Benjamin J Carp, a cult writer (though he hates the term) with a style and back catalogue suspiciously reminiscent of Philip K Dick, awakes in a motel room, sees people walking around with devices out of his stories, and learns that the world believes he died decades previously. So he drags Marcus, a directionless employee at said motel, into finding out the hidden truth behind this bizarre turn of events. It's lively enough, and at three issues doesn't outstay its welcome, but the minute you stop to think about it, it all feels as flimsy as one of its own fake realities. Trying to out-meta PKD on his own turf is a losing game; playing up the solipsistic side of his hunt for ultimate reality has an obvious appeal in an age when conspiracy madness is mainstream, but at one and the same time Carp has some of Dick's worst edges sanded off, is A Lot rather than an outright menace, and his books seem to offer much more definite answers than the hall of mirrors into which Dick so often leads the reader. When it plays for laughs, it does get some, but never on the level of Steve Aylett's more lightly Dick-influenced (Dickfluenced?) Lint. Even bringing Dick back from the dead was already done, years back and without the changed name, by the late Michael Bishop. And at the end of it all, there's the sappiest resolution I ever did see, whose jarring handbrake turn from what came before seems to be deliberate, but that isn't enough to make it satisfy. Leomacs' art nicely balances trippiness with McKelvie-esque face acting, but writer Winters should be very grateful for Alien: Earth, simply because it saves this from being the most disappointed I've been by a Legion alumnus lately.
(Netgalley ARC)