While I spent the next few years being a little kid, Iron Fist was busy digging himself into the Marvel Universe. His firm footing in the narrative elements of the Kung-Fu genre kept him from going the way of other trend hoppers like Rocket Racer, but it also limited his appeal. He was real enough to have a place in that world, but never iconic or meaningful enough to really break into the consciousness of the general public. Everyone in the Marvel Universe seemed to know him, but no one in the real world did. The same could be said for blaxploitation super star Luke Cage. The Marvel Universe was built on the back of misunderstood loners and outsiders. Lots of them got so good at appealing to the misunderstood loner in all of us that they broke out and became parade floats and cartoons. Luke and Danny did not. The rich white industrialist from the Mystic City of K'un L'un and the tough black vigilante from Harlem bonded over being loners in a world of outcasts.

Together, their series Power Man and Iron Fist made it to the 150th issue. Meanwhile, I was soaking up all the super hero cartoons and movies I could find. I didn't really move into the orbit of comic books until I took an interest in G.I. Joe figures. Through the covers of the comics on the rack next to G.I. Joe, and the house ads in the comics themselves, I became aware of the pantheon of Marvel heroes. Though superheroes still seemed a bit silly to me, these ones seemed inherently cooler than the Super Friends I had grown up with. But, basically, I knew what I was getting into. Sure, the X-Men were cooler and edgier than Aquaman, but I could tell that in one look at the cover. I didn't need to dig deeper.

In the summer of 1986, the desperate boredom of camping in northern Michigan forced me to pick up and actually read my first issue of Uncanny X-Men. That same summer, in issue 150 of Power Man and Iron Fist, Iron Fist was beaten to death by a young boy whose super powers were killing him. I had just made my first real step into super-hero comic books, and Iron Fist just made a big step out of them. But in doing so he lead me to that mystic Tibetan bridge which only appears once every ten years. This particular bridge ran from the craggy slopes of casual readership to the gleaming towers and parapets of devoted fandom.

Iron Fist died to show me the way to that sacred temple of fandom. As cool as they were, the X-Men could not have done it on their own. It wasn't just the mystery of Iron Fist that drew me in, it was the way that mystery was presented. It was like an open secret. Everyone knew him. Spider Man knew him, so did Captain America. His buddy Luke Cage was even a member of the Fantastic Four at one time. All of the characters I knew from cartoons and coloring books knew all about him, but I knew nothing. He was one degree removed from me, and I had to know what that degree was.

The existence of this mysterious character sent me a message. And that message was that there was more to comics than I could see at a glance, and if I dug I would be rewarded. It was more than just the unknown. I didn't know anything about Daredevil, but I could basically guess. A more professional version of Spider Man. And, if I was curious beyond that, I could just pick up an issue and get some questions answered. I knew the basic deal with super heroes, and most of these guys seemed to be the standard formula modified by one or two degrees. No great enigma.

Iron Fist, and his tragic death, were different. If, at his core, he was the standard super hero with some surface modifications then that core was far deeper than I could perceive. One of my very first exposures to the character was that final issue. I remember getting to the end. That last panel, a tear in Luke Cage's eye and his CCA approved swear word “christmas.” And it was over. His friend was dead and the whole thing was over. It wasn't a teeth-gritting “you guys go, I'll hold them off!” kind of death. Danny wasn't even conscious to know he was dying. No one swore revenge, even Danny's best friend knew that the kid who killed him would have been sorry for what he had done.

Nothing about it made easy sense for the casual reader. I knew, because I was the casual reader and it did not make sense to me. There must be more to this Iron Fist. There was the promise of special, secret, knowledge and a depth of understanding for those intrepid enough to seek it.

Lots of people might stand on those rocky Tibetan cliffs and say “there must be some city across that bridge and behind those clouds.” The same way I figured there must be more to Iron Fist than met the eye. Most people, though, are content to hold their firm footing, or continue climbing to some other peak. And most people are not comic book readers. Iron Fist's mysteries and contradictions promised me that if I took those steps, and explored that mystery, I would be rewarded.

“Follow me,” he said, “wonders await.”