Category: NERDING DAY
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Nerding Day: HYBRIDđźŚ
Want to play a normal game?
Me neither.
Leave Midjourney behind. No eight-fingered stillbirth says more than this eye-punching rectangle. It hints at the authors’ era, state of mind, main interest, state of mind, sense of aesthetics, and shattered state of mind. That’s connection. That’s art. That’s losing your entire fucking mind.
Some art guides you through the creator’s brain. Hybrid’s like a tour in a language you don’t speak, on speed. In fact, this simile doesn’t need the tour. Hybrid’s like speed. Let’s take some speed.
Apologies, HYBRID V0.30. Precision’s important today: it keeps us accurately baffled. You wouldn’t want to misread this manic, 64k-word, single-page rulebook. HYBRID V0.30 is the future of tabletop RPGs. Assuming mankind evolves into something unrecognizable. It is for nerds made of light.
Just to establish base reality, for people with outdoor hobbies: this is, in theory, a game like Dungeons & Dragons, Vampire: The Masquerade, or Bully Annihilator. In Matthew’s vision, four-ish friends would play HYBRID together on purpose. These games typically involve dice and a story lifted from Tolkien. Matthew makes different choices.
Here’s the disclaimer, which follows the color earthquake above.
I’m lucky. A reporter or adult would start with a futile stab at context. An analyst would touch that equation. I’m free to drop everything, and ctrl+f HYBRID’s mathematical explanation for homosexuality. Even if Calc 2 was my Verdun, I can’t turn that down.
Rule 187 gets us…
Slightly illegible. The highlighted bit says “but I’m sure Dr. Strange would prefer RULE # 187, to find or/and create the perfect woman.” Odd, when cosmic realdolls sound more Baron Mordo. I’ll mash enter until the equation pops up.
Ah, the mathematical explanation for homosexuality is also illegible. While black on blood red or laser blue is great for Creech-era character design, it’s an HTML hate crime. Fitting for the concept; advantage Matthew. I’ll switch to readable quoteboxes going forward. Just know that your eyes would struggle harder than your psyche to decode this:
Standard cloning equation.
Fucking what? After decades with Jamaican Baptists, this is the most insane theory of gay I’ve heard. My back catalog trained me for fraud, hate, and incompetence. Not sex ed for shoggoths. The lunacy’s so dense the brackets around young barely register. Don’t read this out loud: you’ll summon the creature under St. James.
The thing about HYBRID is…fucking what? I’m adrift. Mocking HYBRID’s horny (I think) regressive (I’m pretty sure) and deluded (certifiably) math feels like catching a fish with a cloning equation. Or describing basketball in Flatland.
And don’t worry, you didn’t miss twelve years of math. Or maybe you did, I don’t know your story. But whether you’re the next Turing or Mayweather, you’re unarmed for Matthew Math. The numbers are impressionistic. “COM” isn’t explained anywhere in the text. Just try to see the shape of rolling for hardness.
Here’s the closest we drift to a definition:
Nice and intuitive. Don’t worry if you don’t get it–COM only appears 111 more times. Mostly nested in other, equally intuitive equations.
We might not survive this. This psychic landfill’s between HYBRID’s equation for FTL travel and soul value. My mortal neurodivergence tells me COM’s something like battle fuckability and cribbed from a superhero game, but don’t quote me there. HYBRID is as far beyond mutants as mutants are beyond mankind.
Nah. Different sentences. Making FATAL gets you in Blackgate, laughing at Penguin’s jokes to survive. HYBRID lands you in Arkham, laughing at Joker’s jokes to die. Society gets half the blame.
Back to the equation for homosexuality.
Remember doppelganger theory? Simpler days. Matthew’s waifu-design rules demand eight times the patience for none of the dignity. Sorry, I mean 8*LOG(Clozapine)/Electroshock times the patience.
Sometimes, a madman demands less mockery, or even narration, and more translation. Those are long days. After squinting at this alleged English for a month, bothering other clowns (you can guess who) to triple-check if HYBRID’s a parody, and studying cutting-edge divination, I think I’m ready. Maybe.
Cool.
Matthew splits hotness into two stupid stats, and likes his TI84’s LOG button. Said stats are more racist than your parents, but less racist than your leaders. Then he cribs terms from a real game to deflect less-determined clowns, but the most brilliant jesters persevere to find: nothing. Research was a trap. Matthew Math is a poem made of numpad keys. Six number theory PhDs couldn’t tell you what that soup means. But one stoned editor can tell you that Matthew digs Caucasian men and Korean women.
Easy, right? If you’re not up on your anticalculus: “G” is the deviance powerstat. Expect an executive order against min/maxing within the week.
Give up that whole line of thought.
Against all odds, the equation explaining homosexuality’s a decent tutorial. HYBRID’s simple: the rules aren’t rules, the equations aren’t equations, and HYBRID’s not a game. It’s longform tranquilizer withdrawal. You’d never play HYBRID with a friend you want to keep. I haven’t followed the author, but I hope he’s having fun as health secretary.
The best part? We’ve only decoded the disclaimer. We haven’t started the game or this article. Now we’re ready to begin.
Handy warning. Hell, that’s practically the real disclaimer. Fair play, ashes of Matthew’s mind.
Handy summary. Though why you’d base a game on log functions remains unclear. Torturing Dante’s old DM? Texas Instruments cross-promotion? Culling weaker RPGNet users? HYBRID did start out there, where it remains an object of derision/love/fear. That’s the joy of old forums: they hunt madness, instead of breeding it. Insanity never needed a neolithic revolution.
Fair.
My point: Matthew’s basic motive is here, kind of. Maybe. He’s found the golden rpg ratio. By smashing the rest of pop culture into the LOG button, Matthew can create the perfect game. Bet. HYBRID’s risen from incomprehensible to baffling. Maybe we can decode the rules now.
I get this one! It’s dumb and flattening, with a crater-sized copout. But comprehensible. We’re learning to speak HYBRID.
I get this one less! It seems Matthew’s lonely, and has buried it in algebra and retro TV. You, however, can avoid this fate by raising your battle-charm. I think Matthew invented looksmaxxing twenty years early. Or rather, personal grooming six thousand years late. HYBRID’s grammar is elusive.
Zilch. Each letter defies me. We’ve learned next to nothing, aside from more loneliness. We can’t speak HYBRID at all.
Still, I think we’re closer. Too close to turn back, even. Matthew has more faith in his universal equation than I do in my neighbors. With why in hand, maybe we can reach how.
My goal today’s simple: to dig from “DISCLAIMER” to “RULE # 0.” Then we can be the second humans to understand HYBRID.
Ah, a second disclaimer. I’ve actually learned nothing. My birth itself was a mistake.
We persevere.
Finely understated. I owe Disney secondhand royalties for talking about HYBRID. Matthew’s version of the afterlife trampled three copyrights in one sentence. If The Mouse finds me, that blood is on his hands.
On that note: why Tron? Must we still prop up dork film’s false king? A Tron flick came out closer to this article than HYBRID, and I’ve already forgotten about Tron. I’m writing about Tron and I’ve already forgotten about…light cycle movie. Daft Punk? I love Daft Punk! Remember Daft Punk?
I feel for him here, and not just for medical reasons. It’s a rough lesson in perspective. Matthew takes the lack of d20s as HYBRID’s marketing problem, and host backstabbing as his biggest threat. Don’t let bitterness stop you from seeing the algebra in the room.
It didn’t shake out. And not just print publishing, which never had a shot. You may have noticed more than one stat, from more than one system, next to more numbers than there are stars. But now we know we’re only supposed to care about Psyche, and everything else is a pharmacy failure. We’re closer to speaking HYBRID.
Absolutely not. Try to keep up, I’m already confused enough for two.
Now, with the disclaimer behind us–
Another layer! I could pretend that this almost made me quit, but I’m half lunatic. A daywalker, really. My father self-published 101 Steps to Rasta Manhood: A Foundational Wytch’s Guide to Replacing Sons With Chatbots. Now my life is revenge. Matthew can loop disclaimers until the end of time, I’ll be there.
I could also jeer at the Dr. Doom wank, but I’ll always love the concept. What if someone had everything but enough penis to appreciate it? We only see that play out with money. Victor’s twenty minutes with a student therapist from melting Reed into gluons, and it’ll never happen.
Matthew expounds on Doombots and Doom 2099 for a bit, before changing Lunatic Studies forever.
Don’t panic, but Matthew’s killed us all. This Necronomicon-coded headache is inspired by the Anti-Life-Equation. It might be the anti-life equation. At the very least, the CostCo version. While the fancypants version punishes all life, HYBRID’s elf girlfriend rules focus on human neurons.
However you spin it, Matthew’s possessed. If you believe him, by soul-erasing space math. If you don’t, by pop culture and a fictional safety net.
I, for one, have no incredulity left. It’ll rule when we reach Rule 0. I have so many people to feed to Darkseid, and only half of them are in office.
Oh shit, the game’s starting! I skipped a Super Bowl party for this, so I appreciate the confidence. In fact, fuck the 1986 Marvel Universe TSR game. I bet it has fluff like characters and line breaks. Fuck that. Anti-life for life.
Fucking… have clowns overused Groundhog Day? We need a new go-to time loop. Palm Springs. I’m stuck in Palm Springs.
I’m still not quitting, there’s too much Matthew in me. I did curse in person, confusing an already-confused guest. Evidently it’s their first Valentine’s Day studying HYBRID. Mixed dating has challenges, but I think it’ll work out.
HYBRID’s disclaimers finally give way to examples. None of which are our first rule. I suspect that I imagined Rule 0. Or at least my chances of reaching it. Reading HYBRID linearly is like reading HYBRID linearly.
A trap. Matthew’s definitely trying to shake us. Nothing else explains pre-equation citations of later equations, pitched as tutorials. I hope Matthew’s still pitching publishers—name-dropping Tesla’s enriched frauds with half his spirit.
What a beautiful tangent. Not even in the same orbit as the words before, with more forethought for Operation Iraqi Freedom than the entire White House. From what I get of HYBRID Math, Iraq would’ve become unstoppable two weeks before the singularity. Matthew is now, sadly, my favorite pundit.
That’s the last example. Less instructive than the endless disclaimer, but that fits HYBRID’s style. Bringing us to Rule 0.
I’m not a total idiot. If I keep on saying it, eventually I’ll be right. Matthew can only insult the game he swiped his non-calculator stats from for so long.
There’s a novella of text before “2nd” and “3rd,” which are just time travel. Not knowing drove me insane, and I want you to sleep tonight. Said novella discusses Iceman, Thundarr, the stats of Earth 616 Mysterio, Ares’s sex life on Xena: Warrior Princess, Matthew’s resentful boner for Xena: Warrior Princess, and HYBRID’s simplicity.
Once, I thought there were a few thousand languages, generally scaled to history’s largest armies and wallets. Today,I know there are as many languages as movements and ailments. I’m learning Matthew’s because it looks insane and self-destructive. In my tongue, that means “commence.”
And boy, is this section commence. This note’s longer than my tax audit, and covers every six pack on nerd TV. Until, finally, we reach Rule 0.
Wuh?
log(Wuh)^2?
Matthew is no longer my favorite pundit.
Clearly, I bear the 1860’s darksign. Slavery rants will follow me until I die. Ideally free, though we’ll see what the next executive orders say.
Can’t have gold-diggers stealing Matthew’s HYBRID profits. Well, hypothetical gold-diggers stealing hypothetical profits. Shadowboxing phantom harlots is par for Matthew’s diagnosis, but should give abandoned men pause. The lonely lobby sounds like HYBRID without the fun parts, or structure.
Bringing us to anything but Rule 0. Eh? How about that.? Fake me out. Please.
Lesson learned. Don’t tempt the devil, or he’ll turn you into a low-fat baker.
The optional/HYBRID part is mixing blueberry cake mix and brownie mix. With strict limits on flavor-enhancing, cookware sparing oils. Personally, I prefer savory flavors with my fucking madness. The Lecter experience. Still, I love that Matthew’s victims get a sugar rush before the end.
My maniac blood begs to bake this. My sane blood begs to finish this article on time. My bro mind agrees about the sugar, and wants to find a linear squat machine. I’ll skip it for now.
[Update: It’s alright. Get ready to lose half the brownie to your ungreased pan.]
Every book longer than Pippi Longstocking should come with a recipe. Or at least a takeout number. “Eat this while I dazzle you” is a nearly romantic flex. If Matthew applied this to asylum dating, he’d be divorced by now.
Rule 0 isn’t next. Now that you’ve eaten, you can probably handle that.
That’s a lot of math to say “Will Smith is expensive.” I hope that, despite his quirks, Matthew can review movies for The Washington Post. They seem ready for his method.
Next recipe?
Nice try, but our fate is clear. We’ll journey toward Rule 0, forever. HYBRID loves us, and wants to keep us forever.
Finally! Our training is complete, and worthless. I don’t know what these sounds mean in this order. I suspect this text is alive, and stealing strength from its hosts. But that’s based on the blood trickling from my nose, not “Rules and/or equations grow.” Our journey here is meaningless, save learning Matthew intends to write more rules.
By tabletop rpg tradition, Matthew gets a saving throw.
My bad! Matthew’s message is simple.
See, I spent ages convinced HYBRID was a prank. Timecube by way of Real Ultimate Power, if you will. A polemic against rules-obsessed game design, from fans of the theater approach. Instead, it’s a polemic against Nurse Ratched for fans of rules.
And beautiful. My notes should clarify things. Here’s an abridged summary.
Do you see?
Do you see?
You see. Congratulations! Now you can speak HYBRID.
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Christopher Worthen, who has three PhDs in math and still didn’t fully grasp the rules here. But that’s okay becau- DROP KICK
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Nerding Day: Move Your Dead Bones
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Nerding Day: Portraits of Personality
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Nerding Day: The CreechđźŚ
I tend to think of the mid-2000s as Peak Edge. After all, that’s the era that brought us Shadow the Hedgehog (the character), Shadow the Hedgehog (the game where a hedgehog shoots people with guns), and Bomberman: Act Zero. Remember when they tried to make an adult, hardcore Bomberman who says cusses? Shadow the Hedgehog remembers. He remembers everything, though there is so much he wishes he could forget… (CUE LINKIN PARK – IN THE END)
But there is truly nothing new under the sun. A decade earlier, edgy darkness was all the rage in the world of comic books thanks to the birth of Image by a disaffected group of artists who left the Big Two houses to start their own publishing company. One with drugs, and guns, and countless pouches, all presumably filled with drugs and/or guns! I tell ya, these Youngblood kids got more pouches than a Toluca Lake trout fisher’s vest, babe.
Grunge was on the airwaves and every comic book character was a chain-smoking, chain-wearing antihero. Spawn was the hottest thing since BoKu. Everybody loved him! It was like Everybody Loves Raymond, except with slightly more nudity and disembowelment. And thus, like a disgruntled protagonist’s cigarette burning through a newspaper headlined “World Doomed, Ineffectual Dogfucker Congressman Says,” the edgy darkness birthed by Image spread across the industry.
DC killed Superman and people were naĂŻve enough to believe it actually meant something! They broke Batman’s back to try and keep up with the MacFarlanes and that’s why people are still doing impressions of a Tom Hardy performance to this day! Lobo was invented as a parody of grizzled fuck-off types and got over as an unironic cool dude! Fucking Lobo, who looked like Gene Simmons went on gear and read a single book on Rastafarianism in his freshmen year at NYU!
But who is the all-time edgiest superhero? Is it Spawn, returned to life by Hell’s infernal might to punish evil? Deadlock, who is Wolverine but also a vampire terrorist? Or Knifetime, whose every use of his blade powers tragically shortens his lifespan?
I think I’ve found the answer. He’s called The Creech.
Created by Greg “What if Batman Was Da Joker and I Guess Also Spawn‘s Whole Look” Capullo in 1997, The Creech only ran for three issues. But hey, he got a MacFarlane action figure, so that’s something.
In plastic he looks like a Resident Evil monster that doesn’t realize why his haircut is offensive, but on the page, The Creech really comes alive as the love child of Omega Red and the Hulk.
The Creech’s powers are large and large. He is the product of a genetic experiment to develop a version of Meatwad from Aqua Teen Hunger Force that can beat ass. But he was created to help mankind, not destroy it.
Or like, to be a tabula rasa or something? He’s half man, half alien, half Biblical Adam, half Creech, all Creech.
Doctor Battu created The Creech for reasons we’ll get into later. But his project was usurped by Dennis Dross and his minion, Bernard Chen. Dross looks like your typical evil ’90s suit. Chen looks like Greg Capullo was in a racism contest with a 1940s Disney animator and won in a stunning upset that was a heartwarming story for underdogs everywhere.
I know that looks bad. But try to remember that it was— wait, I’m reading this again and it says 1997? Huh. Well, Greg was probably a young man who didn’t know any b—
Oh. Well, if it makes you feel any better, Chen isn’t actually evil or anything. He’s just really, really excited about making a bioweapon out of someone else’s clone son.
Battu’s motivations, meanwhile, are less scientific. Haunted by the simultaneous loss of his wife and baby, he has created life in an attempt to make right what once went wrong.
But the public just hates Battu’s work.
What’s that about fetal tissue? Is my dude using stem cells to do his nasty business? Oh, sweet, gentle reader. The Creech comes from the mind that brought us 50% of Batjoker. It’s ever so slightly more twisted than that.
Are you getting the idea?
Here, let’s have Dross spell the whole thing out in a villainous monologue.
Yes, The Creech is a fetus Frankenstein. An abortion Avenger. A pro-choice Punisher. Chris Field is so mad he didn’t come up with this.
In order to make things right with his dead wife, Dr. Battu performed countless abortions and then scooped the medical waste out of the trash and smushed it together into a huge dude-shaped pile. It’s unclear if there was a box the patient had to tick to say they were cool with it or not. Kind of fucked up if there wasn’t. Ever heard of informed consent?
Dr. Battu works for The Agency. Sorry, it’s actually The A.G.E.N.C.Y., because Greg Capullo never saw a hat he didn’t want to adorn with another hat. What I’m saying is that Greg Capullo has the worst case of Hatris I’ve ever seen. The A stands for “Agency”, by the way.
The Creech was the first thing Greg Capullo ever wrote, and it shows. Shoehorning abortion into the story is an amateur’s attempt to make a statement, but The Creech emphatically does not make one, and the implications of its titular character being a fetal chimera are never explored in any way. Greg evidently got bored with the concept almost as soon as he introduced it, since he brings aliens into the mix next.
Battu brings this journalist, Chris Rafferty, into the lab to take pictures of the monster, the aliens, and their spaceship. Chris has one defining characteristic: he won’t shut the fuck up about Walter Cronkite. That’s literally his entire deal.
Chris is the worst. His dream is to be or at least suck off the then-still living Cronkmeister. He believes that getting photos of real aliens will bring him closer to this goal, which, I guess probably it would. Battu gives him a speech about how like, things aren’t real, maybe? We just think they are, or something.
Between this and the abortion stuff, it feels like Capullo took half a semester of Philosophy 101 and decided he’d learned all he’d ever need to know. Not even a good class, either, the kind where you mostly just discuss episodes of The Simpsons because the professor is too busy building a future #MeToo case against himself to bother actually teaching.
Battu’s plan is to “ruin” his clone son’s utility as a living weapon by transferring his mind into its body. Unfortunately, Dross shows up, kills Battu, and captures Rafferty. The Creech, however, escapes. And here I want to take a second to just appreciate how unapologetically, unflinchingly fucking ’90s the graphic design of this comic is.
Hell yeah, dude! You can practically hear the Korn coming off the page.
The best part of The Creech is the wall of text Greg Capullo wrote at the end of each issue. Like, here’s the letter from the first one, where he explains how the whole thing came into being.
I kind of figured it was just a contraction of “creature.” Man, being a white male creative in the ’90s seems like it was the fucking best. Like uh… here’s my new guy, “The Mons.” He’s made out of the medical waste from cosmetic labiaplasties and he is the ultimate weapon of war, unburdened by morality or lengthy refractory periods.
When they successfully clone a pussy biobeast that destroys New Jersey, I will be hailed as a modern Nostradamus.
Some of these letters nearly reach Craig Stormon tier pettiness. In issue two, Greg takes pains to explain why the first one cost $1.95 whereas the second was $2.50.
From there, he launches into a diatribe about how he’s the hardest-working man in comics, how much he despises those who would dare to call themselves his peers, and how he nearly wept at the thought of being asked to take a month off from drawing Todd McFarlane’s spooky devil man.
The attitude of a talented but needlessly confrontational young man. I’m sure Capullo grew out of this whole “bleed for your art, which is drawing pictures of clown monsters that will eventually be portrayed on the silver screen by John Leguizamo” attitude. Back to The Creech, who finds himself the target of a hate crime.
The Creech kills these neo-Nazis and saves a black baby they were trying to do a drive by on. Meanwhile, the aliens have broken out of the lab because they’re somehow connected to our protagonist who, I should mention, has this thing where whenever someone attacks him, he has to kill them or he’s wracked with unimaginable pain.
The climactic sequence that follows is extremely confusing and stupid: the aliens threaten to blow up the world if they don’t get their DNA back, Dross and his goons kill the aliens in the sewers, then The Creech gives the baby to Rafferty and saves the world by interfacing with the alien ship, which he can do, stopping the radio signal causing everyone to believe that nothing is real, which would have otherwise dissolved the planet. Oh, and Dross finally gets the point that the religious guys protesting the Agency were trying to make.
The Creech is a comic that stands as testament to what happens when a visual artist thinks “yeah, I could write my own story,” without knowing anything about narrative or hiring an editor. Thus, we get all kinds of fun Capulloisms, like “breech,” “outa hear,” and “gauged out your eye.” But my favorite is the repeated substitution of “vile” for “vial.” Greg Capullo went three issues never learning how to spell a word that’s central to the story he was slapping together like so many wet abortions.
We close with a touching dedication.
Let me just Google “greg capullo wife” real quick.
Oh, man. Well, let that be a lesson to us all. No one is irreplaceable, least of all Greg Capullo’s collaborators.
Ah whoops! He didn’t grow out of it! He still thinks you need to be willing to die for pictures of the Wolverine!
Here’s something you might not know: I’ve actually written a Marvel comic before! I got $640 for the story and eight-page script. I’m glad I was given the opportunity, and I’m sure artists are rightfully paid more than writers, especially a longtime vet like Greg, but maybe the line from established industry insiders should be more about organizing for better contracts rather than telling young artists to go fuck themselves if they won’t destroy their bodies and lives for the sake of Disney Publishing Worldwide?
So ends The Creech…
…is what I would say if Greg Capullo hadn’t re-launched the comic four years after its initial publication for another three-issue run. So what changed? Well, for one thing, Greg got a copyeditor!
The only notable Nadine Kohler I can find online is a German Instagram model who probably would have been an infant when this comic was written. And that actually checks out. Greg fixed the recurring “vile” issue, but if anything, the typos seem to have gotten worse.
What else? Dross survived being curbstomped Dracula-style because it turns out he’s a member of an alien species called the Proteus which is at war with the other alien species from the first series, who are now called the D’Troden. He wants to clone The Creech to create an army of unstoppable warriors, but he can’t do that while Battu’s consciousness is still in the mix. His true form looks like a big gross bug with stupid hair.
Chris is still obsessed with Cronkite, but he gets two new traits to round him out. First, he has a hot ex-girlfriend who is inexplicably a psychiatrist and a ninja.
I’m sure it goes without saying, but there’s a scene where she apologizes to Chris for running off with a football player years earlier and he tries to act all cool about it.
I doubt this will surprise you either, but for the crime of rejecting his weird dick that stirs only for Cronkite, Cynthia dies at the claws of a bug monster.
The second new thing about Chris? He’s literally the most important person in the world.
See, Chris thinks these guys stalking him are from the Agency, trying to shut him up. But they’re actually time travelers who he sent back from the future to prevent an alien war from destroying the planet, which means The Creech has now also become a Terminator. And in the future, everyone in the resistance will have gouged out one of their eyes, because the aliens replaced them with cyber-eyes that act as surveillance cameras!
I feel like we’ve lost the plot a little. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but can we get back to the weird abortion stuff?
Actually, I’m good.
Anyway, there’s another confusing final sequence where Chris and his future pals clone Dr. Battu but the NRA captures The Creech, then Dross gives a big stupid villain speech about how he orchestrated Dr. Battu’s whole life. There’s a time traveling janitor who is also the baby that The Creech saved in the first series. There’s also a guy named Skimbo. Skimbo, everybody!
Skimbo!
So obviously the Creech gets laser titties and kills Dross.
Unfortunately, the continued existence of The Creech means that The Future Refused to Change.
The end! Greg Capullo never wrote another comic, and I don’t recommend you read this one. If you want a story about a genetically-engineered superhuman in which glowing green viles — I mean vials — play a prominent role, I suggest you check out Cybersix. No abortions, time travel, or aliens, but you do get crossdressing and a banging opening theme out of the bargain.
[Sean, go ahead and delete the whole article because I just saw that issue three of the 2001 run closes with a picture of The Creech draped in an American flag to commemorate 9/11. I retract all comments making fun of The Creech, The Batman Who Laughs, and Greg Capullo’s writing abilities. This image of an abortion cyborg solemnly standing up to defend America against terrorism amidst the burning wreckage of the World Trade Center is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen.]
[No problem. You thinking something like this?]
This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Doug Redmond, the gratest american hearo of all tim.
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Nerding Day: FASA Promotional Videos
