The Dreadnoks Could Have Been My Uncles

G.I. Joe was the center of my childhood universe. Not just my favorite action figure line, but my favorite toy line, period. My older brother had a few Joes, but he guarded them like state secrets. I was not allowed to touch them. All I could do was sit nearby, watching the battles unfold, wishing I could join the war.

Once I finally got my own Joe and Cobra figures, the battle started raging and never really stopped. I was one of the lucky kids who had a lot of G.I. Joe stuff over the years. Not as much as my friend Aaron, because nobody had as much as Aaron, but still more than most kids I knew. And while I loved the Joe side, it was Cobra that held most of my favorites. Within Cobra, one group stood above the rest.

The Dreadnoks.

They were chaos wrapped in denim and bad decisions. On the cartoon, their antics were always the highlight of any episode they crashed into. They were loud, reckless, and always one spark away from blowing something up. Zartan was the ringleader, the mysterious mercenary with the color changing skin, but I didn’t want just Zartan. I wanted the whole gang.

One day, my brother came home from a trip he had taken with my dad, and he surprised me with all three Dreadnoks! Torch, Ripper, and Buzzer were lined up like they had been produced just for me. They were there to join the Zartan I already had. I was sure my dad had been behind the idea, but it did’t matter. My brother handed them over like he was presenting royal gifts, and I accepted them like a kid being knighted.

I didn’t realize until much later why those three figures felt so familiar.

They looked like my uncles.

Not just a little. A lot.

Torch, with the shaggy hair, bandana, and shades, looked like Uncle Randy on a Saturday afternoon, right down to the grin that said he would do something stupid just to see what happened. Ripper, with the wild mohawk and the attitude to match, could have been Uncle Bobby on one of his “don’t ask” weekends. And Buzzer, with the sunglasses, the vest, and the whole “I’ve seen some things” vibe, might as well have been Uncle Dennis, who always had a story that started with, “Now don’t tell your mom about this.”

I didn’t have the words for it then, but the Dreadnoks felt like home. They were the loud, rowdy, unpredictable part of home that made family gatherings interesting.

In my world, the three of them were inseparable. They were not just Zartan’s lackeys. They were a trio of trouble, a biker gang tornado tearing across the bedroom battlefield. While the Joe team planned missions and followed orders, the Dreadnoks crashed through the door on instinct alone.

Torch, Ripper, and Buzzer always traveled as a pack. They always argued. They always caused chaos. And they always reminded me of my dad’s brothers.

In every battle I staged, they played their roles perfectly. The Thunder Machine was their chariot, rattling across the carpet like a runaway lawnmower. When the others piled in, I always gave one of them the honor of riding solo on the Cobra Ferret, tearing across the room, leaping over couch cushions, and launching surprise attacks on unsuspecting Joes.

Those three figures logged more playtime than almost anything else I owned. They were scraped, scuffed, and battle worn in all the right places, the marks of toys that had lived full, rowdy lives.

And that was why, in my mind, the Dreadnoks always deserved a place of honor. Not because they were rare. Not because they were valuable. But because they were mine. Three wild men who looked a whole lot like the wild men I grew up around.