This is the story of how the defender of justice, the bane of villains everywhere, the doer of good, the helper of the weak, The Woodsman, came into existence.

We all know that The Woodsman, a.k.a. Mike Samson, had some rather auspicious beginnings in the backwoods town of Wesley, Maine. Mike was raised by bears in a cave until he was six.

On the morning of his sixth birthday Mike or Hrg-un ("Little Britches" in bear) was cavorting with best friend Snrg-whah ("Big Bear") in the blackberry patch behind the home of Seamus and Rita Samson. Hrg-un and Snrg-whah were having a great time eating blackberries, wrestling, and destroying the bushes.

* * * *

It was early, early for Seamus Samson to be getting up on a Sunday, 8:30 a.m. His dog, Bruno, had jumped on his and wife Rita's bed to wake him. He had an awful hangover. He and Rita had really lived it up at Sonny's Tavern the night before, and now he was paying for it.

Seamus was tall (6'2") and lanky, with short curly brown hair and a full, scraggly beard. Wesley had been his home town for 12 years, ever since he was 27.

He got out of bed and put on some long underwear and denim overalls and staggered downstairs. He put on the coffee pot and started into the bathroom when he saw the commotion in his blackberries. He stumbled onto his back porch and began yelling profanities at Little Britches and Big Bear.

The two troublemakers heard Seamus at the same time. Each gave an annoyed snort and turned to flee. As they did, the young human tripped over his bear friend's paw and hit his head on a rock, knocking him out.

Seamus slipped his feet into his boots, grabbed his shotgun and went clomping off through his garden after Hrgun and Snrg-whah. When he reached the blackberries, he tripped over the unconscious form of Hrg-un. As Seamus fell, he accidentally pulled the trigger, letting off a blast that obliterated the quiet of the morning as well as most of a small, nearby birch tree.

You can imagine Seamus' surprise when he saw what he had tripped over - the naked, muscular body of the unconscious six-year-old.

"Calamity, Rita, come looka 'ere!" Seamus cried. He got no response so he tried again. "Rita, come on down here now!"

Rita had been awakened by the shotgun blast and was right behind Seamus the second time he yelled. She was a Hispanic-American with shoulder length brown hair and brown eyes who had lived in Wesley all her life. She was a skinny 5'7" woman with a pretty face. Her mother, Concepcion, had fled from life in a Colombian drug cartel to Maine in search of a husband, and a new life. She had met Rita's father Arthur in Bangor, and Rita was conceived that night. The fledgling family moved to Wesley.

Rita

had met Seamus on her eighteenth birthday, and a year and a half later they tied the knot. Seamus was six years her senior and, unlike Rita, wanted more than anything to avoid having kids.

Rita ran up behind Seamus to see what he was yelling about.

"Looka here, Rita," he said again.

"Aw, it's a child. Let's get him inside and clean him up."

"All right, but we're not gonna keep him."

* * * *

"Well, since you found the child, it is my opinion, and the ruling of this court, that he is your legal responsibility," said the honorable judge.

"Hooray!" exclaimed Rita.

"Damnation," Seamus swore under his breath.

They were in the Augusta State Courthouse to decide what to do with their new ward, Mike.

Rita tried to comfort Seamus on the ride home. "It'll be fun, honey," she cooed.

"Yeah, and pigs have wings," Seamus muttered.

"But look at what he can do," Rita countered.

"I don't see what's so special," Seamus said. "So what if he can lift two hundred pounds? Probably every six-year-old can do that."

"Yeah, right, Seamus. Every six-year-old. He can also talk as well as you or I, and he has only been living in the civilized world for three weeks. Besides," she continued, "the court has already ruled, so we'd best make the best of it."

* * * *

Mike had been living with Seamus and Rita for ten years; he was now sixteen and the spitting image of his adoptive father - a loud, obnoxious brawler who would do anything for a drink.

On July eighth of his sixteenth year something happened to Mike Samson that would change his life forever. It was a stormy night and Mike was cutting wood in the woods. (Rita forced Mike to work in the woods until midnight to help keep him out of trouble.) It began to rain. Mike didn't mind, since it cooled him off. Then he heard the thunder.

"Tarnation," he swore and set off for home. He was in the same blackberry patch where Seamus had found him when it happened. Mike tripped and fell into the path of an oncoming lightning bolt. He was unconscious for 20 minutes.

When he came to, Mike could scarcely believe his eyes. His greasy, unkempt, shoulder-length hair had been trimmed, every hair now perfectly in place. His stubble-beard was now clean-shaven. But the biggest change were his clothes. Instead of dirty overalls, he was now wearing an expensive, custom-tailored Armani suit. Wrapped around his head was a blaze orange mask, the same make as the Lone Ranger's.

Mike felt in his pocket and found a card which read:

"Since you have been hit by this lightning bolt and bestowed with this suit you have acquired new super-powers. You will be able to: think (something new to you), run faster than a brick wall, and you will be stronger than superglue. You are now The Woodsman, defender of justice in the Maine woods (and anywhere else you might be). Every night these clothes will magically clothe your body at 8:30 Eastern Standard Time. Then you will venture forth as The Woodsman. (Motto: if you can't beat 'em, take a coffee break.)

"Geez," whispered Mike, astonished, "I could be a super hero."

Becoming a super hero had been one of Mike's life-long dreams. (The other was to become the owner of a sleazy night club.) Not knowing what to do, Mike returned home and went to sleep, suit and all. The next morning, he was still in his clothes, only now they were his dirty corduroy overalls.

"It was a dream," he muttered.

"Mike, get your sorry butt down here before you're late for breakfast," Rita shouted in a raspy voice.

* * * *

Mike was climbing into bed six weeks after that fateful July night when he heard a whirring sound and suddenly he was clothed in the pine-green Armani suit. And once again the orange Lone Ranger mask was wrapped around his head, hiding his true identity. (Not that anyone would recognize a clean shaven Mike Samson anyway.) Mike pinched himself to make sure he was awake.

"Ow," he complained. Then he heard the faint sounds of a damsel in distress. I'm a super-hero, Mike thought, and without a second thought he leaped out his bedroom window.

Fortunately for Mike the window was open and he was able to bust through the screen. Unfortunately, it was a fifteen-foot fall to the ground. He landed awkwardly on his hip, but was able to right himself and stagger toward the anguished calls of a woman in trouble.

When Mike arrived at the home from which the screams were emanating, he attempted to vault the white picket fence. Poor Mike, the alligator loafers cut his vertical leap. Mike realized too late and landed on top of the pickets. And, boy, those points are sharp. Mike let off a long stream of expletives. After recovering, Mike charged through the front door of the blue ranch house. He barged in on a young woman standing in front of a mirror.

The young lady of 17 or 18 years was wearing a pair of black shoes, no socks, and a baby-blue miniskirt. She was holding a lime-green blouse in front of her unclothed top.

"No," she muttered not yet noticing The Woodsman. She threw down the green blouse and picked up a black one.

"Better, but still, it's not me," she sighed.

The Woodsman intervened. "Do not wear either of those, my dear. Wear this pink polka-dotted halter top with that," he said, indicating

her skirt.

"Aaaagghh," she screamed and shoved him out the open door and down the front porch steps.

"You'll thank The Woodsman later," our hero called in third person, and crawled off into the night. 1