I have decided that when I die, I want someone at Marvel to write my obituary. Because that will mean that I won’t be dead for very fucking long.
Yeah, The Human Torch is alive again, but we’ll get to that in a minute.
I haven’t reviewed any of the issues in Jonathan Hickman’s run of Fantastic Four before because honestly? It just hasn’t hooked me in. I’ve given it a try because the book has been part of my pulls since Mark Waid’s and Mike Wieringo’s run, so I’ve sort of been getting it by default. And I read it every month, but there’s something about ir that just doesn’t stick to my brain. I’ll grant that alcohol might be a factor, but considering not ten seconds ago I was asked, and able, to recall the Libby’s jingle from the 1970’s, I doubt booze is just attacking my memories of Hickman on FF. Hopefully.
I’ve certainly given Hickman’s writing an honest chance. On top of Fantastic Four, I’ve been reading his book Red Wing by Image, and I’ve picked up trades of his miniseries Red Mass for Mars and Pax Humana. All of which are big idea comics, with intricate clockwork plots that pull together seamlessly… and to a one populated with characters that feel to me like ciphers that exist purely to further those plots. They are impeccable works of engineering, yet oddly bloodless, like a high-end silicone fuck doll: there are people who swear by them, but I was born a blow-up doll man, and I’ll die a blow-up doll man. And lonely. But I digress.