9/29/14 - Sugar Skull (Pantheon)

Now son, as you may well know by now, SPYGOD deals with a lot of strange and crazy !@#$.

I've had to handle weird !@#$ing science, more parallel worlds and alternate timelines than you want to !@#$ing know about, spontaneous apotheosis, sideways reincarnation, rogue pantheons, nasty concepts made flesh, angry angels, bad evil Jesii, two-headed space zebras, and super-tenacious mother!@#$ers who want to force me to answer the !@#$ census.

(I even !@#$ing suckerpunched "Bob," once, if you can !@#$ing believe that. !@#$er had it coming.)

And I bet you can guess where I crammed that !@#$ pipe, too.

But none of that !@#$ can even hold a candle to John. 

Who's John? Well, that's a !@#$ good question, son. I never really knew. No one did. He was el hombre invisible, as he liked to !@#$ing say. There but not, here but gone.

A shadow walking, not even worthy of a real name.

See, John was an Operator. A Grey Man. The sort of person who could take time and space and mix them the !@#$ up like the contents of a drink. Past and future, life and death, he could see them for what they were, hold them in his !@#ing hands, cut them up like paper dolls, and put them back together any which way but !@#$ing lose.

And he said he didn't !@#$ing fear death because he'd already seen it from day one. And it was just the punchline to the joke we tell while we live our life.

He also said he could kill us with his !@#$ typewriter, and I believed him.

Now, is that deep or just !@#$ing clever? I got no !@#$ing idea. He was always saying cryptic, circular !@#$ like that. Talking with John was like doing crosswords while being !@#$ed up on mescaline, drunk on white lightning, and running for your @#$ life.

I met him under strange and dangerous as !@#$ circumstances, worked with him a couple dozen times over the years, and maybe earned the right to call him friend. But then he just sort of !@#$ing vanished one time, leaving a grey hole in our lives.

And as far as we could tell, he'd never !@#$ing been there at all...

Spooky? Son, you got no !@#$ing idea. But every so often I remember just what it was like to get all caught up in crazy, bent reality hi-jinx, and I really !@#$ing miss that warbling, grey-suited, hard-drinking !@#$hole with his echoing telephone line of a voice.

Which is probably why I've been loving the !@#$ing !@#$ out of Charles Burns' latest work, which just concluded with Sugar Skull. This series has been one dark headtrip from start to !@#$ing finish (X'ed Out, The Hive, Sugar Skull) and manages to be a tragically broken love story, a time-looped chronicle of a mental breakdown, a travelogue of a truly alien landscape, and a weird homage to William S Burroughs, bad romance comics, and Herge's Tintin at the same time.

Trust me on this, son -- no one is !@#$ing ready for this kind of !@#$.

I mean, !@#$, son -- I read Black Hole and El Borbah, so I thought I knew what I was !@#$ing in for. But this series threw me for a big !@#$ loop, all the same. It reminds me of Grant Morrison's early "Word and Picture Salad" work on such things as Doom Patrol and The Invisibles, except that Charles Burns is twice as !@#$ing hardcore. And it also reminds of me of Daniel Clowes' earlier, pre-Ghost World work, only twice as hard-hitting.

What's going on? Well... *cough*

See, here's the thing. I can't say too much about what happens in Sugar Skull, because then I'd have to !@#$ing kill you. Or you'd !@#$ing kill me for ruining the surprise. And trust me, son, there are some surprises, here.

But let's go over what we know so far. There's a guy named Doug, who fancies himself an artiste, and has clearly been through the mother of all !@#$ing traumatic breakups with another artiste named Sarah -- involving some kind of nasty injury. But Doug is also Johnny 23, who's a weird-!@#$ Tintin stand-in, trapped in a strange and grisly world where he's trying to get with the new Queen of the hive, but not doing too well in that !@#$ing regard, and having to rely on some creepy, malformed dwarf who's clearly scamming his greenhorn !@#$.

Who's dreaming who? That's hard to tell, sometimes. Everything's all !@#$ing jumbled up like one of those creepy plates of eggs the dwarf wants him to pay for. His dead dad shows up both places, and aspects of Sarah's art keeps coming back to !@#$ing bite him in the !@#$ every time he turns around.

Truer words were never !@#$ing spoken. I'll be over here, drinking to forget.

See, it's clear as !@#$ing glass that something happened, beyond the obvious answer of "boy got his !@#$ handed to him." But because Doug's not ready to !@#$ing face it, yet, we're not quite sure what it is. And Doug and Johnny are doing everything possible to tiptoe around that big !@#$ uncomfortable truth, like a drunk who just can't face up to the fact that he drinks to forget what drove him to !@#$ing drink in the first place...

Got all that, son?

Well, this is where we find out what the !@#$ actually happened, in all respects. And it's a credit to Charles Burns' work that, even if you figured out some of what was !@#$ing going on, either right from the get-go in X'ed Out, or after reading The Hive, the ending smacks you upside the !@#$ skull like a punch you just can't duck, and you're flat on the !@#$ floor not long thereafter.

"He saw death, and death was a psycho with a terrifying haircut."

What I can tell you, however, is why I'm giving this installment of the series three big !@#$ thumbs up, SPYGOD style.

1) The Art

Charles Burns' art has always been astonishingly good. Even when it just looked like crazy weird !@#$ for the sake of being crazy weird !@#$, it was amazing crazy weird !@#$ -- well-suited to the crazy weird-as-!@#$ stories he wanted to tell. (Look at El Borbah if you don't !@#$ing believe me.)

Well, as time's gone on, he's gotten even !@#$ing better. His work's more refined, more defined. Tighter, even. And in a story like this, where we're going back and !@#$ing forth between Normalsville and Whatthe!@#$ Town? It makes the sliding and sudden transitions all the more jarring.

"The way... is shut."

But -- and this is a big !@#$ but, here -- this trilogy has revealed just how good color can make his art. Normally, I haven't minded its absence, because he's one of those artists whose stuff looks !@#$ing great in spite of being black and white (and maybe because of it, sometimes -- I can't really imagine Black Hole being as stark and spooky if it was in color). But the use of a pallete in these three books has really opened up a new world for him. Hopefully he sticks with it (where artistically appropriate, of course!)

2) The Story

Like I said before, this is some heavy !@#$. It takes a number of really odd images, thoughts, and occurrences, and re-assembles them together into a new and darkly-amazing form -- creating a surreal blend of events that have been carefully constructed to make you feel utter, soul-crushing dread sneaking the !@#$ up behind you like a crazy-faced, midget bouncer in a doomed leather bar full of !@#$-gobbling mutants that are one bad 80's song away from using your head as a big !@#$ suppository. 

But you know what? None of that would mean a !@#$ if it wasn't for those two words: "carefully constructed." It's clear to me that there was a big !@#$ plan at work, here -- one that took time and expertise to plan, craft, and then execute. He wasn't just winging this !@#$ on a bender while dodging !@#$ty drivers on those crazy, Pennsylvania hills.

No, son. This was Poe at his desk, writing The Raven. This was Alan Moore writing Watchmen. I would love to have been a !@#$ing fly on the wall while he was scribbling notes and demanding booze. I might have !@#$ing learned something. As for the rest of us, we get the end result, and what a long, strange trip it's been.

Because...

3) The Mercilessness

Here's a thing you may not yet !@#$ing know, son. Fate is a !@#$. You can duck and cover, run and hide. But sooner or later you are going to have to !@#$ing pay for what you've done, or at least face up to it. And on that day, there will be no hiding place.

Especially from yourself.

"Every man has inside himself a parasitic being who is acting not at all to his advantage."

Well, this is proof positive, son. You know how all of Burns' works have a sense that your !@#$-ups are going to come back and !@#$ you in the !@#$ with your own !@#$ shoe? This trilogy has it in spades. And when you finally figure out what's going on... well, we already talked about being laid out on the !@#$ floor, didn't we?

But here's the big !@#$ brilliance of this work -- you can't !@#$ing look away. You know the !@#$ is going to hit the fan but you can't duck to save your life, any more than you could get your !@#$ car off the tracks before the train hits. You are trapped in the merciless machinery of a clock you wound up yourself, thanks to what you've done and left undone.

And here you are, smiling like a pipe-smoking !@#$hole as the pendulum swings to take your head off at the neck...

Brilliant stuff, son. It'll make you think. It'll make you drink. And after you've taken a shower or two to wash off the bad feeling, you'll go and read all three volumes again, just to see what you !@#$ing missed the first time around, or to make sure that one girl is who you think she is. And there's no higher complement you can give someone like Charles Burns than that.

Other than maybe buying his !@#$ books.

SPYGOD'S Verdict: Three thumbs up for a haunting and merciless conclusion to a well-crafted story that's been dragging us through all kinds of brutal but beautiful strangeness for the last four years. Sugar Skull both clears up the confusion, punches us in the gut several times, and deftly showcases Charles Burns' ability to present a vision of suburban life as dark and surreal wasteland, where fate and brutality conspire to make certain no sin is left unspoken for. 

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Speaking of which? You may notice that I end these reviews with a call to go get them at your local comic store? There's a reason for that, son.

You see, big box book stores and the like might sell things like Sugar Skull, or any of the other hardcovers or trade paperbacks that high-rolling publishers and mainstream comics producers might !@#$ out on a regular basis. But only your local comic store is going to carry so-called "underground" and truly independent comics magazines.

And that's mostly because they're the only ones willing to realize that just because something's chronically late, perpetually delayed, and subject to weird adventures in publication and distribution, it's not an unreliable POS, but is, in fact, something wonderful and unpredictable, and worthy of carrying when it actually !@#$ing comes in.

So if if hadn't been for things like, say, Raw, which didn't see the light of day in snooty, big box book emporiums, (Or even Little Professor) but rather decorated the shelves of the sorts of places where skeedy, one-eyed men with rats in their beards got into knife-wielding arguments over whether Miracleman was genius or !@#$, and if Robert Crumb actually had sold out or not, Charles Burns would not have gotten his start, and we wouldn't have something like Sugar Skull to !@#$ up our heads.

You're !@#$ing welcome. Now go get some !@#$ comics, son. And tell Crazy Mike at the Broken Unicorn to feed that !@#$ rat before it eats his other ear, too.

9/22/14 - Prisoner of None - Chapter One: The End of Days (Full Court Press)

So let's talk some more about the !@#$ War, son. 

What? Are you rolling your !@#$ eyes at me, son? You think you heard this !@#$ already?

Well, true, I have stuffed your !@#$ ears full from time to time. We've talked about Supernazis and Japanese Holy Warriors, about what !@#$ing happened to us at Camp Rogers and what really happened the night I !@#$ing killed Hitler. All kinds of !@#$.

But let me tell you about Hiroo Onoda -- the scariest, most dedicated !@#$ing Japanese Soldier ever. 

Imagine this, son. It's back during the War, and the Japanese are sending their people all over the !@#$ Pacific to take and hold territory. So in 1944 they take Hiroo straight out of !@#$ing intelligence school, and send his !@#$ to Lubang, in the Philippines. And they tell him to make !@#$ing sure our forces can't !@#$ing take the island.

So Hiroo gets there, and he's got all kinds of big !@#$ plans. Blow up the airfield, trash the pier... !@#$, blow the !@#$ island off the map if he has to. But the Imperial Soldiers already there look at this fresh-faced kid with his !@#$ orders, and tell him to go pound sand. And since they're !@#$ing higher in rank than he is, well, so much for his orders.

And that's life in the !@#$ Japanese Imperial Army, son. It sucks. Wear a hat.

The propaganda pictures always make it seem more fun than it is.

Well, wouldn't you know it, but in early '45 we eventually !@#$ing make it to their little part of the Pacific. And because these people didn't do what Hiroo was ordered to do, our boys just slide on in and start kicking !@#$ from one side of the island to the other. All over in a few days, really, except for Hiroo and a few other soldiers, who he orders to run for the !@#$ing bushes and not look back. 

Now, Hiroo was intelligence -- sworn to never !@#$ing surrender, and ordered not to take his own !@#$ life. So he and his boys hunker the !@#$ down, wait for the enemy to let down their guard, and then engage in guerrilla actions against the locals. Generally just burning crops and !@#$ing !@#$ up, but they also start shooting it out with cops and farmers, and slowly lose their own men over time. 

Until it was just Hiroo, hiding out in the !@#$ bushes and waiting for chances to strike...

Hardcore as nails to the crotch, son.

Now, the story does have a !@#$ing happy ending. Turns out Hiroo had become something of a walking ghost to folks back home. They knew where he was, maybe, but didn't dare go in after him for fear of getting !@#$ing shot. In fact, it took some would-be explorer to get the !@#$ balls to go into the jungle, face him down, and try and convince him the war was over. And even then they had to fly in his !@#$ing former superior officer to get him to do it.

So that's that, son. 1945 to 1974, he kept fighting the War because no one officially told him he didn't have to, anymore. And that is !@#$ing saying something. !@#$, it'd !@#$ing warm the cockles of my heart if I hadn't spent a bunch of years trying to !@#$ing kill people like him. 

But that's war, son. It's fought by people just like you and me. They sign up, put on the uniform, take an oath, and go fight like !@#$ for the places they call their home. And while you might not like their !@#$ countries, their !@#$ty politics, or what they might do with you when they land on your !@#$ing doorstep, the fact remains that they're no more evil to be fighting you than you are to be fighting them. 

(Let's just not let it get out that I actually !@#$ing said all that, okay? I got an image to maintain.)

That's !@#$ing better. I'll take 50 gross. In black and pink.

Now, you might wonder why the !@#$ I've bent your !@#$ ear about Hiroo, and duty, and the fact that, whatever uniforms we wear on the battlefield, it's all red and white underneath? Well, it's because I have just read the first installment of a comic that is, in my !@#$ing opinion, shaping up to probably be one of the best looks at Wartime Superheroes, and what happens after the war, that I've read in quite a while -- worthy of standing alongside things like All-New Invaders and The Twelve. 

Plus, it's got the mother of all soldiers left out of the loop when his own !@#$ side surrendered, which should sound pretty !@#$ing familiar, right about now...

It's called Prisoner of None, and we are told that it is going to be the saga of Fantomudoragon -- a Japanese Superhero from World War II who, after vanishing at the end of a losing battle, comes back 70 years later and has to make his way in a world he can barely recognize, anymore. 

Not that this was really worth !@#$ing fighting for, son.

Note I said "we are told." So far all we've got is Chapter One to go by. But what a !@#$ing amazing chapter it is. 

We start with Victory over Europe. Hitler is finally !@#$ing dead, Liberty's Seven have triumphed, and an end has been put to the conflict in that theater. That just leaves Japan in the Allies' crosshairs, which means its down to the Japanese heroes known as the Emperor's Sword to stop the oncoming invasion. 

It goes down on Okinawa, and it's pretty much an even match for most of the fighting -- heroes pounding heroes as the battle rages around them. But eventually the Allies' superior firepower brings the fight to a standstill, and all the Japanese can do is die, surrender, or retreat. 

Or double the !@#$ down, sword in hand.

But those words are not in Fantomudoragon's !@#$ing vocabulary, son. So he gathers what few Imperial soldiers he can, gets them to regroup in a cave, and joins them to wait for the inevitable counteroffensive... which, as we know, does not !@#$ing come.

Cut to 70 years in the future, when the cave is stumbled upon by boys playing with Frisbees, and an old and bedraggled Fantomudoragon staggers out into the sunlight...

What's next? Well, that's what we've got. Chapter One is done and available both online and as a print from Sellfy, and believe me when I say you should get the print and subscribe to get updates, because if The End of Days is any indication, this is going to go somewhere !@#$ing interesting. 

Why? Well, let me break it the !@#$ down for you, SPYGOD style.

1) The Art

Saying that the art is perfect for the story might seem like a throwaway review comment, but in the case of Prisoner of None I mean it as the complement it is. David Bednarski's work suits the story so well that I couldn't !@#$ing see any other style really meshing with the tale. 

It may appear to be cartoony -- and, yes, it is -- but the clean lines, lack of cross hatching, and use of color for shade make its presentation highly stylized, almost like a propaganda poster done for the Justice League generation. !@#$, you hardly even see any realistic blood and guts, which should be pretty !@#$ unusual for a post-code, independent title that wants to talk about war, right?

Meanwhile, over in Dynamite's "Tankies" ...

Why does that work? Because the other, more heinous aspects of such a conflict -- like disposable soldiers, racism, and the crazy macho !@#$ that happens when grown men and women put on costumes to fight other men and women in costumes -- doesn't have to complete with people getting turned into !@#$ing hamburger by bullets and bombs.  

And that makes that kind of sad and sorry !@#$ stand out all the more, especially when we actually deal with character interaction...

2) The Ensemble

... which, in this case, is top-notch.

One of the harder things to do in any story where there's a whole !@#$ bunch of regular characters running around is to give everyone face time, and make us be able to register them as distinct individuals who have their own story to tell. It's even harder to make them !@#$ing interesting on such a short budget, as all you can really do is dangle enough threads in front of the reader to make them know just enough to want to know more.

So far, author Vito Delsante is pulling that off pretty !@#$ well, and on both sides of the coin. What could otherwise be a supersoldier circlejerk against a bunch of fungible Japanese supervillains is instead a clever introduction to the series. You can tell right from the !@#$ing bat who's a go-getter, a reluctant warrior, a leader, a !@#$hole, a down-to-earth weirdo, a spooky dude, a braggart, and so on.

We're told that, in Chapter Two, more folks are going to be coming along. I can't wait to see what we'll !@#$ing get with them, especially when the comic has more time to develop them.  (But you can get a preview on their facebook page, along with origin stories of the WWII characters)

3) Japanese Wartime Supers

For some weird !@#$ reason, people don't seem to want to present too many World War II Japanese Superheroes. They're more than happy to make Supernazis until the !@#$ing cows come home, play poker, get drunk, and kick over the !@#$ lantern, but the Eastern edge of the Axis gets real short shrift when it comes to costumed warriors for the !@#$ Emperor. 

Why? I have no !@#$ing idea, son. If I had to guess, it's because, after spending most of the war depicting every Japanese soldier as a yellow-skinned, found-faced, buck-toothed, skinny-eyed man in round glasses with bad mustache choices, most writers and artists are !@#$ uncomfortable putting any of them into a spandex outfit and giving them some semblance of a nationalistic name for fear of bringing up old racist tropes, or the like. 

We'll call him "Go The !@#$ to Work Man"

Well, I am very happy to say that Prisoner of None is not incarcerated (*cough* sorry) by that fear, and is !@#$ing happy to show us some Japanese wartime heroes. Better than that, they've given us actual heroes, as opposed to creepy supervillains whose antics are adored only by the fearful, the brainwashed, and enemy soldiers sworn to obey any nasty !@#$ in a flashy costume who's on their side in these things.

Maybe the Japanese is a little off*, and maybe some of the concepts seem a little !@#$ing awry. But they all have a little grain of individuality to them that makes them !@#$ interesting in their own right.

And !@#$ it, son, let's not mince words: these are heroes I can believe in. Men who either stumbled into strange circumstances, or else volunteered for them, and came out the other end ready to give their all for flag, land, and people -- just like Hiroo Onoda, out in the jungles of Lubang.

I was happy to see them there. I'm sorry to see them go. And I hope I'll see more of them, or their descendents, when Chapter Two arrives. 

SPYGOD'S Verdict: Three super-enthusiastic thumbs up for what's promising to be a magnificent look at what happens when warriors leave a war only to come into a peace they can't imagine, in a world they can't recognize. Deceptively cartoonlike art and a keen ability to do an ensemble piece transform what could be just another tale of wartime gods beating on each other into a work that is both compelling and intriguing. 

Prisoner of None - Chapter One: The End of Days - read it online or buy it at Sellfy!

* "Phantom Dragon" should really be Rei Ryu, for example. Maybe they named him that to strike fear into the Emperor's enemies?

9/15/14 - Sex, Vol. 2 - Supercool (Image)

Stop laughing, son. 

No, really. Stop !@#$ing laughing, right the !@#$ now. Don't make me come over there and beat you over the !@#$ head with an unexpurgated copy of the Kama Sutra until your brains splatter all over your lap. 

(They will, too. This think weighs a !@#$ing ton. I use it to prop open my bedroom door.)

Why? Because sex is no laughing matter, son. I firmly encourage my Agents to have full and fulfilling sex lives, even if I have to nudge them towards happiness with a double-barreled shotgun, a few shots of something !@#$ high-proof, and all the god!@#$ hints in the world. Like "Charley in the Vehicle Depot wants to bang you like the world's about to end. Go buy him a !@#$ing drink, you !@#$ moron."

(Just call me the three-fisted Hookup Fairy, son. I've been !@#$ing called worse.)

"No, really. She likes you. Call or I shoot."

But yes, I like sex. I like it a lot. Especially at La Casa Del SPYGOD, where it's going on practically all the time. I !@#$ing thank God on a daily basis that my boyfriend's a !@#$ing cyborg or we'd both be in the hospital by now. And probably being !@#$ing videotaped by those weirdos they have doing after-hours nurse rounds, no doubt.

So when I !@#$ing heard there was a comic based on the sex life of supers? And it was called Sex, just so you had no doubt what the !@#$ was going on? Well, !@#$, son, you know I had to get my hands on that. After all, I figured that, even if it sucked !@#$ing !@#$, it'd at least be an interesting diversion.

Thankfully (and pardon the !@#$ pun) Sex does not !@#$ing suck. In fact, it's one of the better !@#$ mature supers titles I've been reading over the last year -- taking over from such notable, bygone works as The Boys, Ex Machina, and The Authority, and worthy of reading alongside such ongoing concerns as Sex Criminals and Empowered.

At its bare essentials (*cough* sorry), Sex is about Simon Cooke -- billionaire owner of a massively-profitable company -- who also happens to have been a hero called the Armored Saint, quite a few years ago. He got the !@#$ out of the supers racket for various reasons, leaving behind a questionable mentor, an over-eager sidekick, and any number of serious villains who are still out there, causing !@#$. And while he has no !@#$ing interest in getting back into costume, the business he left unfinished in Saturn City still wants to get into his business, if you know what I mean.

Ain't that the !@#$ing truth, son.

(And, yes, as you might guess by the title of the comic, part of his deal is really needing to get !@#$ing laid, good and hard.)

So now we're up to volume two -- Supercool -- in which the plot continues to !@#$ing thick. His former sidekick's making some serious moves to try and fight crime in the city, with or without him, and his former arch-villainess is dealing with problems with her escort service. And his super-smart executive assistant's maybe one or two steps away from finding out his secret, all the while making some of her own...

Meanwhile, down in the villains' lair, the Old Man is getting nasty with his attempts to figure it all out -- leading him to engage in some rather anal methods of getting information from his fellow supercriminals.

And if you think that's bad, imagine what's going on off-panel.

This leaves the poor Prank Addict in a bad way, as you might !@#$ing expect, but this man is clearly never down for the count. And as for those !@#$ Alpha Twins, well, let's just say we find out more about them, and some of it's downright dirty in more ways than one...

What, you expect me to give away all the plot? !@#$ you, son. Read the !@#$ book. !@#$, for that matter, pick it up every month, because this one's a keeper. Let me tell you why, SPYGOD Style. 

1) The Story

As you read Sex, you might get the idea that this is someone's more !@#$ing mature take on a certain other urban vigilante, and that maybe this is what they imagine goes on in a certain other crime-ridden city when the !@#$ lights go down and the costumes come the !@#$ off.

Not that you have to !@#$ing imagine, these days...

Well, you could be forgiven that, because that is how this comes across at times. But the thing is, they make it !@#$ing work. Under Joe Casey's well-considered pen, Sex avoids becoming a simple parody, and acts as both critique of the superhero genre as well as a good superhero story in its own !@#$ right. Even in those issues where it seems like nothing is happening, there's a whole lot of !@#$ going down, and some of the little things you miss early on snowball into some really !@#$ing epic mind!@#$s, further down the road.

(And the tribute to a certain cult movie in this collection is... well, you just have to see it to believe it.)

2) The Art

So if there's a lot of !@#$ing going on, how do they go about showing it off? Pretty !@#$ well, if you ask me.

The interior line art (mostly by Piotr Kowalski) is done in a very realistic manner, without a lot of posing and crazy stylized bull!@#$. This makes it feel very down-to-earth, in spite of its exotic (and, yes, !@#$ing erotic) subject matter, and grounds the series in a world we can believe in, most of the time.

However, that's what makes Sex's use of color so !@#$ interesting. They have a lot of fun with the coloring, here, which adds more than a little expressionism to the mix. I particularly like how they use colors to indicate emphasized words in the text, which may be some kind of code I haven't !@#$ing picked up on, yet, or is just a more interesting way to handle it other than bold.

And speaking of bold...

3) The Sex

Yes, son, there's a lot, and I mean a lot, of !@#$ing going on in this story.

Hot sex, tepid sex. Good sex, bad sex. Lovely sex, punishment sex. Sex for pleasure and reward, sex for pain and revenge. Stumbling in the dark sex, groovy hate !@#$s, deal making sex, deal breaking sex... sex sex sex, !@#$ing !@#$ing !@#$ing, and almost all of it as !@#$ing explicit as you can make it, whether it's beautiful, ugly, kind, or brutal, and whether you feel glad or ashamed for being aroused.

The kids call this "subtle." It doesn't happen often.

And, unlike other stories where they tried to make sex a major part of the plot and, frankly, failed to make it rise (*cough*) beyond mere gratuitousness (Codename: Knockout, I'm looking at you, here),  Sex succeeds in depicting its namesake because it's not mere titillation, nor fan service. As I see it, the nudity, sex, and its various consequences are both action and language -- happening alongside the plot as well as because of it. Call it 'symbolism,' if you want to get all !@#$ing arty on me (and duck being !@#$ing shot for it) but the flesh-on-flesh in this title is what makes it all hold together that much better -- elevating Sex from merely being a !@#$ excellent critique of the genre, and making it just that much more pointed of a work.

And I know you might think someone owes me the mother of all handjobs for that line, son, but it happens to be true. Pick up both trade paperbacks and tell me otherwise -- I !@#$ing dare you.

SPYGOD's Verdict: Three thumbs up for an excellent meditation on lapsed superheroism and its many consequences, coupled with the best extended, non-gratuitous uses of sexual (mis)conduct I've ever read in a superhero comic. Not for the faint of heart, but those who want to see an honest look at what happens when the lights go down in Saturn City should make this a monthly read.

Sex Vol. 2 - Supercool - Get the trade paperback at your local comic store!

9/4/14 - Fury Max: My War Gone By - (Marvel)

Now, son, this may !@#$ing surprise you to no !@#$ing end, but people always tell me that I !@#$ing remind them of Nick Fury.

Sometimes, when folks say that !@#$ to me, I just smile and say that he should !@#$ing remind them of me. But that's only if I'm in a good !@#$ing mood that has not been ruined by supervillain bull!@#$, science terrorist nonsense, and an alien invasion or two.

And, as that kind of !@#$ happens to me all the god!@#$ time, I normally just smile, pistol-whip them a few times, and make them buy me !@#$ing beer until they know !@#$ing better. And sometimes I just kick them in the god!@#$ skull, dump them face-first in the nearest garbage receptacle, and hang a sign around their feet that says "Make Mine Marvel"

It could go either !@#$ing way, son. And you do not want to !@#$ing test me on that.

I mean, of all the !@#$ing nerve! Other than us both being bad!@#$ mother!@#$ers from New York City that fought in World War II, lost an eye along the !@#$ way, became sort-of immortal, run massive super-spy organizations, and like a good stiff drink now and then, can you see a god!@#$ resemblance? Really? 

Really? Well, okay then. But I just don't see it.

However, that's not because I don't !@#$ing like Colonel Nicholas J. Fury. I happen to think very highly of the man. It's just like when people can't !@#$ing tell the difference between Denzel Washington and Samuel L Mother!@#$ing Jackson, you know? It's not like we semi-immortal superspies all look alike or anything.

And speaking of respect, my admiration of the man went up a massive !@#$ing amount after reading what is, in my not so humble opinion, probably the best !@#$ Nick Fury story in !@#$ing years. And that would be Fury Max: My War Gone By, which just dropped in hardcover.

This is not the Nick Fury you remember from the old, seriously over-the-!@#$ing-top Steranko comics, or anything that has descended from that. This is the Nick Fury that showed up in the brutally delicious (and deliciously brutal) Punisher Max series that Garth Ennis did, a few years back -- an old cold warrior, weighed down by years of dark deeds done in secret, and realities too hard for all but the blackest, most resolute of souls to bear. 

Fortunately, he does have some time-honored coping mechanisms.

Fury provides the brilliant capstone to that series, and you almost get the idea that Ennis had a lot more to tell about him? Well, happy !@#$ing Christmas, son -- you got your Kwanzaa goose early, this year. Because Fury is old, run-down, and locked in a hotel room with booze, hookers, a gun, and a tape recorder, and he's wanting to !@#$ing tell all.

What's he going to talk about? Well, I'm not one to ruin the tale, but he starts off with him drinking in a bar in Indochina, just before things get really !@#$ hairy, and we meet the principal players right off the bat. There's a new, fresh-faced kid who's there to take orders from this living legend, a mysterious woman who can hold her own in fighting and conversation (and a few other things besides) and an overly-friendly Congressman who's really wanting to get Fury on board.

Fury's not sure he should trust this guy, or even the dame, and doesn't know what to make of this new kid. But as soon as he goes into the brush, and sees the kind of people the French have to call on to keep the Commies at bay, everything we think we know goes right the !@#$ out the window, and things get hardcore, morally-grey, and brutal as !@#$ really !@#$ quickly.

Of course, he survives that !@#$, and then spends the rest of the story narrating the different stops on his personal Heart of Darkness boatride -- a journey that takes him from Indochina to Central America, Vietnam to Cuba, and other, worse places, all expertly presented by Goran Parlov, who has a genius at how to illustrate this sort of a war epic. Fury meets interesting people and !@#$ing kills them. He makes the wrong friends and the right enemies. And he eventually loses everything that really !@#$ing matters, because he's too wrapped up in the bad !@#$ to know what good smells like, anymore. 

Not this, in case you were !@#$ing wondering.

I'm just going to say it, son. If you don't buy this, you are !@#$ing missing out. Why? Let me break it down for you, SPYGOD style... 

1) The Writing

Three words, son - Garth !@#$ing Ennis. As clear back as Preacher and his definitive run on Hellblazer, he's been itching to tell you war stories -- to expose the surrealism, horror, and common nobility that ensues when two or more nations send their people out to kill one another. And if you've been reading his "Battlefields" work over at Dynamite, you know what a !@#$ amazing job he does of it when he doesn't have to sneak it in. He deftly captures the blood, mud, and carnage of battle, and the heart and soul of the fighting man and woman.

(And how about his take on the Unknown Soldier? That work should be handed off to every snot-nosed Ivy League punk who wants to go work for the other Company {as opposed to my COMPANY}. It'll blow some minds, that's for !@#$ing sure.)

Well, Garth comes through in this work -- big time. This is a !@#$ epic story, right here, filled with love, loss, sex, death, betrayal, loyalty, and the horrible understanding that comes when you realize you have done the wrong things for what you thought were the right reasons, and hitched your horse to the wrong !@#$ wagon, but are now too far down the !@#$ing wrong road to ever turn back now. It's like being kicked in the face, over and over, but you can't not read it, because you know if you do you're going to miss one hell of a story. Which brings us to...

2) The Realpolitik

One of the harsh realities of life after the War was that everything we thought we knew was quickly proven wrong. Our wartime allies were now our enemies, and actively working against us, and we couldn't just drive into Moscow and take them the !@#$ over because they'd nuke us in return. So from there on out, we'd have to fight shadow battles around the world to keep it from turning red, and some of the people we'd have to rely on to "help" were incompetent, savage, criminal, or possibly even worse than the !@#$ing commies, themselves.

Fury has a great line in this book. He repeats it twice. I won't say what it is, but you'll !@#$ing know it when you see it. And I agree 100%.

And that leaves us with... 

3) The Man

There is no SHIELD as you know it, here, in the MAX Universe. No countess, no Captain America, no protective circle of top agents and near-endless supply of disposable grunts with jetpacks, rayguns, flying cars, and bull!@#$ like that. There's just a rank, a trusted subordinate, a mission, and a gun to do it with. And when you take all that !@#$ away from him, there's just a man that's seen and done too much !@#$ to square with his conscience, and the story he has to tell will probably shake you like a bag of chicken.

But that's the story, son. He gets dumped into the !@#$, time after time, and all he can call on are his wits, his fists, and his willingness to do anything to get through another day, or at least see the mission done. This is hard as nails !@#$, son: when he lives, you breathe a sigh of relief; when he wins, you cheer; and when he loses, as he so often does in the really important things, you feel like someone pulled out your heart and !@#$ in your chest.

A lot of guys have written Fury over the years. They've made him tough, they've made him sensible, they've made him comedic relief from time to time, and sometimes he's even a hero. This is one of the few times they've made him a man, and one worth !@#$ing knowing at that.

SPYGOD'S Verdict: Three thumbs up for a brutally honest look at the Cold War, and the terrible things we've had to do to survive it, all presented by a character who's rarely been this honestly-written. Garth Ennis has delivered a brilliant story, here -- one that will hopefully inform those who write Fury from here on out.

Fury Max: My War Gone By - Get the hardcover at your local comic store!