Wrestler Kevin Nash is many things: Tall. Diesel. Super-Shredder. Probably not the bad guy from Avatar. Last of the giants from the frozen North? I leave it to wrestling fans to answer these mysteries, because my nerdery is comic books. That means I only know Nash as one thing: a man who will pleasure tattily clad women. The Gospel of Nash tells us of his almighty cocksmanship in 1999’s Nash, written by, and starring, Kevin Nash as Kevin Nash, and drawn by the many-headed dragon of the ’90s known as Not Quite Rob Liefeld.
If Snake Plissken and Mad Max had a baby, Nash would be the poorly shot home movie of that baby’s conception by your hot wife’s bull lover. It’s your standard post-apocalyptic One Man action-adventure dystopian western, except its title character is only here to bone down; fighting oppressive regimes is just his love language. Nash doesn’t fail the Bechdel Test so much as seduce it with a swaggering confidence that all lesbians haven’t met the right penis yet.
“But what is the plot?” I hear you asking. And if I ever find out, you will hear my cry of disappointment. Baby, the Nash simply is. Like the heroes of antiquity and City Dragons of our childhoods, fights are merely inconvenient interruptions to his partying. The best I can tell you is sometime before the comic started, Nash got sick of doing The Man’s dirty work and became a folk hero outside of the domed cities where REAL America scrabbles to suck nutrients out of the dust.
Our protagonist is a sensitive, indestructible lay-about who has Superman’s fortititude and Batman’s skills, but devotes his life to kumbayah down by the fire. If he saves your settlement, you’re stuck with him. He only moves on to the next village after he’s fully impregnated the last one.
Nash has no objectives, motives, plan, or prophylactics. His nemesis finds him more useful alive, and his ex is too hung up on him to risk his ire. As long as he repels the occasional attack on the village that’s passive-aggressively hinting he should move on, it’s all repartee and orgies, you groovy cats.
Obviously I love this comic.
Let’s meet the characters!
A+ villain name, take a cookie. Our evil mastermind of this hellworld is a complete cipher. The book tries to keep him in the shadows as a big bad while his daughter runs his empire, but she’s plainly covering up that her dad is brain-dead. If there had been an issue three, Nash would have revealed Cyrus to be a husk in a life-support pod, which means he could be played by almost any wrestler over 30.
Cyrus Storm’s daughter and Nash’s former lover. She’s blonde, busty, and cokerail-thin, but even that is describing more personality than she has. To call her tits on a lighthouse would suggest she projects anything useful. Yet somehow, she’s the most morally complex character, musing that good and evil are a useful illusion shared by a selfless freedom fighter with a dick straight out of Sumerian myth and a puritanically authoritarian hypocrite who bombs whole towns in the desert. I—I…wait, oh dammit, Nash really predicted the New American Century.
All the bad guys in this book have widow’s peaks and slicked-back hair, but only Parch has Alex Jones’s gorilla-tits torso. We meet him molesting an altar boy for laughs. He rules over an entire city of religious fanatics, and weirdly, it’s not Birmingham. Los Angeles has changed in the futuristic world of 2023.
He’s positioned as the right-hand man’s enforcer, but will actually turn out to be the main villain, Robocop-style. Trax is made of chewing gum and heavy. Sometimes he looks like The Rock, other times he resembles Walton Goggins. The only constant is his scowl for all the world. He doesn’t love power, he just hates all things that are not Trax.
Don’t get too attached.
Jared’s uncle and leader of this ragtag passel of human vermin. And yet…they have pride and self-restraint. Perhaps enough to make an army that will yet topple the Citadel. If they find one true man to lead them. No!…one LEGEND.
She’s sultry, she’s Asian maybe, she’s a hired killer. Nash has sex with at least four women in two issues and even the one who tries to kill him doesn’t get a name. I’ve decided to call her Nadia, though Nash simply refers to her as Bitch.
Look, there’s no easy way for 1999’s Nashiest comic book to tell you this: 2000 was the beginning of the end. That was the year Cyrus Storm culled humanity, via some kind of selective nanotech plague, to prevent the food shortages that happened anyway. The elite survivors erected massive globes over major cities, while shipping food from farms in the wastelands, where everyone is starving, and I already have so many logistical questions about how this world works before the comic actually starts.
Honestly, you’re only selling me on this Storm visionary who tried to stave off world hunger. I’m going to need to hear more about his eugenics program’s criteria before I disapprove. For all we know he selected for altruism and empathy. Like, are all the billionaires dead? He seems to have condensed all of the world’s religious fanatics into a fishbowl under an ineffectual clown, and they’re not allowed to leave. So far, I’m an admirer.
Through this dark future world of 2023 strides Nash, ex-agent of the Citadel, which is either a place or a group. It’s unclear, and frankly a mistake when it could have been called The New World Order. Get it together, Nash. Vince McMahon can’t sue you when you’re an outlaw of the Wastelands.
Showing up seconds too late to save an old woman from being shot in the face, Nash force feeds her killer a plasma grenade while her grandson Jared watches with an eerie cheerfulness. It’s like other people aren’t real to him. That’s when the little psycho’s uncle shows up, cursing the murdered woman (his own mom?) as a fool. But hey: free food truck!
Back in the City of Faithful, Deacon Minister Parch is furious about the stolen food shipment. His right-hand man is Trax, who hates Nash, despises Parch, and wants Nash’s old job working directly for the Storms, even though nobody else seems to have it? This is all getting a bit Game of Thrones. Parch orders retaliatory troopers into the wasteland to reclaim his food even if he has to obliterate it. Compounding his foolishness, he strikes at dawn, meaning there’s a 105% chance the attack will interrupt Nash’s most important meal of the day: sex.
Sure enough, we get our first Nashfuckface. The concentration of this man on her pleasure—by God, I’ve never seen its like. This is sexual solicitude of the first order. Nothing can—
Death from above should have thought twice before interrupting Nash pre-ejaculation. That’s just going to make him mad. Your only chance of survival is striking in the afterglow, when all men know the unbearable sadness of clarity.
Using his grappling disc, Nash takes to the skies and bombkicks through the hydrofoil cockpit of a hoverjetcopter. It’s pretty flippin’ sweet, you guys! And I know from sweet; I bought a used BMX when I was 33.
To keep things fair, Nash kamikazes his skyjacked deathcopter into its helibuddy. He then skydives without a chute to extra-murder the freefalling pilot, because Nash is a perfectionist who worries his foes’ last minutes will be spent in terror instead of agony. Orgasms, a horrifying death…both get Nash’s fullest effort as long as someone’s screaming.
The remaining chopper, terrified that Nash will turn his rage on gravity itself and punch the primal forces of the universe to death, bravely sacrifices itself to distract him. Its pilot? None other than Mr. J. Hieronymous Trax, Esq.
Nash fight-plunges seven stories for the second time in as many minutes, only this time he hits the ground. Don’t worry! The ground is okay. So is Trax, who shoots Nash, but all that happens is he gets blown through a wall. The banter isn’t memorable, but even the non-fucking parts of this comic are fun. We’re having fun. This is fun. Is this kayfabe?
Nash fights some hovermonks, and in the time it took your brain to respond, “What a great concept!” he wrecked their shit for them. Ha ha ha! Who else ya got, God?
But! That is when Nash is perforated by bullets. And the comic ends, gasping…”Wh-who?” Stay tuned for the big reveal in Nash #2, coming at you…RIGHT NOW!
Who could have gotten the drop on our h–oh, it’s Trax again.
Our cliffhanger was just the unvanquished foe that Nash had turned his back on. Fooey.
Pulling anti-tank ordnance out of hammerspace, Trax shot Nash with harmless “mercy bullets.” We never find out how they harmlessly puncture a man! Don’t look back, focus on the road called Nash. Trax wants Nash to take down the non-Trax parts of the system so that Trax can rule it.
Killing Parch’s hovermonks is a classic Starscream maneuver, and I think we have a pretty intriguing setup here. There are four bad guys, each of whom is about a third allied with any two of the others. It’s a Michigan standoff, boys!
Trax teleports home while the villagers begin to rethink their “We need a hero” policy.
In half a day the settlers go from welcoming the legendary Nash to hinting that he ought to leave. We can all agree their fears are bullshit. They knew repercussions were coming the minute they swiped a SysCo-brand comestibles ‘n’ combustibles conveyance for the noms inside.
Tara is watching this unfold through some kind of Eye of God camera that can see anything. Perhaps it’s mounted on the monks’ armor? But this means she must know Trax slew Parch’s men? None of my questions about this backstory are answered by my questions about the now-story.
Point being, the year is 2023, and without smartphones, technology has advanced at an incredible pace despite social collapse. You switch to a sandwich-based economy, and everybody’s capable of great things. Great things indeed, like Avalon, the flying city! Its teleporter beam! The invulnerable Nash! And of course, his six-minute refractory period.
Which is how we know their real problem is Nash eating all their food and banging every woman in the village. Look at this panel:
Every single man is glowering at Gilganash here. The conversation orbits around Nash’s groin, because his balls exude gravitational waves. This comic waxes romantic on his Kegel muscles so much, it was named 1999 valedictorian at esthetician school. Comic Book Nash could find a way to brag about his dick game while helping you select a child’s casket. And this universe agrees with him! It’s the horniest apocalypse since 1994’s Dr. Strangelove 2: The Strangest Love.
Tara and her daddy issues teleport Kevin up to Avalon without his consent to let him know that no man, no legend, will ever fill the internal demolition he left in her heart. It goes well:
Back at camp, Nash and more nameless women who exist only to jump on his lap are having a foursome. Nash asks one why he hasn’t seen her before, but forgets to ask why no one else in town has either. It will surprise you very little to learn she’s evil, and even less to learn nothing else about her.
Nash wakes to find that she has slain the other women and drugged him after partaking of his post-apocalyptic phallus. The women of the future sure act like the men of the now.
There is a hotly contested pistol that vanishes and reappears while they brawl. It ends when she suddenly gets really religious and points the gun at Jared’s temple. Nash talks her down, like the hero h—
Wow! Okay, this book really has a handle on America in the 2020s. She shoots Nash next, but come on, it’s Nash. He has so much muscle mass his internal organs are safe from radiation. Anything under .50 cal is, relatively speaking, a mercy bullet.
Oh, and all of this infanticide makes Nadia’s nipples so tight aerospace engineers copied their design for rivets. This is the apocalypse we could have been living through.
Nash banters with this despicable woman, but his heart isn’t in it, since Jared’s one intact eye is staring at him accusingly, and it’s been at least two hours since our hero drained his balls.
Nash’s agony is such that he can barely muster quips while we leer at this child murderer’s smoldering breast. He vows vengeance to you, our reader, and it turned out he was the monster at the end of this book all along.
And that’s it! Both issues of Nash, a comic that showed up, charged $100 for a platinum foil edition, and vanished with all our questions compounded like Nash’s last six simultaneous lovers. It is a bafflement where this story is going—or rather, where 80% of it went before we got here. This book’s editor interferes only slightly less than the average WWE referee.
Fortunately, editing comics well and drawing them badly are two of my four non-sexual skills as well as both of my sexual skills. And I have two decades of experience in 21st-century apocalypses ruled by the 1% in partnership with theofascists. I think that’s all we need to divine the ending we were denied. I can’t draft sci-fi vehicles, or even any car that isn’t a VW Rabbit, but I can trace a potato, so I’m more than qualified to draw every one of these characters.
Yes, that tingle below your navel is correct. The story of Nash will not stand incomplete. No longer will you toil through life with uncertainty gnawing at your soul: resolution is here, my Hot Doggos, in a satire that, for legal reasons, I should probably call N’ash. It’s HAPPENING! RIIIIIIGHT! NOOOOOOOWWWWWW!!!!!
Thanks for Nashing with us, Nashsters!
Brendan has a store now if you’re itching to buy the original art to this comic, prints, sketches, script, and more, or just commission a drawing to woo your one true love. (Seriously, that’s a real thing people have hired him to do.)
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: M Jahi Chappell, who is known as the Kevin Nash of the local 4-H Club.