Futures End: Red Hood and the Outlaws #1

Five years ago, the world as we know it ceased to be. Luckily, the world as we know it from The Road Warrior came into being. Many people were prepared for this turn of events. Too bad those people were geeks and nerds without any real survival skills. Tragically, they were all rape-murdered by corporate CEOs who, it turned out, were the biggest sociopaths on the planet. Some nerds and geeks survived longer than others due to their proficiency at oral sex. But even these desperate, shameless nerds could not last for long. Eee! Tess Ate Chai Tea gave and gave and gave but eventually, as he knew deep down would happen, he used a little too much teeth. He was thrown into Lightning Dome, a more terrifying version of Thunder Dome, where twenty combatants entered and nineteen left. Mostly because the nineteen were working together to fightfuck the lone other. Eee! Tess Ate Chai Tea lasted thirteen minutes, a good showing but not good enough to be remembered for more than the long weekend.

As it turned out, some of the most depraved and richest CEOs were the biggest fans of Eee! Tess Ate Chai Tea. When the updates stopped (for, you see, DC Comics continued to publish during these post-apocalyptic times although their market share was now worse than Dynamite. In their defense, Gail Simone was being forced to write all of the titles deep within Dynamite headquarters, and all of the titles featured naked lesbians as every character), the CEOs grew desperate for the only written entertainment they could stomach. A new Tess was needed. And who better to take over the job than the monster that delivered the death thrust to Tess, Goggles McDeathhurt.

And now, five years later, Goggles McDeathhurt and Xanadux Rat Wine (Mit Jellied Pinkies) Present: HOLY FUCK! Don't Put That There Chai Tea! Recently, Goggles broadcast went national via short wave radio. But the signal was being blocked in Reading City by The Long Boxes, a gang of misogynistic, bigoted comic book know-it-alls who replaced it with their own show called "Truly Fanatical!" This is their broadcast.

Oh, um, hey, um...shit. Uh, this is Weasel and not, see, um, P.T. Goddard. See, he's...well, he's fucking dead, okay? Pretty near all of us...um, uh...all of them, the Long Boxes, are dead. Fuck that shit though, you know? Being dead just to be part of something bigger. Weasal ain't a Long Boxer no more, okay? I'm just...well...I'm here to shut down the jammer and read a message and, see, um, I guess do one final episode of "Truly Fanatical"? Yeah? That's what...I mean, yes, that's why I'm here.

Okay. Okay. OKAY!

Here's the message first. From, well...uh, um...you know who it's...okay...Goggles. It's from Goggles. She has...what? Hunh? Oh, okay, okay. It's from Goggles McDeathhurt. Right? Okay then. Here's the message. Ahem.

"Reading City is now closed. Please vacate the premises. You don't have to go home but you can't stay here." Is that it? Um...uh, yeah, okay, that's it. That's the entire message. Now I'm going to finish up this last show and, uh...well hell...I need to make it quick because, um, this city is kind of fucking on fire. So, let's see...this review is for, um, oh...yeah, yeah, I fucking get it, okay?...Red Hood and the Outlaws by the, um, oh, greatest writer to ever live, according to us, um, them, uh, the Long Boxes: Mister Scott Lobdell.

The issue begins with Mister Lobdell's deft use of, see, uh, narration boxes to ensure new readers know what character they're looking at and which old readers appreciate...oh, um...so very, very much.

Ugh. Really? I mean, really? I don't get the...okay, yeah. Yeah. Just don't...yeah, OKAY! Sorry. Fuck.

Jason Todd fears he's boring whatever he's talking to...the whisky bottle? his mask? the reader?...with his stories about the past. His stories are masterpieces of brief, succinct witticisms such as...ha, um...such as "another homeless orphan dealing and stealing in order to 'live' on the streets of Crime Alley." Wow. Majestic in its details. Astoundingly, um, beautiful in its portrayal of all homeless orphans yet laser focused to, see, uh, describe Jason Todd's early years. It exudes pain and misery. The reader cannot help but, um, feel symphony for his...what? Oh. Um, okay, yeah, sorry. The reader cannot help but feel sympathy for his plight. How did this...uh, see, um, hmm...poor child arrive at such a desolate situation? Only a master of fiction can create so much tension on the first page. Marvelous.

Red Hood is trapped in an abandoned building by the...uh...Central City police. The police are written as brilliant men just serving to protect, um, the public, hmm, peace. When Red Hood blows up a building, one of the, um, cops perceptively notes, "It was a distraction!" That's some fine police work, right there. You don't normally get a, ha, um, writer that can put himself into any profession and come up with, ha ha, um, hmm, dialogue so spot on and realistic.

This is ridiculous. I don't get why...yeah. I know. I see it. Yes, yes. Please...come on...don't...okay, okay. Just back the fuck off, okay?

Every thought by Red Hood draws you deeper into the profound philosophy of this heroic villain. Sometimes, what he says might not...um, well...make any sense, you think. But if you think about it more, you'll realize that you, the reader, don't make any sense. Mister Lobdell is questioning you and your ability to comprehend, um, er, the labyrinthine thoughts of Jason Todd. One could become lost trying to find their way out, but a way out there is. Careful study of every word will show how the negation of each statement only helps to solidify the truth of the statement so negated! Oh! A master craftsman like Scott Lobdell the world will never know again!

There are those that would, see, um, say that every plot of Scott Lobdell's is derivative of the X-men's struggle to stand heroically in a world that hates them, or the flip side of that, in Magneto's struggle to dominate the world so that he alone can make it the perfect place to live. But those people lack, um, imagination and are missing the point.

Mister Lobdell has fine tuned this plot. He's ground it down to a razor thin edge that can slice through the fog of social ills and placate the readers with the fog resistant understanding of a Native American fucked up on...um, what the fuck...really? I can't...but...okay, okay...fine. OKAY!...um, a Native American fucked up on peyote and shitting himself in his sweat lodge. His writing, like his penis, so tasty...so lickable. His writing, um, like his, uh, boner, raging against the constricting waistband of society's way too tight pants, seeking a way out to splurt his psychoactive jizz ideas across our expectant tongue minds. How can a comic book reading, um, fandom that appreciates well told stories and morally ambiguous characters that, um, we can fully identify with, how can that fandom not worship at the golden testicles of Mister Scott Lobdell, greatest comic book writer to ever have lived.

Look, um, you're not going to shoot me even aft...yeah, yeah. Okay. Just let Weasal go, man. I can't finish this. Please? Just let Weasal...no...NO!

[Loud bang and a scream, followed by sobbing and moaning. Rustling noises continue for several seconds before a new voice breaks in]

Dis here been "Truly Fanatical," sees it? Dis show over.