Pandemonium: Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Endless, Nameless


by: Mark Anthony Pritchard (aka Rorshach)


I write these words by the light of a single candle, struggling for the answers that will not come. In this world of confusion, the only thing that is concrete and clear is the black animalistic terror that clouds the night sky outside, a threat too awful and real, to be denied.

It is late evening on my first day, after I awoke here, and I have no memory of my previous life, at all, if such a life did indeed exist. Am I insane, or does my mind instinctively protect itself from a truth that I will not be able to take?

After witnessing the events described in Part 1 of this journal, I followed the barked orders of the fearless young girl, and lagged behind her rapid step as she led me away from the alley, and the filth encrusted safety of my place of concealment.

The girl was not alone, and did not slow her pace for me, as she sprinted away, joining a group of refugees who were rapidly accelerating from the recently vacated tall and foreboding building where I had so-recently awoken in confused terror. I struggled to keep up, barefoot as I was, as the crowd passed me by, and watched in panic as they began to board a large articulated vehicle that was parked at the side of the road.

I wasn't going to make it. I was too slow. My body was locking up again, and the vehicle was going to speed away, and leave me here, in the slime encrusted streets, defenceless against the strange beasts that patrolled the night.

I was wrong, as panic accelerated my step, my frozen limbs kicked into gear, and I flew past the crowd, into the waiting vehicle, as it’s engine roared into life, and it sped away into the cold night’s streets, leaving dozens of desperate faces behind, to fend for themselves.

I had made it. I was safe, for a while.

Struggling to keep my balance in the uncomfortable, cramped quarters of the steel-floored vehicle, as it sped through the dark silent night, I looked from person to person, and what did I see?

Reflected in terrified faces, eyes avoiding contact with the people around them, focussed on the metal floor, wide open in horrified recognition that the nightmare was real, I saw fear, and the awful truth about myself, and the situation that I had found myself in.

There I was amidst the horror, confusion, vulnerability and fear of a shipwrecked people, battered remains of torn humanity, slowly drowning, in a deep pool of shark-infested brutal, horrific inevitable demise.

There was no comradeship there, no bond of familiar or tribal loyalty, just helpless individuals in a horror show of predator and prey, treading water, with the mute understanding that the jaws of death could drag them down, at any moment, into the depths of the black abyss, forever.

But I survived, and now, by candle light, I record events, surrounded by my fellow survivors, in another building, dark, cold and foreboding as before, and my memory returns to the brief interactions that I have had, in this quiet world of terror and confusion.

Seated on the hard floor of the canvas covered vehicle, shivering with cold, my feet bloodied and sore, I began to study the blank faces alongside me, searching for the blonde hair of the young girl who had bade me to follow. At first I did not see her. The people blending into each-other, crouched in shivering balls of cold fear, their bodies covered in dirty brown clothes and blankets, attempting to retain their rapidly diminishing body heat as the chill night air throttled through the vehicle as a whip to the rear of a broken beast of burden.

How to detect a ray of hope in a sea of brown misery? The thought splintered through my mind as I failed to detect her, then suddenly, there she was, in the middle of a row of filthy and unkempt people, a mixture of old and young, men and woman, of different ethnic types, most speaking in tongues that I did not understand. Her hair was covered in a grey hooded top, protection against the ruthlessly cold night’s air, but one stray blonde lock dangled down, a smile of colour in a sea of brown and grey.

Apologising for my rudeness, not that any complaints were forthcoming, I haphazardly forced myself through the packed carriage, eventually muscling into a space alongside the girl herself.

‘Thank you for warning me out there,’ I said, as way of introduction, and her fierce eyes starred directly into my own, in a look far closer to irritation than friendship or concern.

Waiting for an answer, that did not come, her aggressive glare returned to the floor, and she tucked her blonde hair back into the hood that was now wrapped tightly around her head, and obscuring most of her face.

I pressed again for a small titbit of information.

‘What is your name?’ I asked, the answer to which came in the form of look of extreme astonishment, and a tremendous bout of laughter, a reaction that confused me, for what was so amusing about asking for a name?

A response to my look of confusion came immediately, but not from the girl herself, instead from a haggard looking old man alongside her, having heard my question, he could not help but to interject his own words of mockery.

‘Don’t ask stupid questions,’ he said, a look of incredulity writ large upon his heavily lined face, ‘a man your age should know better than that.’

Leaning back, his head rebounding against the soft canvas cover, he began to chuckle softy to himself, and as I struggled for something to say, a sharp dig in my ribs diverted my attention, again, to the young girl beside me.

‘You’ll get used to things around here,’ sighed the girl herself, finally speaking, and there was a resignation in her voice, sad to hear from somebody so young, ‘if you survive, of course,’ she continued, ‘and nobody survives for very long.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I stupidly replied, feeling instant embarrassment at my verbal ineptitude as the confusion in my mind intensified to a fever pitch of incomprehensible panic.

‘Of course you don’t understand, none of us do,’ she replied, her voice lowering now as a sense of deep melancholic resignation set in.

‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist about it mister,’ she continued, looking up at me again, revealing sorrowful brown eyes of long-suffering truth, though there was a return of the previous defiance in her tone that I was happy to hear.

‘They chase, we run,’ she said, ‘what else is there that you need to know?’

Hearing these harsh words of hopelessness caused some kind of metaphysical breakdown in my soul, and I sat back in horror, understanding at once that what she had said was true, horribly, horribly true.

Hours passed by in silence, and the vehicle thundered through the streets, to eventually stop, and deposit me here, in a decrepit old city house, where I sit, surrounded by my fellow survivors.

I record these experiences now, with a thick stub of a pencil, and on a voluminous notepad that I found stashed away in this new hiding place, and I still do not know the name of the young girl who bade me to follow her here.

I asked her again, later on, as we settled into this house, and she replied with a question that finally gave me the answer that I required, even if the answer itself was as terrible as not knowing at all.

‘Tell me your name first, and I will tell you mine,’ she said, a knowing look of strange sadness writ large upon her small child’s face, as she established her claim on a tattered sofa, where she will sleep for the night.

Struggling to recollect a name that did not come, realisation dawned, and harsh reality numbed me into a somnambulist epiphany that was there all-along.

I did not know my own name.

There are no names, not here, and thus ended our conversation, terminated on the terrifying fact that here I am, a nameless mass of flesh, hiding in the night, from black lumbering beasts, moving from building to building, hopelessly lost and confused.

Now, as I recline on a wet mattress, in this broken windowed, wind swept, decaying old building, struggling to find a soft space free from damp, I finish this journal entry, and hope for sleep to take me away to a better world.

Will the beasts find me here? Will I be awoken again and told to run? I do not know, but I do know this. Somebody has to do something, as words alone will not change a thing, and if solutions to do not present themselves to me, I shall find them, for myself.

Yes, I am nameless, confused and afraid, but in this dying candle’s flame I am reminded of something old, eternal, and thus new.

There is the faint light of warmth here, and it speaks of life and hope, and when I awake tomorrow, I know exactly what to do. I will not surrender, and I will not live like the shipwrecked survivors around me.

To run, and hide, waiting for the inevitably of death, that is not life, and though I do not even know my own name, I know these facts for sure.

I will not surrender, and I will not run. Tomorrow morning, whoever I am, wherever I am, the resistance against the monsters outside, will officially begin.



Chapter Three: Out next week. 

Pandemonium

Part 1- Whisper in the Darkness 

by Mark Anthony Pritchard (aka Rorshach)



I woke with orders screamed into my ears, ‘Get out, get out, get out,’ and before I knew what to do, where I was, or who I was, I obeyed.

Terror makes you do that, follow orders, blindly, unthinkingly, as the genetic instinct to preserve body, heaven let us not speak of the soul, kicks in, and we the animal, care only, for the moment, and the potential for pain, or worse, to come.

Cold and naked, I scrambled for my clothes, found them on the dark floor, put them on, haphazardly, my jeans loose without a belt, and my T-shirt inside out, shoeless, adrenaline crazed I cared for nothing but escape.

I saw a light, and that was my destination, helped along by the screamed cries that beckoned me to follow, already distant as they rushed ahead to save themselves, but from what?

I was shortly about to find out.

A drumbeat of terror enveloped the room in further alarm, as screams of the unfortunate cried for mercy, their location the floor below my own, and I ran, finding myself heading towards an open window, a fire-escape, with steel steps leading to the rain-soaked pavements on the ground below.

Searching for that initial voice of warning, hoping for recognition, a friend, anybody, I found nothing but scurrying human forms, wet hair, panic, the people half-naked, like myself, falling over themselves in a desperate bid to escape.

A lady in front of me, aged and weak, crumpled to the floor, and, to my eternal shame, I did nothing to help, but stepped over her prone form, throwing myself down the rusty steps, and the haven of potential safety below.

Hitting the wet pavement bare feet bleeding and sore, guilt kicked-in, and I paused, for a second, and turned back, thinking of the fallen lady, only to witness a vision of the horror that we were escaping from, and as self-preservation returned, I turned again, and shamefully, ran.

I did not get very far.

Inexplicably, my legs began to fail me, and the paralysis of fear was fast shutting me down. Freezing up, I searched for a place to hide, quickly, and found one, fifty yards from the building, behind a dumpster spewing a stench of rotting meat, a vantage point where I will shiver in fear, and watch as events unfold.

From behind my rank hiding place I see the squat dark shadows of our pursuers emerge from the building, and feel a sense of almighty relief when instead of descending the metal steps to pursue us further on the ground below, they remain, stationary, on top.

From the high vantage point of the fire escape stairs, their yellow eyes briefly scan the darkness below, piercing white beams from soul-less orbs lighting up the murky streets below, but they miss me, their scan being merely perfunctory, and they turn their attention to their captured, elderly prey.

Shivering in the wet gloom, the cold rain splattering painfully through my barely dressed form, confused by remnants of sleep that have morphed into a world of horror that is all too real, my attention is immediately fixated upon the nature of the creatures themselves.

There is a simian aspect to their forms, standing as they do, on two legs, their bulky torsos leaning forward, with unnaturally long arms that almost touch the ground, muscular appendixes that seem designed for pursuit on all-fours, at tremendous speeds that are beyond human capacity.

In colour they were black, unclothed, as the beasts that they are, and as the rain fell on their broad shoulders and backs, the moonlight revealed a fur-like texture, almost a coat, but patch-bare, like a moulting animal suffering from a terminal disease.

Two of them were on the floor, securing their elderly prey, one at her neck, the other at her feet, holding not to kill, but to control. They appeared to be waiting, and I could heard strange grunted conversation emanating from the four creatures that circled around their grounded companions, discussing something perhaps, but in a form of language that was unrecognisable from anything that I have ever heard before.

As the horrifying pursuit lulled into a temporary lull, a flash of lightning crashed through the dark night sky, and for one horrifying moment I saw the facial features of one of the creatures clearly, the horror enough to drive a sane man into unrecoverable madness.

How to describe such figures of inhuman cruelty? How to convey the monstrous aspects of the form that I was witness to? How to describe what surely cannot be described?

Heaven preserve my sanity as I try to reconstruct, in mere words alone, the grotesque horror that was revealed to me by that strike from the heavens.

The face, that appeared black as night in the shadows, was as pale as death in the light of electric revelation. Hairless on top, bulbous of frontal lobe, the eyes were set cruelly deep, black orbs with pins of fiery damnation burning with a hell-fire intensity of nihilism realised. The mouth was too big for the face, stretching from stubbed ear to stubbed ear, a wicked joker grin of malicious intent, lined with jagged fangs, teeth designed to rip and tear. The nose was that of a tracker, large, drooping downwards, designed to sniff, hunt down, and capture the scent of it’s prey. But as demonic as the face indeed was, there was something all-too recognisably human about it as well. Perched atop the body of a simian monster, with eyes and mouth of intense cruelty, it was the smirk on the face that scared me the most, as it was a scarred reminder that the most sinister and evil creature in existence, is, often-times, as history shows, humanity itself.

Swallowing down the urgent need to vomit, I steadied my nerves, and struggled to regain my composure in the wet filth of waste, the stench becoming a background inconvenience as the horror before me continued to unfold.

My initial theory, that the monsters, for monsters they most certainly were, had paused for the arrival of a higher authority, was confirmed in an instant. Another figure, with a body like the rest, only larger, emerged from the shadows of the building, barked what had to be orders at the standing members of the group, and approached the grounded figure of the elderly lady, still held securely in place by two of the creatures.

Releasing their grip on the lady, the two creatures nodded in supplication to their commander, and returned to the building, leaving just two forms at the top of the fire-exit, the largest monster of them all, and an elderly human who I could now hear was gently sobbing in fear.

Seeing just the two of them there, something akin to my old courage began to manifest, and I felt anger rising within me, and the urge to rush back up the metal steps, and engage the creature in hand to hand, mortal combat.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ whispered a voice from behind me, anticipating my desire to intervene, and I turned to see the face of a child, a young girl of no more than ten-years of age, blonde of hair, and inexplicably fierce of attitude and demeanour.

Her lack of fear instantly confused me, and I was about to question her when a terrible scream erupted from atop the fire escape. Turning back, expecting to see the bloody demise of a human being that I had stepped over just minutes before, I instead was witness to a bizarrely supernatural spectacle that was too unreal to be real.

Electricity concentrated in a circular form around the elderly lady, and she floated high in the air, twenty yards above the kneeling figure of the monstrous creature, on it’s knees now, it’s long arms raised high in what appeared to a religiously inspired supplication to a power greater than itself.

In a language of guttural moans, screams and impishly malign evil incantations, the creature offered up the suspended human sacrifice, with a voice that rose and rose and rose, until finally, an answer for what must have been cries for recognition, arrived.

Invisible evil screeched through the black, rain drenched night sky, creating a white noise din of terror that knocked me back from the safety of my observation post. The impact upon the suspended lady was as a hammer on a fly, terminating the electric charge that surrounded her, as all trace of the lady herself disappeared into the ether of the night.

Stillness hit the cold air, as some unspeakable deed had been completed. The monster at the top of the steps paused, roared a deep sigh of self-satisfaction, and re-entered the building.

Paralysed by fear, my body fast shutting down in frozen disbelief, I felt a small hand on my shoulder, and turned to see the face, once again, of a fearless young girl.

‘Come on mister,’ she snapped, a chord of irritation in her tone, ‘Sort yourself out mate, it’s time to go.’

Pandemonium is an ongoing series. Part Two will be released next week. If you enjoyed the story, please share on social media. Thank you.

Comic review: Alan Moore’s Providence #3- A black, fishy comedy that mocks Christianity

Writer: Alan Moore
Artist: Jacen Burrows
Publisher: Avatar Press
Released: 12 August 2015



I’ve read this book more than a few times now, and have been afraid of reviewing it. The reason being, it’s complex, and a review wouldn’t be easy, and I don’t want to mess it up. However, I’ve read it again today, and can see a slither of meaning amongst the murkiness, and so, I’m ready to give it a go.

Fishy men collecting souls in bottles.

Okay then, so what’s it all about? I think that the following quotation (from the book itself) nicely sums it all up:

‘It’s leaking from the future.’

That’s how I see the book now. That’s why in issue #3 there are weird, disjointed dream sequences, giving hints that are confused (as all dreams are) with events that are currently happening in the life of the main protagonist.

Our man is dreaming of the future, but it’s mixed up with his every day anxieties, his feelings of guilt, and his longings for answers in the present. We are seeing the world through his eyes (as is reinforced by the diary extracts that follow the main comic book narrative) and the confusion that he is experiencing is being transferred into the reading experience of the reader.

The dream sequences (of the main protagonist) are explored in great detail during the diary sections of the book and expand the narrative after the main illustrated part of the book concludes. Within this diary section are clues for the reader, clues that hint at both what is happening, and what is to come. It’s a fascinating story-telling device, and something that adds so much to the comic book reading experience, adding subtle elements, and details that would otherwise have been lost within the necessarily truncated comic book story format.

After reading the main comic book text, and the diary extracts, I cannot help but conclude that our protagonist is a bit of a dim detective. He is preoccupied with homosexual urges that distract him from the clues that can be picked up by the attentive reader, and although he records everything, he is not exactly coming to any big conclusions for himself. I guess that’s our job. Our protagonist records the evidence, and it’s up to us to unravel and make meaning of it all.

Into the caverns of the mind.

Providence is an occult mystery narrative that is dropping clues as it goes along. It’s a complex, involving book, and that’s exactly what you want in a genre book of this type.

The protagonist has to be a bit dim, as he’s laying out the clues, not solving them. The enjoyment to be had here is in following the story, and speculating about what is going on, whilst always being a bit in the dark as the full picture has yet to be revealed.

As for the deeper meanings that lay behind the narrative, that’s even murkier, but at the moment I detect a black comedy that involves jews, fish people, and homosexuals. It’s hinted that all three groups are about to be persecuted by the upcoming Nazi regime, with the black comedy being that two of the group are real, and were persecuted, whilst the other is pure Alan Moore weirdness.

The main focus of Providence #3 is the aforementioned fish people. These half-human, half fish follow a religion that’s part Christianity, and part worship of an ancient Mesopotamian fish God called Oannes.

‘Oannes, in Mesopotamian mythology, an amphibious being who taught mankind wisdom. Oannes, as described by the Babylonian priest Berosus, had the form of a fish but with the head of a man under his fish’s head and under his fish’s tail the feet of a man. In the daytime he came up to the seashore of the Persian Gulf and instructed mankind in writing, the arts, and the sciences. Oannes was probably the emissary of Ea, god of the freshwater deep and of wisdom.’
http://www.britannica.com/topic/Oannes

The fictional fish religion in Providence substitutes Oannes into the role of Christ himself, and is thus blackly blasphemous, disrespectful and contemptuous of Jesus Christ and Christianity as a whole.

Dream sequences include gratuitous nudity, be warned. 

What writer Alan Moore is doing here is insinuating that Christianity itself is a mixed up religion that has taken weird elements from earlier cult worship, creating a new cult that is equally as ridiculous as what came before it.

To further reinforce this point, the book concludes with the ‘Church of St. Jude’s Parish Newsletter.’ This is a comedic, absurdist attack on the origins of Christianity, mocking Jesus by making him a fish on a slab, resurrected and thus followed by all fish that have come after him as the one true messiah of all fish.

‘And they said, let us thake him out and hang him upon hooks that he may cure. Yet many tides did not pass before he was risen from his slab and was descended unto Heaven, through black abysses to dwell amidst wonder and glory for ever.’ (The Parish Church of Saint Jude, 138 Bridge Street, Salem, Mass. June- August, 1919)

Pretty silly, isn’t it? Christians are often mocked for taking allegorical Bible stories literally, but this really is taking things to a whole new level.

I have to point out that Alan Moore is picking very low hanging fruit here in mocking the origins of Christianity. It’s something that is allowed, and even encouraged, so I’m not going to applaud him for doing it. If he was mocking Judaism or Islam then I’d applaud him, but he’s not doing that, probably because doing so would be truly controversial, and dangerous.

Alan Moore is not being brave, or outrageous, or scandalous, or cutting edge in mocking the origins of Christianity and talking about a weird fish cult, insinuating that Christianity itself is pretty much the same thing. Sorry, he’s just not. He’s doing what you are allowed to do in our neo-liberal, atheist times, but he’s doing it very well, and Providence is noticeably superior to 99% of the other comic books that I read on a weekly basis.

Providence #3 then is a studious, intelligent, dark occult comic book, but it’s also, very much nestled within the centrally planned social consensus norms and mores of our neo-liberal, cultural Marxist times. Get it, enjoy it, have a laugh with it, but please, recognise it for what it actually is.


Rating: 9/10 (Blackly comic tale that is mocking the origins of Christianity)



Note:
I do realise that Providence is packed with references to H.P Lovecraft and that this book is more than likely a progressive/liberal critique of the identity politics issues within his work. I recognise that, but as I’m not particularly familiar with the PC thought crimes committed by H.P Lovecraft I’ve reviewed this new book by Alan Moore as a stand-alone text. 

Comic review: Reanimator #4- A gloriously daft ending to a thoroughly enjoyable series

Writer: Keith Davidsen
Artist: Randy Valiente
Publisher: Dynamite Entertainment
Released: 15th July 2015



It’s Friday, the end of my comic book reviewing week, and it’s been heavy. All week long I’ve been talking about politics, order following, statism and officially sanctioned corporate evil.

Godzilla in Hell #1 was fun, but check out my review, somehow along the way I get wrapped up in life again and go on a big rant about quiet acquiescence to real world evil. And if you think that’s an over the top, self-righteous rant, check out my review of this week’s 2000AD.

Wow, I really go overboard on that one.

I guess I’m just a crazy loon who can’t help himself. I read a book, sit down to review it, and off I go, on a wild reality tangent, coming across like a crazy (or should that be ‘manic’) street preacher.

‘Reanimator’ allowed me to take a break from all of that. I read it, enjoyed it, and that’s that. Here is a book about reanimated corpses, voodoo, swamps, monsters, magic and mayhem, and it’s all very, very daft.

I've enjoyed this series because it’s being deliberately silly, and it’s not trying to do anything other than that. There’s no forced, ironic cleverness to the dialogue. The characters talk to move the story forward, explain the silliness, and to make sure that there is no confusion going on. I like the fact that writer Keith Davidsen is making sure that nobody is confused. It’s not patronising, it’s reader friendly, and I really appreciate it.

Too many books today try to be subtle, and all they end up doing is confusing me. The worst kind of comic book is the book that you read, put down, and think, ‘What the Hell was all that about then?’ Give me something simple, and silly, and I’m fine with it. That’s probably why I enjoyed Godzilla in Hell #1 so much as well.

I’m not that hard to please. All I want is a bit of fun, a bit of silliness, and an occasional good book that deals with important issues, a book that has broken free from the mainstream education promoted ideology of Cultural Marxism that is sweeping through, and destroying, mainstream comic books in 2015.

Reanimator isn’t going to go down in history as a revolutionary, paradigm shifting comic book, but that’s okay, because it’s not trying to force any ideology down your throat.

I read it as four issues of forget the world, kick off your working boots, sit down, relax, and enjoy the fun. I’ve enjoyed the arc, not because it was saying anything, but because it wasn’t saying anything.

The lack of agenda or ideology allowed me to relax, to laugh and to enjoy the book for the silly, escapist bit of fun that it was supposed to be. The ride is over now, and there’s a gap in my diary for silly, throwaway, escapist, daft fun. I’m going to miss this book. Fun and comic books don’t always go hand in hand today.



Rating: 8/10 (I was hoping for a delightfully silly final panel to wrap up the story, and that’s exactly what I got here. Leave me smiling and I’m a happy comic book reader)

Blitz review: Reanimator #3- Old School Horror Comic fun-time

Writer: Keith Davidsen
Artist: Randy Valiente
Cover B artists: Andrew Mangum & Kyle Ritter
Publisher: Dynamite Entertainment
Released: 10th June 2010


I love this wonderfully deranged comic about a loony tune mad scientist, drug gangs, a cult of Cthulhu fanatics and a hot babe who has found herself mixed up in all of the craziness.

I shouldn’t like it so much, but I do, it’s my break from reality, and it’s the perfect counterbalance to my day to day research and writings about neo-liberalism and what can loosely be termed the ‘New World Order.’

My issue #3 had the B cover, the one at the top of this review, and I knew that it was fun time again before I'd even read the book. That cover is so deliciously corny, look at that tight T-shirt slowly lifting, tightening at the bosoms, and revealing some belly. It’s old-fashioned ridiculous sexist, objectifying the female form, and I have to say that I’m a huge fan of it.

Inside the actual book is a narrative that should be convoluted, but really isn’t, due to the precise way that it’s structured as an instantly readable reader-friendly fun comic book. Not all comic books are like this. Some just tell their tale, and if the reader gets lost half way, then tough luck.

Writer Keith Davidsen is a bit friendlier than that. He takes his time, explains what is going on, asks if you have any questions, then moves on to the next part of the story. That accessibility makes the book a joy to read you can just sit back, sip your cuppa, and enjoy, enjoy, enjoy.

If you are a fan of old school horror comics, or anything to do with a certain H.P. Lovecraft, then ‘Reanimator’ is something that you’ll get a huge kick out of. It always makes me smile, it entertains me, it stops me from being so damn serious all of the time, it’s great silly stuff, and man, that cover just made my day.

Rating: 8/10 (Reader friendly horror comic fun) 

Comic Review: Reanimator #2- Busy, Silly & Fun

Writer: Keith Davidsen
Artist: Randy Valiente
Cover A: Francesco Francavilla
Cover B (Above): Andrew Mangum & Kyle Ritter

Publisher: Dynamite Comics

Released: 13th May 2015


Sometimes I need a break from all of the thinking, the endless drumming beat of neoliberalism that fascinates, but tires me out so much. I can’t spend all of my day obsessing over that stuff, it would drive me insane, and I’d be a gibbering wreck by the end of the week.

So, please forgive me here. I need to review a book about zombie girls in bikini’s and reanimated corpses, and Lovecraftian cults and swamp fighting and a mad scientist. A book that is set in a nowhere time, and isn’t really saying anything other than put your brain on sleep mode, forget your worries and let us take you on a daftly horrorific funfair ride.

Reanimator #2 is about a bored girl. She’s still grieving for her recently deceased boyfriend, and has an insatiable need for some adrenaline, for some excitement in her life, just to make here feel...something.

So, how to break that interminable boredom, the awful, belly aching pang of ennui that leaves you feeling empty and devoid of all hope?

How about a hoverboat ride through the everglades with a mad scientist doing mad scientist stuff, followed by a tussle with a zombie girl, a bracing swim in the alligator infested swamp, a meet and greet with a slightly silly cult leader, and a surprise twist to the end of the day that you’ll never, ever forget?

That all sounds pretty exciting to me, and although she might end up feeling a tad traumatised by the whole experience at least she can’t complain about feeling bored anymore.

The book has slightly wonky art, it’s a bit messy, but the story is a grand silly adventure and things are always happening, so you are never bored and the fast pace ensures that you are always looking forward to seeing what is going to happen next.

There’s a huge revelation at the end of this issue, so hopefully it hasn’t peaked too soon, but as a short boredom busting rest-stop between my more serious hard hitting political type books then Reanimator #2 was the perfect pit-stop.

The book gave me a fun ten minutes break, and now I’m back, re-energised and ready to get straight back into all of the serious, yet daunting, new world order, neoliberalism, statism, slavery, barking mad monkey at midnight banana curry insanity political nonsense. Thanks for the break lads. I needed it.


Rating: 7/10 (Busy, silly and fun)

Comic Review: Reanimator #1- So much more than just another awesome Francavilla B Cover

Writer: Keith Davidsen
Artist: Randy Valiente
Cover B: Francesco Francavilla
Publisher: Dynamite Comics
Released: 8th April 2015


I’ve just read a comic book that I really enjoyed, and I want to say some nice things about it and thank everybody involved, so here goes:

I only bought Reanimator #1 because of the typically awesome Francavilla front cover. I read the preview and it didn’t appeal, but when I saw that cover in my comic book store I decided to take a chance on the book. After all, if it turned out to be terrible then at least I’d have a great looking cover for my money.

So what’s the book all about? That’s the problem really. It sounds pretty formulaic on the surface. It’s about a Dr. Frankenstein type, and it has elements of magic and Lovecraftian horror mythology in it as well. The main protagonist is a girl, a scientist, and she’s pretty.

See what I mean?

Sounds unoriginal and uninspired doesn’t it? The strange thing however is that the book is actually a lot of fun and offers a lot more than you might think. The Dr. Frankenstein character is odd, but oddly likeable as well. The magic and Lovecraftian thematic meat of the narrative is interesting because it’s mixed in with elements of contemporary science, new-age ideas and street/thug life. Plus the girl protagonist is believably human and nowhere near as generic or annoying as your usual strong independent female warrior comic book type in 2015. She’s unfulfilled, bored, middle class and stuck in a safe career rut. She is doing daft things and taking unnecessary risks just to inject some much needed drama and sense of danger into the empty routine and meaning free existence in which she has found herself living in.

I read her and I can believe that she exists because she is bored, she has flaws, and she is lonely. In other words, she comes across like a real life flesh and blood human being, and reading that type of character in a comic book is something that really stands out. It shouldn’t. Fictional characters should always feel at least somewhat real, but the fact of the matter is that they don’t, so when you read one that is well written and believable she stands out like a (depressingly rare) truth told on a mainstream television ‘programme.’

The narrative flow of the book is fast, eventful, and fun, and features a final page reveal that makes a lot of sense, bridging the gap between contrivance for the sake of drama and creating a believable scenario that connects the main two protagonists. Did that make sense? Probably not. What I am trying to say is that the writing is good, very good.

The art (which I often neglect to talk about in my reviews) is easy on the eye, and that’s not just a cliché that I’m throwing in here because I don’t know what else to say about it. It’s clear, precise, uncluttered, and easy to follow and exists as good art should exist in a comic book, acting as the perfect companion to an interesting story, servicing that story rather than distracting from it.

Hopefully I’ve convinced everybody reading this review that Reanimator #1 is a comic book that is worth taking a chance on. It’s more than just the awesome Cover B from Francesco Francavilla. That cover is an excellent starter, but the main course of the book itself is just as delicious as well, and I’m happy to recommend it here on my occasionally daft, occasionally pompous, occasionally preachy, occasionally po-faced and serious, but always honest blog.


Rating: 8/10 (A fun filled horror comic book)