![[Quarter Bin PROFILES!]](../img/prlogo.jpg)
Comics, and their parent pulp magazines, enjoy a long and rich history of attention-getting gimmicks designed to steal a shopper's eye from rival or even unrelated merchandise. To some extent, these eye-catching strategies represent a considerable portion of the appeal of both forms of popular entertainment.
Particular periods, however, tended to favor particular gimmicks, with the gimmicks of yesteryear adding to the inherited body of techniques of the form. Some gimmicks had to wait until some brilliant mind might conceive them; other gimmicks would wait until ethics or aesthetic standards would deteriorate to the point that professionals could attempt them without wandering too far from the ethics canon of his day.
By gimmick, the following study means a vaguely-defined attention-getting device that can, but does not need to, relate to the contents of a comic book or pulp magazine. We leave pulps early to follow gimmickry into comic books, but some of the post-thirties gimmicks described below could belong in a description of pulps or their recreations.
The pulps, as ancestor to superhero comics, would contribute conceptually and technically to the comic book through the intermediate form of pulp comics and through creating forms for all manner of text and depicted magazines.
Thus, even before the age of the superhero, or in material still maintaining practices that predated the superhero form, pulps invented the language that comics would use for storytelling and the visual presentation that publishers might use to move product.
![[A disturbing Doc Savage bondage cover from the late 1930s.]](../img/pr3101.jpg)
The pulps brought into controversy the lurid bondage cover, in which a hero might burst through a door towards some shapely female (perhaps somewhat deshabilée) strapped to a table or wall. Although this attention-getting gimmick came of age in the thirties, before superheroes officially appeared, it would become the stuff of comics covers through many decades, and the source of some of the (sometimes-deserved) criticism of the form.
While stories might use (and re-use, and re-use again) the notion of the heroic rescue of the love interest - perhaps Wilhelm Reich would explain this as a sublimation of sexual interest into rescue fantasies - the captive female cover to pulp magazines seems to have existed as a thing in its own right, capable of enticing sales even when such lovingly-depicted images did not refer to any particular content of the magazine. Indeed, if you imagine a painted cover of a woman strapped to a scientist's table as that scientist pulls the switch to activate some electrical-looking device pointed at her midsection, you suggest not just a story but an era and a genre.
Regardless of its relevance to the contents of the old magazine that once lived between the cover illustration to the right, however, this cover piece suggests little more than some hypothetical entry by Doc Savage into the white slavery trade. We therefore need not goggle at the notion that some concerned souls would suspect such magazines of pornographic content or intent.
Had the superhero concept not taken so profoundly in the soil of the popular entertainments market, we might consider the costumed adventurer genre as a sub-variety of pulp with two extra gimmicks: costumes and superpowers.
However, since pulps (in their original form) do not survive to the present and mainly appear as nostalgic recreations or as novelizations and anthologies, we might do better to consider them as an evolutionary outgrowth of pulps rather than a gimmick. In some ways, looking at the superhero as a pulp gimmick resembles looking at the water-tight egg as an evolutionary gimmick that created the reptile sub-genre from amphibians that lay water-soluble eggs. The superhero, like the amnion, allowed a leap into a new form.
In the forties, a superhero provided sufficient interest to sell a comic book; perhaps this kept the repertoire of gimmicks in check, if only because the talents in the business dedicated themselves more to contriving new and fantastic creations rather than attention-getting mechanisms designed to make consumers look at product not necessarily distinguishable from that of the competition.
In some cases, talent had a difficult time pushing the notion of juvenile sidekicks to publishers. Robin, for instance, almost received an editorial veto, since the editor responsible for Batman and Detective Comics had little faith in the premise.
However, writers recognized a potent "hook" in the juvenile sidekick. Comics targeted under-aged males as their main consumer. By introducing young men as professional partners to the key superheroes of the day, comics creators could bridge the gap between the superhero and the reader of the superhero comic. Readers could relate to the sidekick, who served as a proxy for the reader himself in a variety of four-color tales.
In that the sidekick provided a hook to appeal to a specific demographic, then, we can recognize it as a gimmick. Related variants included the juvenile superhero (such as Kid Eternity) and the juvenile alter ego (such as Captain Marvel's Billy Batson).
![[Captain America gives Hitler one right on the kisser.]](../img/pr3102.jpg)
The number of guest appearances that Hitler made in superhero comics almost imply that Timely, DC, or one of their market rivals, rather than nineteenth-century Austria, came up with him. Hitler, and occasionally his peers-by-alliance, tended to scare the phlegm out of right-minded folks back in his day; and comics provided a place where someone could give der Fuhrer what he had coming in a day before Allied forces finally broke the German army.
If Hitler remained a popular target of superheroic violence, so, too, in a lesser degree did the likes of Hirohito, Tojo, and Mussolini (and, before Hitler violated the non-aggression pact, Stalin). This also filtered down into the brutish and ugly depiction of Axis soldiers. However, such political caricature took a particularly venomous form for the Japanese soldier, who generally appeared bespectacled and befanged either with incredible buck teeth or indisputable vampire fangs.
One can make a case for some criticism of Japan's deeds in the 1930s and 1940s based on solid historical premises. However, the comics medium, particularly in the 1940s, did not provide a forum for reasoned debate about the geopolitical reasons the Allies might choose to wage war on Axis powers like Japan. Instead, comics approached this on a visceral level, portraying the subjects and leaders of Axis Japan as something only vaguely human.
The fifties saw a great culling in comics, partially due to the completion of World War Two contracts that guaranteed a market for a product line used to provision soldiers and the following downturn in commercial demand. In an attempt to recapture old markets and create new ones, comics experimented with a number of new genres, including the romance comic and the "gifted animal" comic. However, some of the strategies transcended genre; and some even caused the business some trouble as public awareness began to hold comics per se in bad stead.
![[EC alumnus Jack Davis parodies a stock EC shock ending.]](../img/pr3107.jpg)
The image to the right parodies EC's formulaic shock ending from the days not long before that company vanished from the contemporary comics scene.
That fifties pieces such as EC Comics' horror and crime lines should raise eyebrows represents no coincidence and no mere accident of effete and paranoid times. EC intended to shock the reader. Shock value occupied a central role in their repertoire of aesthetic effects.
By today's looser standards, the shock value pieces of the fifties might not seem too potent. The occasional on-panel cadaver or severed head can't really compete with the modern blood-splatter or mass murder in a comic. EC Comics might have dreamed of doing something like placing a dismembered corpse in a refrigerator (as Major Force did in Green Lantern in the mid-1990s.
However, in context, and viewed with a less numbed aesthetic, the shocks in EC Comics provided something about which to grip the arm of a chair about in their day. The shock value of such tales as would eventually result in the creation of the Comics Code Authority traveled in the company of generally raised standards of art, story, printing, and color.
Celebrity comics would endure, in whatever form, into the sixties, with such pieces as Bob Hope Comics or Jerry Lewis Comics (or even as late as the 1970s and beyond with material such as Human Fly). In essence, such material provided the origins of the wide variety of media tie-in pieces now available to both the collector and casual buyer, such as comics treating movies and television material (Star Trek, Star Wars, and even A-Team come to mind).
In the fifties, however, the ambition of the media tie-in book remained somewhat constrained to pieces such as Three Stooges Comics (as far as real-life films went) or cartoon pieces rendered as comics (such as Disney comics).
![[A rare piece of fifties 3-D art, possibly Maurer's.]](../img/pr3103.jpg)
Anaglyphic, or red-blue, three-dimensional imaging, both in print and on film, came of age in the 1950s. Some of the earliest work belongs to Norman Maurer, Joe Howard's son-in-law and a cartoonist who did the Three Stooges comics of that decade; in those days, he worked with war comics veteran Joe Kubert, who still works in the business circa 2000 A.D.
Stereoscopy probably predated photography. Sometimes one hears the name Leonardo da Vinci mentioned in the history of simulated three-dimensional art created by overlaying two images in a visual field so that the differences between them can trick the brain into detecting a parallax.
In terms of reaching a mass audience, however, stereoscopy would have to wait for the photographic methods of the 1800s, where the stereoptikon became a novelty device (and the ancestor of today's View-Master toys).
At some point in the fifties, entrepreneurs recognized the attention-getting potential of anaglyphic red-blue stereoscopy. Three-Dimension Comics, a Mighty Mouse piece from 1953, would hit the market as the first commercial 3-D comic. Norman Maurer, Lenny Maurer, and Joe Kubert developed an acetate cel process for creating the familiar red-blue separations, but discovered that someone had already patented a similar process. Nonetheless, through this book and a series of 3-D Three Stooges books, Maurer and Kubert made the process popular in print even as movie makers discovered the potential it held for film.
Most of the innovation in superhero comics in the 1960s flowed outward from Marvel Comics, only to take root somewhat later in other publishers, including the market-dominant but inertia-locked DC Comics.
In some ways, the cliches of Marvel's sixties output provide a template for the aesthetic recreations of today.
![[One among innumerible superhero fights in early Marvel comics.]](../img/pr3104.jpg)
With some fairness, we can attribute the origins of the superhero crossover, at least within a single-company product line, to Timely Comics. When the first stories containing the fights between the Human Torch and the Sub-Mariner appeared, they represented a first step to the shared-universe model that Marvel Comics would introduce in the 1960s.
Marvel Comics turned this concept to a promotional stunt in the early days of the Silver Age. By presenting a representative sample of its other superhero creations in as many titles as possible, Marvel managed to introduce single-title readers to other properties that might attract them to spread their money into more of their comics. An interconnected product line, therefore, potentially meant a bigger lump of money from customers.
Early Marvel Comics never approached modern crossover decadence, but its early superhero line regularly did present titles in which the star of another book would appear in other books, have a misunderstanding with the main character(s), and then get into a fight, lovingly pitched on the cover with or without a context.
Marvel's early sixties superhero-fights have, in some ways, become a sub-genre within a classic form, something Marvel implicitly admits through such releases as the 1999 Marvel Selects book that contained nothing but Hulk / Thing fights from around 1964 to around 1978. Other such superhero interactions may not take the form of classic fights, but could probably fill a volume (should Marvel Comics elect to print it) of "Marvel's Greatest Superhero Battles."
Movies had experimented with serial fiction decades before, as had pure-text literature. However, comics tended to operate on an editorial model that called for completeness within a specific story. The comics of the 1930s, 1940s, and 1950s generally geared towards the notion that the reader might only read a single comic book. Long ongoing stories, therefore, cheated this targeted single-issue reader.
However, the five- or ten-page complete comics story of an earlier age provided a very confining model. How much depth, really, could one infuse into a character or a story if the story structure limited creators to five, ten, or twenty pages? By treating individual comics as chapters in a longer story, rather than as completely self-contained pieces, writers could do more with the characters, including things that helped readers relate to the main players.
In this writer's opinion, comic writers after the Silver Age stopped doing enough to adhere to the Julie Schwartz Principle ("Treat every comic as a reader's first comic"). Labyrinths of interconnected stories with beginnings and middles (but no ends) resulted from the notion that comics stories could continue beyond a single book. Some writers prominent in the industry have reputations for dragging tales out for years, something that seems rather unjust to old readers (who seek closure) and hostile to new ones (who have a learning curve of back material to absorb before they can understand the events of some modern books).
Nonetheless, the single-book story seems like an editorial straightjacket for writers who want to do more than present a single fist fight or dramatic rescue. The best writers realize that an ideal middle ground lies between tedious and endless stories that never resolve and the five-page episodelets.
Relevance occupies a place in comics history as both a change to long-standing editorial models and as a gimmick. We find the substantial relevance in the more thoughtful "relevant" stories and gimmick relevance in things like covers depicting superheroes on protest lines or showing superheroes engaged in intergenerational arguments.
One can argue about the tendency of DC Comics to create product with first-tier talent on cover art and second-tier talent on the interiors. DC manifestly intended this as a means of creating a visually consistent product on newsstands, even if the interiors of its books displayed a wider range of looks. Marvel Comics, however, argued that DC intended some kind of bait-and-switch by using the likes of Neal Adams as a cover artist on books where he did not do interior art.
It seems like the comics of the Silver Age did more to make the Golden Age immortal than anything that happened in the Golden Age itself. A few pros who figured prominently in the Silver Age had played roles in the superhero comics of the Golden Age that might have inspired them, after the great die-off of superheroes, to attempt to recreate some of the diversity they remembered. For existence, the late, lamented, and prolific John Broome worked in Golden Age Green Lantern and Flash material, owning a resume that could easily incline him to favor refurbishing characters he worked on in the forties.
Golden Age veterans like Broome and Joe Kubert would definitely play important roles in repackaging the Golden Age for the consumer of the Silver Age, but some later ingredients provided the leavening that made the synthesis work. The shared universe (or polyverse) model made the older characters interconnect in ways they couldn't before. The Stan Lee model of a superhero, best represented by Spider-Man, allowed these characters a humanity often lacking in forties superheroes besides Eisner's Spirit. Furthermore, the enthusiasm of a new generation of writers, particularly Roy Thomas, would provide the love for Golden Age material (which he could recall from his youth) that would make World War II-vintage concepts seem "classic" rather than "dated."
The seventies saw comics facing a contracting, but not dying, market begin to affect the product. Marvel still could get enough steam out of the shared universe model and the Lee-style superhero not to need to dabble much with the conceptual framework of the hero or of the story; and DC pursued a policy of self-reinvention with the intent of remaining distinct from Marvel, a policy they would abandon and invert in the 1980s.
The selling gimmicks of this decade seem more based on blunt sales strategies than any effort to redefine superhero comics or what they meant.
Both DC and Marvel tried varying the page count on comics to increase sales. Today's collectors frequently seek DC's well-remembered 100-page specials, in part because these books featured mostly reprint material (often a reader's only source of comics material from the 1940s in the age before trade paperbacks).
Marvel, for its part, tried a subtler and possibly more successful approach. Rather than compete with DC's expensive 50-cent (and then 60-cent) 100-page books, it confronted the need for a price increase from 15 cents on regular titles by boosting the price and the page count. Marvel released a number of 25-cent books contemporaneous with DC's 20-cent books, with Marvel books having more pages and, generally, longer stories (though sometimes Marvel used the extra page count for reprints).
Some comics historians credit Martin Goodman of Timely fame with the marketing strategy in which a business dominates the market by flooding it with product. From wherever this strategy originated, Marvel, Timely's descendant, played at this game from the first days after it broke from its distribution deal with DC Comics (an arrangement that included a contractual limitation on the number of Marvel titles). By various means, Marvel hoped to crowd out the competition in a very physical sense.
The war to sell comics (and absorb rival companies' market share) often boils down to a war for shelf space. In the sixties, Marvel began a campaign to take over shelf and spinner rack space by releasing so many titles that DC would have to match product numbers or lose out in a vicious zero-sum space game.
DC Comics and Marvel Comics came up with a format that brought this competition into a new tier: the over-sized treasury edition. These books didn't take the normal (about) 6 1/2" by (about) 11" format typical of normal comics. They worked in a size more typical of the old Life magazine, roughly 11" by 14", with stiff stock for covers.
Superman vs. Muhammad Ali probably represents the most successful book of this sort, and one of the best-remembered, for a number of reasons: It featured one of the last mainstream pieces of superhero art by Neal Adams for a "Big Two" publisher; it sold in many countries; and it appeared in a timely fashion, just as Ali retook a title he had lost early in the two-year production process of this book.
![[The precedent-setting Superman versus Spider-Man.]](../img/pr3105.jpg)
In the sixties, Marvel Comics frequently sold comics by use of intracompany crossovers, in the form of stories where the Hulk might appear in Fantastic Four or Thor might appear in Silver Surfer. By 1976, this had achieved a new scope with DC Comics' and Marvel Comics' joint production of Superman versus Spider-Man.
The intercompany crossover would become a recurrent, if infrequent, piece for comics collectors through the late 1990s, where such crossing-over reached its ultimate limit in "Amalgam Comics," a joint production of both DC and Marvel that not only had their superheroes meet but actually combine to form new characters like "Super-Soldier" (a mix of Superman and Captain America) and "Dark Claw" (a fusion of Wolverine and Batman). In that sense, we can consider it a seminal concept in one application, although in another sense it just represents an expansion of the shared-universe model to cross company lines.
In some ways, the eighties saw fewer innovations, gimmick-wise than previous decades. Marvel Comics sought to create a post-Silver Age synthesis, but mainly had antiheroes and "grit" as raw material. DC mostly hoped to reinvent itself in a way that would allow it to enjoy Marvel's Silver Age editorial vitality, and managed, through drastic editorial efforts and key captures of talented Marvel personnel, to become an imitation of Marvel Comics.
One may note the irony in which two comics companies both sought to replace their own identities with something else, with the elder player hoping to adopt the cast-off identity of the younger.
Nonetheless, comics of the eighties did produce some typically period forms of gimmickry.
Conventional comics history attributes the mega-crossover to Jim Shooter, the much-disliked onetime editor at Marvel Comics. Certainly Shooter did much as the entrepreneur of the concept, both at Marvel and then at Valiant Comics. Megacrossovers remain fairly controversial in that they frequently force readers to seek out multiple titles of books that don't interest them in order to complete stories - and these stories generally disappoint. However, a good tablespoon of caveat emptor could solve the problem; if a reader feels exploited by a megacrossover event, he can refuse to buy it. Completists and continuity aficionados suffer most from the excesses of the mega-crossover.
The mega-crossover has become a recurrent annual even at the major comics publishers, much as the flu tends to come around at the same time every year. Fans got tired of them a long time ago, but comics companies must feel that mega-crossovers represent good business, because they produce so many of them. One may regret the fact that fans do not seem to look forward to them as much as publishers.
Independent labels like First Comics meant a great deal in their day. They meant that writers/creators would have more control of the material they produced, rather than editors or the dicta of a company's shared universe. They meant that creators might concentrate on quality rather than shared-universe self-consistency (a difficult mistress to please), Comics Code Authority approval (a series of standards that sometimes handicapped the ability to tell good stories), and committee decisions by suited marketing executives.
One can see in those things a greater dedication to comics as art. Pieces like Cerebus, Nexus, John Sable, Freelance, Dreadstar, Elfquest, and about a gazillion others represented the children of the independent philosophy even when publishers might actually connect to the big guns (such as Marvel Comics' Epic Comics line).
However, the lack of editorial restraint could also result in a grotesque self-indulgence best viewed in the early Image Comics output of the next decade. The independent model allowed adult content and its cojoined twin, trashy content. Indies could get rather graphic about sex and violence, two ingredients that would eventually serve as gimmicks themselves and dumb down the industry in some corners.
Thus, the independent comic served as a breeding ground both for standards and gimmicks, and the comics of today, even mainstream stuff, tends to show this heritage.
Doom and gloom comics represented an attempted effect and an editorial model and perhaps don't exactly belong in the category of gimmickry. Sometimes the difficulty a reader might have in reaching the depths of despair a writer intended place such tone beyond the scope of gimmicks, which seek to grab a reader before he reads a book.
However, a shallow, depressing, and sometimes nihilistic approach to the grimness and grit some see as the defining characteristic of eighties comics became a short road to hipness, and hipness itself frequently acts as a gimmick, or at least relies on a repertoire of gimmicks, rather than substance.
Books like Watchmen and Punisher don't necessarily belong in the category of bells-and-whistles overcoming substance, but their imitations, plus the cheap Wolverine knock-offs that would pollute superhero comics in the eighties and nineties seem more fairly to belong in this category.
Evidently without the limiting effect of shame, the comics of the nineties eagerly employed the gimmicks of earlier eras of comics. However, they also coined as many new gimmicks as the occasion might demand.
If the future does not impugn the nineties for any particular gimmick - for instance, by naming it "the new Silver Age" - it may remember this period as the Age of Gimmicks.
Multiple covers represent a gimmick aimed mainly at people who collect comics without necessarily ever reading them. Since the protocols of ordering comics can take an elaborate and Byzantine form, sometimes a publisher's attempt to bait collectors into buying multiple copies of a single issue can result in the unavailability of particular issues of the book to long-time readers who may intend to follow runs rather than pursue events.
Where no shortages follow such stunts, however, the multiple cover can represent a fairly benign gimmick. A recent Green Lantern featuring a time-displaced Hal Jordan appeared in two covers, one which showed Hal Jordan more prominently, another which showed Kyle Rayner. A book like this can play the role of a straw poll that serves to alert publishers to reader preferences.
Some books have come to use die-cut covers as part of their standard format; in such cases, the use doesn't fall under the heading "gimmickry." However, where the use of such covers represents a temporary deviation designed to make collectors' stomachs growl, we can fairly suspect that "format" does not apply and "gimmick" does.
The foil cover represents a less debatable case, since the expense of such printing makes it prohibitive for a normal book format. Foil covers tend to adorn anniversary or milestone editions (first issues, generally numbered #1 or #0; or fifth/tenth/twentieth anniversaries or later). Foil covers, like die-cut covers, allow for some interesting embossing effects, such as the embossed art from Avengers v. I #360. However, like any gimmick, specialized cover formats don't necessarily reflect anything more than business as usual in the contents of a book.
The nineties saw an explosion of faux collect-o-bilia. Collectible items tend to have the most character when a fad erupts naturally, and the least when some marketing talent creates them in order to hook collectors. Nonetheless, occasional pieces do violate this tendency by representing both an interesting item and a commercial success.
![[A forgettable trading card depicting a forgettable character.]](../img/pr3106.jpg)
Superhero trading cards in pre-bagged comics, however, fall into the category of gimmicks. These cards belong in company-specific sets; like mega-crossovers, they serve to tempt readers to purchase comics from the same company that they otherwise would have ignored. Furthermore, with the passage of time, it became obvious that the artificial collectors' items of the early nineties generally would become worthless over time.
If the comics of the sixties made some small mileage out of Golden Age nostalgia, the comics of the late 1990s would run rampant with nostalgia for the Silver Age, a period recognized more in its long absence than immediately after its passing. Some aspects of comics had slowly lost their vitality over a long, long span beginning around 1969 and enduring into the 1990s. When the market collapsed, a vacuum existed; and, standing at the center of this vacuum, the vehemence and ambition of the comics of the sixties seemed like potent antidotes to the nihilism and anomie that seemed to infect many types of comics. Thus did a renewed interest in Silver Age comics see light.
For some, all nostalgia represents an affront; adjectives like "old-fashioned" and "crusty" might erupt from the mouths, pens, and keyboards of entertainment consumers who can't stand anything once it has spent more than fifteen minutes on the market already. However, even if such novelty-driven petulance can sometimes suggest a short attention span, one can recognize some justice in accusations that nostalgia and retro-themes represent a morbid obsession with the past and a lack of faith in the present and future.
However, sometimes nostalgia merely derives from the recognition of something better in the past. Someone can idolize something like the space program of the 1960s because it represents other things than a decade: It represented a great number of people of varying values and world-views working together for something pointed at the future. Nostalgia becomes morbid when it replaces the intent to improve the present and future and when it attaches to mythologized or fictional times.
If comics in the nineties would look back to the Silver Age after the smoke cleared from the implosion of the industry in the early-mid nineties, one would still encounter in this decade a tendency to look forward to technology for new ways to bring comics to the reader. For instance, Toy Biz issued a series of Marvel Comics on CD-ROM, including collections of Fantastic Four, X-Men, Amazing Spider-Man, and Iron Man material. These CD-ROM items only contained about 80 pages of actual comics but also included video clips of Stan Lee and samples from related cartoons, plus a stylish (if sometimes resource-intensive) viewer.
Later in the 1990s, one publisher would release a Spirit archive on CD-ROM (a desireable but impossible-to-find item since it went out of print), and even newspaper cartoonists would look to the potential of CD-ROM as a medium, such as Garry Trudea's publication of a comprehensive "Doonesbury" archive in that format as part of a package with an oversized paperback selection of more recent strips. Similarly, Mad magazine would release a retrospective containing all of their material (from comics and magazines) between 1952 and 1998, inclusive.
These pieces did well in providing difficult-to-find material in easily-found packages, at least while they remained in print. However, two handicaps set back the CD-ROM as a means for delivering comics: One, sometimes CD-ROM could cost more than the actual back issues, in spite of its potential as a long-lived format not subject to deterioration; and two, the readers provided to display the comics often consumed excessive system resources on computers, particularly hard drive space (for instance, the Mad collection required 65 megabytes to install the viewer just to read the comics from the CD-ROM).
Gimmicks can evolve into conventions of a form. When a gimmick no longer has the attention-getting power it did, but creators retain it in order to maintain the authenticity of a genre piece, the gimmick has probably crossed over into the territory of standards and conventions.
For instance, the teenaged sidekick does not have the draw it would have back when superhero comics catered to a male and under-fifteen audience. However, if creators attempt to recapture a Golden Age comics feel, the sidekick provides a recognizeable tool for simulating a period work.
Similarly, a number of comics gimmicks, through frequent use, became period conventions or cliches that provide an idiom from which to build a pastiche of the comics of another period.
Return to the Quarter Bin.
Email the author at
[email protected].
Characters, products, and businesses listed on this page may be subject to copyrights and trademarks. Their mention here is not intended as a challenge to existing copyrights and trademarks.