Comic Review: Legion

Of all the recent superhero shows filling the box the last few years, none have quite stood out like last years out-of-nowhere sleeper hit, Legion. The psychedelic, music inspired sci-fi comedy horror romantic-drama told the story of a troubled antagonist, inspired by the X-Men franchise's character of the same name.

It's been a while since we've seen David Haller, as Legion much prefers to be called, in the comics. Last seen in a truly seminal run penned by Simon Spurrier, X-Men Legacy confronted the nature of Legion's many personalities, giving them individual faces, names and forms, and ended with the incredible finale of David's fractured mind finally coming under  his own control at last. Sane at last, David uses the reality editing power of his ultimate personality to remove himself from history, choosing to exist only in the mind of the woman who loved him.

Now Legion is a complex character, and not just thematically. Since his introduction in The New Mutants, David Haller  has been through the ringer. He's a deeply haunted and troubled young man possessed of a plethora of conflicting personalities, some good, some evil, and some utterly beyond human understanding. Over the years writers have taken him from a mentally handicapped child, to an all powerful anti-villain splitting universes apart, to a lonely traveler seeking redemption.

Milligan's Legion begins at an unspecified time in David's life, when the wandering mutant, garbed in his hospital scrubs, is tormented by a fierce and dominant new personality, Lord Trauma. Desperately seeking freedom from his increasingly aggressive alter-egos, David encounters New York Psychologist Hannah Jones. A shrink to celebrities, Dr Jones appears to be encountering strange and unexplained phenomena all her own, with apparitions and hallucinations warning her of dangerous events to come.

Finding each other in their time of distress, David Haller and Hannah Jones meet, and perhaps will be able to help each other. 

There's some great moments in the first issue of Legion, with the sinister telepath Lord Trauma manifesting himself in the brain waves seen as David undergoes an Electroencephalogram being a particular high point. The interior art is stylish and colourful, Wilfredo Torres using a mix-up of dutch angles to leave us feeling as off balance as the characters within the story, and the sharp blacks and hard edges are reminiscent of classic Mike Allred work. The cover image is a puzzling one though, which shows a much more cartoony styled theme than what new fans of the character attracted by the show are likely to take to.

Where Peter Milligan's Legion fits into the greater picture of the character isn't clear yet, but I do hope it acknowledges past (or future?) events from the previous runs (and please don't forget David's often neglected accent Pete!) There's still a lot to explore with the character, and a whole plethora of new personalities to explore it with. If anyone can do justice to David's twisted and warped mind, Peter Milligan is sure to write from experience.

Down Among the Dead Men (A Cerce Stormbringer Story)

Cerce frowned down at the long length of metal in her hands. The black leather grips of her halberd were stained with blood. Dried to a dull brown, the crusty smears were deep in the tightly wrapped grips, coming off like powder under Cerce’s thumb as she worried at it.

She’d have to unwrap the whole thing again to get it clean.

She placed the heavy weapon down on the camp floor. Heavier than usual today. Her arms were tired from swinging it.

There were bloodstains in her clothes too. Blood where it had splashed onto her skirt and the bare green flesh of her legs beneath. Blood trodden into the soles of her high boots. Cerce wanted to take it all off, toss it to the ground and run and dive deep into the lake like after her old days working the forge. Long time ago now. The lake was a long way off. Cerce had a gut wrenching thought, that her father’s forge might be cold now, but quickly told herself that someone must have taken over it. Belerion needed regular metal work like any other town.

Looking around at the human debris that filled the camp, she didn’t think bathing was a commonplace event anyway. Everyone here was fully dressed in multiple layers to brace against the night cold, or the occasional spatter of chill coastal rain. Sleepy travelers and merchants were slumbering on the bare ground, laying in hammocks strung between creaky trees, occasionally in small cots or snoring in chairs. A fiddle was playing from across the camp somewhere, a jaunty but off key din that reminded her of the low streets in the Foul Mouth.

Most of the real soldiers had gone. Moved on the to next battle before they’d even had time to mourn anyone lost today. A circle of armoured mercenaries played scruffs around a fire not too far away, a touch too far to make sense of their chatter. One had come over earlier and cheerily asked if she’d care to join their game. Cerce was shit at cards though, and knew better than to accept. She had politely declined the offer.

One old timer was seated on the bare ground, a poor makeshift wooden right leg in place of his real one stuck out before him. He was staring miserably at the food being consumed by the mercs. She felt bad for the old bloke. This was no place for old soldiers. She had known a place for old soldiers once. Long time ago now.

Cerce was lying to herself though. She didn’t want to be social. It was too much effort after today. She didn’t feel like fielding the questions. The usual ones Cerce got anytime she passed through these places alone. There was always someone who’d heard a story or two about the Stormbringer and needed his questions answered. Someone who swore that his uncle or cousin or ex-boyfriend had been at the battle of Belerion field and desperately needed validation. Sometimes just someone who wanted a crack at getting into the knickers of a Nadyr girl.

She’d noticed the questions were more scarce when she was travelling with friends. Her travelling partners were otherwise occupied, and Cerce missed Adam and Carnaby somewhat worse than she’d admit to them. Carnaby knew how to scare off unwelcome attention with a practiced snarl better than anyone, and Adam was always good for some spry entertainment.

A figure ambled over past Cerce’s corner of the camp, his stride a little bent, a bottle in his hand. Cerce watched him out of the corner of her eyes. He wore a faded military coat and boots. Her aching body was unwilling to admit it, but her mind was still there, still twitchy, antsy, expecting something else. It wasn’t until the man pulled out his cock and proceeded to let loose a stream into a nearby tree that Cerce reminded herself to relax, to unwind, that the fight was over.

She flexed her hands out, her claws were uneven where she’d broken a couple. She started making mental plans of what to do with the money.

Go back to the Mouth. Get all her clothes cleaned and fluffed and restitched. Big bath with soap in the hotel by the shore, with a pretty Elven girl to brush the knots from Cerce’s long hair. Eat the biggest fish baked with lemon on the seafront, wash it down with sweet wine that looked like crystals.

Cerce found her water-skin and took a pull of cheap sour wine from it. They’d never let her back in that hotel again after last time, but she could dream. As for the hair, she’d probably end up sitting on the rickety stool in Jiera’s pub, the proprietor grumpily shearing the congealed blood and dirt from Cerce’s hair with scissors while Cerce ate a greasy pasty with her hands.

What to do with the money then? Give it all to a legless soldier, she supposed?

Cerce smiled in spite of herself.

The drunk finished up and was liberally shaking his whole body, and turned to face Cerce as he tried to button himself up one handed, the other tipping his bottle back.

“Saw you lookin’,” he slurred, giving Cerce a toothy smile.

Cerce shook her head once in warning.

“Not tonight, jog on,” she said evenly, giving her head a tilt back towards the camp.  

The man raised his hands in mock surrender, then wiped his hands on his filthy coat.

“Oop, fine, fine, don’t mind me none. You sit here all by yerself then,” he muttered, heading off.

Cerce finished off her wine and smirked to herself, remembering the fine exit strategy for dealing with overzealous suitors Adam had come up with. She was surprised how many men were open to the suggestion that a Nadyr’s cunt was deadly poisonous to humans.

The drunk crossed paths with the portly figure of the recruitment officer as he went, and the well dressed man gave the wastrel a look up and down as he headed over to Cerce’s spot.

“Giving you any trouble, Stormbringer?” he asked. Cerce cringed. She still felt like a child playing pretend when people called her that.

“He’s fine. Nice to see someone enjoying himself after today honestly,” Cerce said, looking up at the man, her fingers toying with the hem of her skirt.

He fought for something to say, before he raised a finger in acknowledgment of an unspoken question, and reached into his waistcoat for a pouch.

“Here you are, sorry to keep you waiting. I hope the weather hasn’t been too unpleasant. Awful out here on the moors though isn’t it? Always raining. Can’t wait to get home.”

He blathered on as Cerce reached for the pouch. It was small, but satisfyingly heavy, and the coins clinked as she hefted it in her hand.

“Bloody business eh?” he said, clapping his hands together. When Cerce looked up at him she looked into a familiar expression. Excitement, hopefulness. She saw it most often in young untested soldiers or in children. The ones who thought battle was something to get excited and geared up for. Cerce had been in many battles now. More than she cared to count, and though the situations changed, and the people she had to fight changed, two things stubbornly refused to change. These were that she’d spend the hours before shitting herself with terror, and the hours after with a vague and formless feeling of depression and nihilism.

“Bloody indeed,” Cerce said, “Takes ages to get out of everything, and by the time you got it clean it’s usually time to do it all over again.”

“No rest for the wicked eh?” the officer said. Cerce didn’t return his smile at all, and he lost his steam.

“Well, we know where to send word if… when we need you again, Stormbringer. The right honorable High Chairman thanks you for your invaluable service.”

The recruitment officer turned and strode away, and Cerce watched him go. She coughed and spat up a wad of phlegm, which was a fairly general reaction to hearing the High Chairman mentioned in conversation.

Cerce stood, and stretched out. Her legs were stiff. Her arms ached. She half bent to pick up her halberd, and stopped. She found herself looking across the camp instead. To the old soldier, to the mercs, to the lowly wastrels, to those who mourned.

Her high black boots hurt her feet. She pulled them off and left them on the ground by her halberd. Bloodstains and all.

Barefoot, the cool dirt beneath her toes, Cerce walked across the camp. One of the mercs gave a smile at her, and faces turned in her direction.

“Ho, Stormbringer. Come for a hand?” one asked. Cerce tussled her hair, scratching her scalp.

“Just to watch, boys. Who’s winning?” she asked, smiling.

There was a clamor of comments in return, with a few fingers being pointed and a few laughs and insults exchanged, a flung apple core bounced off the side of someone’s head, prompting more laughing.

Cerce looked over to the man with his little food cart, his closely guarded meats housed in a salt crate, a flame burning, ready for a hot plate to be put to. Cerce pulled a few coins from the purse.

“Two of them, with the breads. Garlic. Throw it all on,” she said, gesturing to his hot plate.  

The cook nodded, tossing long strips of salted meat onto the hot plate. Smells began to drift. He was facing down at the cooking food, but his wary eyes were taking a good long look at Cerce from under bushy eyebrows.

Cerce smiled and thanked him as he passed her the sizzling meat wrapped in hard bread. Her coin was quickly spirited into a metal box nearby.

Cerce took one apart in a few mouthfuls, juice on her chin, her fangs tearing.

The other she walked over and offered to the old timer, who was still sat against his tree in silence.

He looked up at her with curious, rheumy eyes.

“Go on, eat. Skinny old bastard,” Cerce said, waving the meal at him. The hands that reached for it were gnarled, shaky, with big blue veins coiling around the joints. His fingertips brushed Cerce’s as he took the food, they were calloused, tough like seashells.

He ate at the food quietly, still looking up at the towering woman before him.

“Where did you lose it?” she asked. She briefly touched his wooden leg with a bare foot.

“Zenance.”

Cerce nodded. He was apparently old as dirt.

“The first night? Heard it was rough.”

He nodded gravely, taking another bite and hungrily swallowing without much chewing.

“Was. Third night I lost this though,” he gave a knock on the wood.

Cerce raised a white eyebrow.

“Stuck out till the third day? Good work. Heroes, they said. 78 hours. Zenance never fell.”

“You a hero too then, girl?” He asked. Cerce thought, and after a moment, pulled aside the collar of her black shirt. From just below her ear, to well down her shoulder, crossing her collarbone, was a thin and pale scar. It was jagged, cruel looking. The old man looked, and nodded.

"Yep. That's what being a hero will get you," he pointed at her with the dwindling food. 

“Eyes aren’t what they were. Thought you were an Orcress at first. Sorry.”

Cerce smiled. He reminded her of more than a few old men she once knew.

“Thanks,” he said. Cerce gave a toss of her head.

“Come over by the fire. Get warm. Tell some stories. The young ones will love it.”

Eyes were watching Cerce from across the camp. Suspicious, curious, and aggressive, by turn. Cerce took a few more coins from her pouch; then, after a moment, a few more.

“Anyone else hungry?” she said, loud enough for it to be heard across the camp. A few faces turned up hopefully. Cerce put a handful of coins into the cook’s hand.

“Cook it all up. Make a night of it eh?” she said, “and whatever wines you got left. I’ll take them.”

He shrugged.

“Got some ales. Out of wine.”

“Ales it is then. Hear that? Come get it. On me,” Cerce said to the camp. She gave a smirk at the drunk who standing, trying to steady himself against a tree supporting some meagre belongings.

“A big bottle for my friend over there with the big cock!” she laughed. He gave a knowing wink and raised a hand in salute.

The old man settled in by the mercs. They were greeting him.

“Zenance? The Orc siege? My dad was a kid during that, he remembers hearing about Zenance,” it started.

Cerce had strode over to the bard, who played his little fiddle. He couldn’t have been more than fifteen, and gave Cerce a look up and down like she was the goddess of beauty walking the Earth. She put a few coins in his waistcoat pocket, and gave him a wink.

“Got anything more lively in the repertoire eh?”

“If you’ll sing along miss? Stormbringer’s got a great voice, I hear,” the boy said. His accent branded him from the Mouth, clear as day.

“Ah, my reputation precedes me!” Cerce said, slipping into a little of the accent that Adam spoke with, “I got one I think you’ll know.”

She gestured with a hand raised above her hair, and the freshly handed out bottles were raised in turn to her.

“A ballad from my youth!” she declared, her face flush and her heart fluttering with excitement.

Cerce began. A few words in there was a resounding cheer, and the boy was able to accompany, with gusto.

Weigh hey and up she rises

Weigh hey and up she rises

Weigh hey and up she rises

Early in the mornin’

In Cerce’s experience you could count on it to get a bunch of old sailors or pirates going, seemed it works for soldiers too.

Turns out she did have a pretty great voice.

Cerce spent the rest of the money in the camp.

In the morning, after the long walk back to the Mouth, she’d wash in the rainwater that perpetually doused the port town. She’d wash her clothes in Jiera’s storehouse. She’d eat cheap greasy pasties bought for copper pieces. She wouldn't think back to todays battle.

For a moment she had forgotten the bloodstains, and was thinking of a place she knew.

Long time ago. Long way away. Back in a place for old soldiers. With a lake nearby she could leap into. Where her fathers forge was still hot.

Review: 'Phasma' by Delilah S. Dawson

The Star Wars series has never been good at fleshing out the villains. We had to wait 30 years for an entire trilogy of films before we learned the backstory of Darth Vader, so it's no surprise we learn next to nothing about the characters that make up the face of the First Order in the new films.

As before with the original trilogy, fans interested in a deeper exploration of their favorite characters can turn to the novels to find out more, and a look into the chrome suited warrior Captain Phasma is a great place to start.

Phasma begins with the capture of a young spy, Vi Moradi, by the First Order during a scouting mission for the resistance. Instead of being taken for routine processing however, Vi is placed under a secret interrogation by a high ranking Stormtrooper in scarlet armour, Cardinal.

Locking the spy deep in the bowels of a First Order ship, Cardinal bargains with Vi for information on his military rival, the enigmatic Captain Phasma, and so Vi must become a space-faring Scheherazade, playing to Cardinal's curiosity and telling the stories of Phasma's origins, all the while seeking a way to steal her freedom.

After my disappointment with the recent Thrawn novel, I was a little hesitant to dive back into the new Star Wars novels. I wasn't convinced yet.

Where Thrawn felt like treading all too familiar territory with a character we've dealt with many times before, Phasma takes a refreshing attitude to the Star Wars universe, showing us a character we've never seen before, in ways a little unexpected.

It follows the adventures of a barbaric group of warriors across a wasteland of conflict, complete with a moving setting, road-adventure feel, and many of the elements of a classic sci-fi fantasy magazine that you might not expect from a Star Wars story.
Our protagonists are a hard edged group of young men and women who face bloodshed and horror with smiles and bare blades. Encounters like finding themselves in a bloody arena of death for crazed spectators or catching the attentions of an abandoned mine full of lost droids gone mad all feel lively and visceral like the adventures one might encounter reading Conan or Richard Blade. Oftentimes in novels the important fantasy element of Star Wars is forgotten in favor of pure science fiction, but Phasma brings it in wonderfully.

Blending the hard edged barbarian heroes with the strict precision of the First Order characters is a lot of fun, and it reminded me of reading some of those wild Star Wars comics from the 70's that really played with the fantasy element. Thankfully Phasma doesn't stray too far from its purpose either, featuring a lot of character development for the leading lady, and, perhaps just as interesting, a lot explored about the sinister child indoctrination of the villainous First Order.

A common problem with books focusing on minor characters is the tendency to lose track of the elements that made those characters likable in the first place. If you like Phasma because she's a mysterious, practically faceless warrior, that image isn't tarnished within the pages of the book. Her strength is not undercut by her backstory, and neither is her enigmatic nature over-explained and ruined. The book isn't a who of Phasma, but a why.

Phasma builds to a satisfying conclusion, and perhaps most successfully of all, makes me like the titular character a lot more than before I'd read it. It's clearly a work of love from the author, and it made me eager to see what's next. You could say I'm convinced.

Comic Review: Kid Lobotomy

The birth of a new comic imprint can be a thrilling thing. In a field that tends towards stagnation, new imprints in the past like Vertigo and Helix have produced some of the most surprising cult hits in years. Based out of Los Angeles, Black Crown, a brand new imprint of publisher IDW, promises a line of new books from a variety of creators, exploring a myriad of subjects and introducing a host of new properties.

In Kid Lobotomy, the first title coming from Black Crown, we're introduced to a partnership of old hand and new talent. The pen is held by British writer Peter Milligan, whose notoriety in the comics business can't be overstated. The artwork is the blood and sweat of rising talent Tess Fowler, whose most recent work can be seen on covers across multiple major publishers. 

Milligan has a long reputation as a skillful craftsman of the grotesque and hilarious, from his genre-defining creation X-Statix to long tenures on Hellblazer, Shade the Changing Man and a plethora of others, he's known for pushing the envelope on the norm, and the boundaries of taste. He's on top form in the world of Kid Lobotomy.

It's the story of a young man, Kid, who after a series of twisted events finds himself manager of the city's strangest hotel. Tortured by a past shrouded in macabre music, madness and medical experimentation, Kid finds allies and enemies alike in the denizens of the building known as The Suites.

Part Overlook Hotel, part Mos Eisley Cantina, The Suites are home to a variety of strange and unusual lodgers. The biggest charm of Kid Lobotomy so far is in the very building Kid must discover. He explores the workings of The Suites and just what he's got himself into, and along the way the many inhabitants, not all apparently human and not all even apparently alive, go about their own unique business within the walls of the mysterious building.

The art is sharp and fitting the world we find ourselves ready to explore. Fowler's distinct talent for expressive faces gives equal attention to the cute, the sexy, and the macabre alike, and no two characters look the same. The halls of The Suites are both shadowy and dreamlike, with a wonderfully moody colour scheme that reminded me of The Neon Demon.

There's a world waiting to be discovered here, with Kid's family, staff, and the many lodgers making up the main cast, along with hordes of quirky background characters. There's so many distinct characters lurking in the first issue alone, I look forward to seeing who among them will be fleshed out, what will become of them, and what's really hidden in the shadows of The Suites.

Kid Lobotomy, in all it's twisted, funny, and grotesque glory, comes out on October 18th. 

Review: 'Thrawn' by Timothy Zahn.

The expanded Star Wars universe can be a bit of a roller-coaster to follow at times. From the vast library of books comprising three different continuities, to the trifecta of canons that sometimes, but not always, intersect, it's hard to get a grip on certain characters or the stories they live through.

The enigmatic and mysterious Mitth'raw'nuruodo, better known as Thrawn, is unique among the characters found in the Star Wars universe, as one who has appeared in fiction both before and after the prequel reboot, as well as within the new modern continuity as well. Astoundingly enough, each time written by the same author. This gives a character cohesion unseen anywhere else in the wide-spread Star Wars universe, with Timothy Zahn taking up his flagship character again with a clearly comfortable hand. 

The villainous genius of Grand Admiral Thrawn originally menaced the heroes of the Star Wars story over 20 years ago. With his unrivaled military tactics and analytical mind, he eliminates any and all threats against him systematically, and seemingly effortlessly. He's a cold and calculating character, with a focused mind of conquest and fear, destroying any who would stand against him. 

These elements made Thrawn one of the stand out villains of any Star Wars story, and probably one of the overall best characters to ever come from the entire setting. They make him a looming, ever-present threat, far beyond the match of our heroes in the rebel alliance, and a mind greater than that of the Emperor or Darth Vader combined. 

A great villain is made by these strengths, his unstoppable nature becoming something the heroes must overcome, the 'one in a million' chance to defeat the superior foe. This is the making of a great antagonist. These same elements do not make a quality protagonist, however. 

Thrawn gives us the backstory of the titular Chiss mastermind from the first days of his interaction with the Empire, and chronicles his rise to Grand Admiral rank through his many extraordinary military conquests. We follow Thrawn and his unfortunate and mostly unwilling aide, the young Ensign Eli Vanto, as they venture through Imperial military academy, facing the quiet discrimination directed at the alien among the ranks of human officers, and proving himself step by step as the tactical genius he truly is. 

The story takes on an awfully familiar feel a short while in. Each new situation the duo face is swiftly overcome by Thrawn's brilliance, marveled at by the long-suffering Vanto as he observes his friend and ally with a jealous but admiring eye. Vanto acts as Thrawn's personal aide and translator, his friendly and personable character a much-needed buffer between the socially aloof alien and the rest of the imperial command. It's Holmes and Watson in space. It's enjoyable, and some of Thrawn's schemes and crafty escapes are great fun, but much like the classical detective, it begins to grow tiresome when we realize no one will best him. A hero is built by flaws, and apart from the seemingly irrelevant aspect of his social awkwardness, Thrawn is virtually flawless throughout the story. 

Furthermore, for a story claiming to detail the rise of the greatest military mind in the empire, I felt the events somewhat harm Thrawn's legacy rather than exalt them. Thrawn constantly beats the odds by his genius tactics, and inevitably gets in trouble with the high command. This should be the time to show his skill at manipulation, or give Vanto more time to shine as a character in his own right, but instead each time Thrawn is exempt from punishment due to simple cronyism, Emperor Palpatine having seen something in the Chiss that he admires, and so continually gets him out of of trouble with no repercussions again and again. 

There are new characters aplenty, ranks upon ranks of the imperial navy that will taunt and belittle Thrawn, only to find themselves outranked by him a chapter or two later. What I was personally hoping for was a chance for Thrawn to interact with great classic characters that, due to old timelines, he was never able to cross over with. Grand Moff Tarkin, Vader, and the Emperor himself all make brief (a matter of paragraphs in some cases) appearances, but unfortunately the interactions I hoped for never take place. This seems a wasted opportunity. Not only would it be great to see how the seemingly unflappable Thrawn would face with such notable great minds as Tarkin, or react to the intimidating presence of Darth Vader, but it was a chance to use the newly created canon where these characters are all alive at the same period for the first time to its fullest. 

The exploits of Thrawn and Vanto are fun to follow, and their friendship is one of the more interesting ones that has developed in the setting. I wished there could have been a little more downtime between the two, like what they get up to off the clock. We follow the pair for many years of their careers over the course of the story, and there's definitely a missing element of personal time to the story. What do these two do with their time off? Following Thrawn outside his military command environment, maybe exploring his obsessive love of art, could have been a hell of a lot of fun, but there's precious little moments in the whole story when he isn't outsmarting someone or another, or solving a tactical problem. Oddly enough, with his every-man viewpoint and exasperated character, it's Vanto who shines as the most enjoyable personality in the book.

While Thrawn is a well written book in its own right, it really isn't the great backstory the character probably deserves. If anything, for a military character, the path of his career is a little run of the mill. Throughout the entire book there is a thread of mystery, a clandestine effort hidden within the Empire that only Thrawn seems to notice, yet instead of this building finally to something significant, it fizzles inexplicably to nothing. It seems a lot was built towards with very little final resolution.  

In the end, it boils down to one major element of fiction. Only in rare situations does a great antagonist also make a great protagonist. What works with Darth Vader does not work with Grand Admiral Thrawn. He is a character far better kept to the opposing side of the narrative, with his schemes and genius veiled from the reader. Walking beside him every step of the way removes some of the charm, and the threat, of one of the greatest characters to be found in the Star Wars universe.

Review: 'Serial Killer' by Pat Mills & Kevin O'Neill.

For all the incredible power over fiction that the editor possesses, there's very little fiction in turn actually concerning them. The mind of the comic editor must be an interesting thing, the filter through which all those stories, both brilliant and inane, must travel through before they reach the eager readers in corner shops all over. It's their job to transform work from mere transcripts and proposals into works of literary art, to take out the bad and retool with the good.

But what if an editor, tired of the drudge, of the endless drivel being produced by his company, went bad? What if he went beyond the editors usual pranks of letting slip in a cuss word or a bare nipple, and began to slip in the details for a pipe bomb?

Such is the story of Serial Killer, by Pat Mills and & Kevin O'Neill. Dave Maudling works the long shift on a series of classic British Comics. Dave is a broken man, working a job driving him mad one panel at a time. A man of complex desires, most notably for the endless pursuit of beautiful furs, a lithe Scottish co-worker, and listening to the demands of his dead mother.

But his editing work is poorly supervised, and Dave begins to find opportunities to insert his own viscous element into the pages of the hapless comics he edits. Just how long could it be before he manages to find a way to get readers to off themselves or others? Only one way to find out.

What makes this weird and wild novel all the funnier, is that it is the work of two of England's most respected comic creators.

No stranger to the toils of editing, creator of legendary British comic 2000AD, Pat Mills has a comic career spanning decades. Creating classic characters like the Nemesis the Warlock and Slaine, and to this day penning new work like sexy cult hit Requiem: Vampire Knight.

Kevin O'Neill is perhaps one of the most notorious names in comics art. His instantly recognizable art appeared in many classic 2000AD strips, and his work would also prove to be too graphic for the comic code to handle in an infamous DC comics controversy. O'Neill also brought to life modern seminal classic League of Extraordinary Gentlemen.

People like me grew up in the Golden age of British comics, with Judge Dredd and the rest of 2000AD bringing respect to the field. Pat and Kevin grew up in the hard years, when the only choices you'd find were the endless likes of Buster, Topper, and The Dandy. When they've worked together, Mills and O'Neill have created some of the most memorable works in British comics. A left and a right of one great beast.

Serial Killer is a unique novel, weird and stylish, lit with the blackest of comedy. English readers in particular will love the echoes of the Beano and a dozen other old Brit rags found throughout the story, and the entire novel is peppered with excerpts from the latest stories Dave and his fellow editors are currently working on. These snippets of quirky characters and deliberately terrible period pieces are some of the novels best moments, painfully accurate facsimiles of the kind of crap we all used to read for 10p a week back in the day.

Mills and O'Neill make memorable work in novel form, and it'll be a lot of fun to see what they come up with next.

Serial Killer is available here

Comic Review: All-New Guardians of the Galaxy.

The Guardians of the Galaxy are a team that's close to my heart. A group of space faring adventurers, travelling the galaxy and surfing the fringes of heroism. 

The team have been around, in some form or another, for decades now. The ever changing team a protean lineup of anti-heroes, weirdos, and genuine superheros. Until recently, you never quite knew who you were going to get each time a new issue rolled around. 

With the surprise success of the film adaptation, the lineup has solidified somewhat around five core characters. Drax the Destroyer, Gamora, the most dangerous woman in the Galaxy, stand-out fan favorite duo Rocket and Groot, and their plucky leader Star-Lord. They are all great characters, to be certain. It can't be easy juggling five main characters every issue, even if one of them doesn't exactly have much dialogue. 

Keeping the balance between five protagonists isn't easy, especially in a book with a strong comedic tone. Who's the funny guy? Basically all of them, if you do it right. Giving five heroes fair screen time, and crafting a story on top of it all, isn't an easy job. 

For the last five years, the Guardians of the Galaxy reins have been gripped in the hands of Brian Michael Bendis. 

Now it's very popular to take a shot at Bendis. He's the butt of a lot of jokes for comic fans and creators, but to call him a bad writer just wouldn't be fair. He's created memorable characters, been at the helm of some great stories, and pens more books in a season than many other writers do in years. 

Not every writer is a good fit for every book, however. As a huge fan of the characters found in the Guardians of the Galaxy, his work on it left a lot to be desired. The series added members every few issues, with Captain Marvel, Angela, Eddie Brock, Kitty Pryde, and the ever lovin' blue eyed Thing to name a few. Stories became predictable, verging on repetitive. In the five years past, without going back to look, I can only remember a scant handful of events that transpired within those pages. It lacked a cohesive story, an appropriate villain, and love for the heroes it dealt with. A writer need not introduce brand new members to the team each week when they have yet to flesh out the characters that are on the cover. No one picks up Guardians of the Galaxy and exclaims "Wonder what the Thing is up to this month!"

By the end of Bendis' run. A quote from one of my favorite stage plays often came to mind: 

Generally speaking, things have gone about as far as they can possibly go, when things have gotten about as bad as they can reasonably get.

It was time for a change. 

I was thrilled to hear that the pen was being passed to Gerry Duggan. A younger writer, Duggan is currently best known as the driving force behind turning Deadpool from a Looney Tunes character into a hero with weaknesses, complexities, and sharper comedy than ever before. He delivers characters with real voices.

From the pages of the first issue, there's a lot to love about the All-New Guardians of the Galaxy. 

As our heroes pull off the most over-the-top smash and grab bank robbery in galactic history, we already see development in the characters we know. Drax has been soul searching, maybe finding new ways to do things in life, new mysteries from Gamora's past arise to befuddle her team-mates, and Groot has reverted to his sprig form, a mysterious growth halt afflicting the botanical hero. 

There's an enigmatic antagonist to be found in the form of the Grandmaster, a collector of unique baubles from around the galaxy. Blackmailing the Guardians into obtaining a new acquisition for him, the Grandmaster's plans threaten to sever the professional relationship the Guardians have with a certain other cosmic Collector. 

The artwork from Aaron Kuder is clear, colourful, and kinetic. Most of the Guardians have even undergone a design shift for their new story as well, distancing them a little from their movie counterparts, helping separate them from sometimes overbearing movie personas.  

All-New Guardians of the Galaxy is off to a vibrant start, and I'm eager to see where Duggan takes the characters. There's a whole lot of room for weirdness in that big old space up there. 

All-New Guardians of the Galaxy #1, written by Gerry Duggan with art by Aaron Kuder, is on the shelves today.