three leans on Peter’s head. Peter swats his arm away. 

“You’re barely taller than me!” Peter huffs, throwing his hands in the air. 

“First step is acceptance, buddy.” Two pats his shoulder. “Let’s get our shawarma on.”

Peter Three stifles his laughter into his fist, squinting in mirth through crooked glasses. Peter groans, smacking his face into his palm. He’s hiding a smile, though, and it makes Two smile in turn. 

“What?”

“Let’s get our shawarma on?” Peter snickers, his shoulders shaking. 

“Yeah, I can’t defend you. That was corny.” Three leans into Peter and soon they’re both giggling, set off by each other’s goofiness. 

“You sound like a dad!” Peter giggles. 

“Scratch that. We’re not going anywhere until we cure you of this attitude.” Two raises an eyebrow. Peter giggles at him which, while adorable, Two cannot stand for. 

“You gonna send me to my room? Ground me? Oooh, I’m so scared--” Peter snorts, then he’s upside down. Peter Two’s got him around the waist like a sack of potatoes. He lets out an affronted squeak and tries to reach for the floor. 

“Whatareyoudoing--” All the breath leaves Peter in a hefty woosh as Two worms his fingers into his sides. He squeals, his legs flailing wildly. He tries to pry Two’s hands away but gravity isn’t his friend at the moment. 

“Spider deterrent,” Two says, deathly serious, but Peter can hear him smiling. Bastard. 

“Nononohoho! Tickling is cheating!” Peter cackles, all hope of playing tough long gone with his breath. No matter which way he tilts, Two’s fingers are waiting to torment him--and he seems to have quickly figured out just how deathly ticklish his stomach is. Almost like he knew already. 

“I didn’t know there were rules--” Peter Two ducks out of the way of an accidental kick-- “Hey! Violence is not the answer!”

“Gonna v-violence your stuhupid fahahace! Lemme go!” Peter growls, prying at Two’s wrists again. Two tuts at him and vibrates his fingers into Peter’s stomach. He shrieks and kicks his legs, all pent-up energy with nowhere to go. 

“Aren’t you gonna help?” Peter gasps at Three, his voice way higher pitched than he’d like. His face is redder than his suit, little giggles still slipping free. He’s (mostly) deathly serious about murdering Two if he can just get out of this. 

“Yeah, come help!” Two grins, beckoning Three over with a tilt of the head. Peter Three disappears out of Peter’s line of sight and he allows himself an evil grin. 

“We’re gonna kick your--” Peter loses the last half of his threat to a yelp, then frenetic giggling as Three claws at his ribs. Peter screeches in betrayal and tries to swat at him, but he’s far from coordinated and it tickles, oh my god--

“Sorry. More afraid of him than I am of you.” Peter Three grins sheepishly, but his eyes shine with mischief. He walks his fingers up under Peter’s arms and he screeches loud enough to make a dog down the hall start barking. He lets out a snort and desperate syllables tumble out to follow. He manages to elbow Two in the gut and nearly gets dropped on his head for the trouble.

“S-Sorry! Tickles!” Peter hiccups and clamps his arms to his sides. 

“You are so squirmy!” Two tosses him over the back of the shitty couch. Peter squeals at the sudden change in gravity, but then he’s squealing because they both follow him over the couch. 

“I-I’m gonna get a noise complaint! Guys!” Peter throws his head back against the armrest and cackles, shoving at the two of them. He’s not sure where the ceiling is anymore, everything’s sort of spinning, but the slight burn in his chest is grounding. 

“Alright, alright.” Two lays off and Three follows suit. Peter flings his arm over his face and tries to remember the sweet embrace of oxygen.

“Oho man. You guys suck.” Peter peeks at them with a goofy smile. 

“Spider deterrent. Works like a charm.” Two puts his hands on his hips. Three leans up behind him and goes to poke his side, but Two catches his hand. 

“Don’t. Do not.” Two points at Three threateningly. Three holds his hands up in surrender, but his grin is anything but innocent. He and Peter lock eyes.

“Spider deterrent, huh?” Peter leans up on his elbows with a cocky grin. “Every experiment needs multiple trials, right?”

“You’re both menaces.” Two grapples with Three, occasionally twitching but still putting up a fight. Peter manages to poke him a few times and get his arm caught, but Two can’t fight both of them.

A hush befalls the room as Peter Two visibly weighs his options, trying not to crack from Three’s pinching at his ribs. 

Two throws himself over the couch, followed by Three, and Peter eggs them on from the safety of the couch. It’s like watching cats wrestle, really--there’s an indistinguishable tangle of limbs and shouting before Peter Three’s shocked cackle emerges from the pile. 

“P-Peter! Help!” Three wheezes, holding his hand out for rescue.

“Oh, you want my help? Yeah, sure, I’ll help.” Peter cackles evilly, kicking off the couch and launching himself at Three.

“Wait, hold on--”

…

“98 percent viable. We did it,” Peter Two breathes, holding the hologram in his hands. The simulated core spins lazily. After hours of calibration and recalibration, the algorithm finally holds steady. Three squeezes his shoulder and laughs quietly, happily. They’re going home. 

“Should we tell him?” Three casts a glance over to the couch. Peter’s out cold, curled up under a threadbare blanket that refuses to let go of its musty smell. Despite the bags under his eyes, he looks peaceful. 

“Tomorrow. You both still owe me shawarma.” Two smiles, knocking their shoulders together. 

[clarasimone]

Iain Glen nailing Hamlet (1991)

In 1991, after winning the Evening Standard Film Award for Best Actor, Iain Glen gave his soulful all, not on the stage in London, no, not yet, though really he could have, but at the Old Vic in Bristol, donning the persona of the Dane, Hamlet. He won the Special Commendation Ian Charleson Award* for his performance and yet it appears we will never see but stills from this production as no video recording was made, not even by and for the company. The University of Bristol has the archives of the production: the playbook, the programme and black and white stills. The V&A archives have the administrative papers. In our day and age, this sad evanescent corporeal sate of affairs is unimaginable. The memory of the play, of this performance fading away? We rebel against the very thought. We brandish our cell phones and swear we shall unearth and pirate its memory, somehow, somewhere. Even if we have to hypnotize patrons or pull out the very hearts of those who saw Iain Glen on stage, those few, those happy few, to read into their very memory and pulsating membrane just how brilliant he was. Because he was, he was. That’s what they’ll all tell you... 

Below, those pics and testimonies....

*(The Charleson Awards were established in memory of Ian Charleson, who died at 40 from Aids while playing Hamlet at the National Theatre in 1989)

- Iain Glen is a rampaging prince, quixotic, technically sound, tense as a coiled spring, funny. ‘To be, or not to be’ results from throwing himself against the white walls, an air of trembling unpredictability is beautifully conveyed throughout. ‘Oh, what a rogue and peasants slave’ is blindingly powerful. My life is drawn in angrily modern post Gielgud Hamlets: David Warner, Nicol Williams, Visotsky, Jonathon Price. Iain Glen is equal to them. He keeps good company. THE OBSERVER, Michael Coveney

- Paul Unwin’s riveting production reminded me more strongly than any I have ever seen that the Danish Court is riddled with secrecy. Politics is a form of hide and seek: everyone stealthily watches everyone else. Iain Glen’s Hamlet is a melancholic in the clinical sense: his impeccable breeding and essential good nature keep in check what might be an approaching breakdown. His vitriolic humour acts as a safety valve for a nagging instability, his boyish charm is deployed to placate and deceive a hostile and watchful world. Glen brings out Hamlet’s fatal self absorption: the way he cannot help observing himself and putting a moral price tag on every action and failure. He is a doomed boy. And his chill but touching calm at the end is that of a man who has finally understood the secrets behind the closed doors. The Sunday Times, John Peter

- This is an excellent production of Hamlet from the Bristol Old Vic. The director Paul Unwin and his designer Bunnie Christie have set the play in turn of the century Europe. Elsinore is a palace of claustrophobically white walls and numerous doors. All this is handled with a light touch, without drawing attention away from the play. Our first encounter with Hamlet shows him bottled up with rage and grief. Glen gives a gripping performance. The self-dramatising side of the character is tapped to the full by this talented actor. The Spectator, Christopher Edwards

**************************************************************************************************

The following though is my favorite review/article because it situates Iain Glen’s creation is time, in the spectrum of all renowned Hamlets.

How will Cumberbatch, TV’s Sherlock, solve the great mystery of Hamlet? by Michael Coveney - Aug 17, 2015

In 1987, three years before he died, the critic and venerable Shakespearean JC Trewin published a book of personal experience and reminiscence: Five and Eighty Hamlets. I’m thinking of supplying a second volume, under my own name, called Six and Fifty Hamlets, for that will be my total once Benedict Cumberbatch has opened at the Barbican.

There’s a JC and MC overlap of about 15 years: Trewin was a big fan of Derek Jacobi’s logical and graceful prince in 1977 and ended with less enthusiastic remarks about “the probing intelligence” of Michael Pennington in 1980 (both Jacobi and Pennington were 37 when they played the role; Cumberbatch is 39) and emotional pitch and distraction of Roger Rees in 1984 (post-Nickleby, Rees was 40, but an electric eel and ever-youthful).

I started as a reviewer in 1972 with three Hamlets on the trot: the outrageous Charles Marowitz collage, which treats Hamlet as a creep and Ophelia as a demented tart, and makes exemplary, equally unattractive polar opposites of Laertes and Fortinbras; a noble, stately Keith Michell (with a frantic Polonius by Ron Moody) at the Bankside Globe, Sam Wanamaker’s early draft of the Shakespearean replica; and a 90-minute gymnastic exercise performed by a cast of eight in identical chain mail and black breeches at the Arts Theatre.

This gives an idea of how alterable and adaptable Hamlet has been, and continues to be. There are contestable readings between the Folios, any number of possible cuts, and there is no end of choice in emphasis. Trewin once wrote a programme note for a student production directed by Jonathan Miller in which he said that the first scene on the battlements (“Who’s there?”) was the most exciting in world drama; the scene was cut.

And as Steven Berkoff pointed out in his appropriately immodestly titled book I Am Hamlet (1989), Hamlet doesn’t exist in the way Macbeth, or Coriolanus, exists; when you play Hamlet, he becomes you, not the other way round. Hamlet, said Hazlitt, is as real as our own thoughts.

Which is why my three favourite Hamlets are all so different from each other, and attractive because of the personality of the actor who’s provided the mould for the Hamlet jelly: my first, pre-critical-days Hamlet, David Warner (1965) at the Royal Shakespeare Company, was a lank and indolently charismatic student in a long red scarf, exact contemporary of David Halliwell’s Malcolm Scrawdyke, and two years before students were literally revolting in Paris and London; then Alan Cumming (1993) with English Touring Theatre, notably quick, mercurial and very funny, with a detachable doublet and hose, black Lycra pants and bovver boots, definitely (then) the glass of fashion, a graceful gender-bender like Brett Anderson of indie band Suede; and, at last, Michael Sheen (2011) at the Young Vic, a vivid and overreaching fantasist in a psychiatric institution (“Denmark’s a prison”), where every actor “plays” his part.

These three actors – Warner, Cumming, Sheen – occupy what might be termed the radical, alternative tradition of Hamlets, whereas the authoritative, graceful nobility of Jacobi belongs to the Forbes Robertson/John Gielgud line of high-ranking top drawer ‘star’ turns, a dying species and last represented, sourly but magnificently, by Ralph Fiennes (1995) in the gilded popular palace of the Hackney Empire. Fiennes, like Cumberbatch, has the sort of voice you might expect a non-radical, traditional Hamlet to possess.

But if you listen to Gielgud on tape, you soon realise he wasn’t ‘old school’ at all. He must have been as modern, at the time, as Noel Coward. Gielgud is never ‘intoned’ or overtly posh, he’s quicksilver, supple, intellectually alert. I saw him deliver the “Oh what a rogue and peasant slave” soliloquy on the night the National left the Old Vic (February 28, 1976); he had played the role more than 500 times, and not for 37 years, but it was as fresh, brilliant and compelling as if he had been making it up on the spot.

Ben Kingsley, too, in 1975, was a fiercely intelligent Royal Shakespeare Company Hamlet, and I saw much of that physical and mental power in David Tennant’s, also for the RSC in 2008, with an added pinch of mischief and irony. There’s another tradition, too, of angry Hamlets: Nicol Williamson in 1969, a scowling, ferocious demon; Jonathan Pryce at the Royal Court in 1980, possessed by the ghost of his father and spewing his lines, too, before finding Yorick’s skull in a cabinet of bones, an ossuary of Osrics; and a sourpuss Christopher Ecclestone (2002), spiritually constipated, moody as a moose with a migraine, at the West Yorkshire Playhouse.

One Hamlet who had a little of all these different attributes – funny, quixotic, powerful, unhappy, clever and genuinely heroic – was Iain Glen (1991) at the Bristol Old Vic, and I can imagine Cumberbatch developing along similar lines. He, like so many modern Hamlets, is pushing 40 – as was Jude Law (2009), hoary-voiced in the West End – yet when Trevor Nunn cast Ben Whishaw (2004) straight from RADA, aged 23, petulant and precocious, at the Old Vic, he looked like a 16-year-old, and too young for what he was saying. It’s like the reverse of King Lear, where you have to be younger to play older with any truth or vigour.

Michael Billington’s top Hamlet remains Michael Redgrave, aged 50, in 1958, as he recounts in his brilliant new book, The 101 Greatest Plays (seven of the 101 are by Shakespeare); Hamlet, he says, more than any other play, alters according to time as well as place.

So, Yuri Lyubimov’s great Cold War Hamlet, the prince played by the dissident poet Vladimir Visotsky, was primarily about surveillance, the action played on either side of an endlessly moving hessian and woollen wall. And in Belgrade in 1980, shortly after the death of Tito, the play became a statement of anxiety about the succession.

There’s a mystery to Hamlet that not even Sherlock Holmes could solve, though Cumberbatch will no doubt try his darndest – even if he finds his Watson at the Barbican (Leo Bill is playing Horatio) more of a hindrance than a help; there are, after all, more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in his friend’s philosophy.

*************************************************************************************************

Oh! Did I say that we were never going to see Iain Glen in the skin of the great Dane? Tsk. How silly of me. Meet IG’s Hamlet in Tom Stoppard’s postmodern theatrical whimsy ROSENCRANTZ AND GUILDENSTERN ARE DEAD, shot the year before the Bristol play.

Though almost surreal and most often funny as the film follows the Pulp Fiction-like misadventures of two forgettable Shakespearian characters, crossing paths with other more or less fortunate characters, their time with Hamlet makes us privy to the Dane as we never quite see him in the Bard’s play... but for one memorable scene,  in which Iain Glen absolutely nails it, emoting the famous “To be or not to be” which you see tortures his soul, brings tears to his eyes and contorts his mouth; the moment made all the more memorable by the fact that it is a silent scene. You never hear him utter the famous line, but you see the words leave his lips and feel them mark your soul.

I’m kinda telling myself that it’s 1991 and I’m sitting in the Old Vic, in Bristol, not London. Not yet.

[bluegoateecollectionposts-blog]

The 15 Coolest Black Comic Book Characters

Melissa McBride has transformed the role of Carol from the comics. As a substitute, she begins relationships with Morgan and King Ezekiel within the books. While Rick and Michonne began a relationship on the show , that is not the case in the comics; the two are simply good friends. Michonne within the comics vs. the show. Others, like Carol, are completely totally different from their comic-book counterparts. " The Walking Useless " relies off of the popular comic sequence of the same title from Robert Kirkman. Tober has additionally self-printed two children's picture books. And like The Neo, X-Men writers dumped the character, so we by no means noticed his grand reveal. Throughout the 1990s, one of the most powerful X-Men foes was the omniscient mutant Gamesmaster, whose origins had been unknown and powers appeared countless. Provided that Paul Stanley has moonlighted as a Marvel character , I wish they used him as an alternative. When the X-Males had been at the nadir of their popularity (before the movie, after the early Nineties hologram cowl boom), they battled a shadowy, mutant-like species known as the Neo. And like most characters who resembles Poochie from The Simpsons, absolutely no person mentions him now. Who: The most Nineteen Nineties X-Males character ever. Drake came out as homosexual in Extaordinary X-Men #6, and received a solo series in August 2017. AMERICA #1: Miss America Chavez is the queer Latina hero we needed and, final year, she got her own comic book, simply known as America. He married his husband Kyle Jinadu on this issue in June 2012, the primary identical-intercourse marriage proven in mainstream comics. He worked with England's Excalibur workforce earlier than main X-Power for a time, and then returning to Excalibur and also main MI:13. He was part of Peter Wisdom's black-ops strike power iteration of X-Pressure, simply before Zeitgeist's group took over. The young X-Men member is trying just a little more mature along with her new hairstyle, and it seems like the friendship between her and Deadpool is as heat and dynamic than ever (sarcasm). In Black Panther, he is less corny and more critical — and, most importantly (minor spoiler), he's but "another damaged white boy" for Shuri to fix. Within the MCU, Ross is a supporting character who initially popped up in Civil Struggle. In Most Popular Comic Book Characters , Klaw was a Dutch physicist who attacked Wakanda for its Vibranium resources. Though he would not go by Man-Ape in Coogler's film (thank the Panther God), M'Baku does put on a white gorilla masks while in battle — symbolic of his tribe's deity, the Gorilla God. In the comics, Ramonda, referred to as the Queen Mother, was T'Chaka's third wife and a surrogate mom to T'Challa. The movie faucets into W'Kabi's warrior roots. Chief of Wakandan security, W'Kabi served as T'Challa's loyal second-in-command till his loss of life in Hudlin's Black Panther Vol 5 #5 in 2009. First look: Black Panther Vol four #2 (2005) However the Nakia we meet in the MCU is a far cry from the jealous younger lady in the comics. First appearance: Black Panther Vol three #1 (1998) In the comics, Erik Killmonger, born N'Jadaka, and his household were exiled from Wakanda following his father's betrayal. In Black Panther, he is nonetheless acclimating to the function of king, however his obligation to Wakanda is still paramount. As such, he was a bit of a loner, however he did spend some time with those Avengers. Even in print you could find many fantastic series primarily based on the Book of Mormon, Church history, or LDS life. On this planet of on-line comics, LDS themes are gaining traction with 30+ artists dedicating their work to demonstrating humorous points of Mormon tradition. And Brian Crane recurrently attracts photos of temples or the Ensign in his award-winning, syndicated comic strip, Pickles. Church member Floyd Gottfredson drew the Mickey Mouse comic strip for forty five years, turning this iconic mouse from a mischief-maker into a heroic character who represented good values. Mormons have additionally helped shape the world of comic strips and on-line comics. And whereas we are at it, Godzilla and the Italian comic protagonist Martin Mystère, who stars in a popular U.S. cartoon series, deserve honorable mentions. Whereas the crew's creators will not be LDS, there is not any doubt that LDS delusion and tradition power this collection.