Mythologies are not always coherent. They are comprised of passed down legends and lessons over years, centuries; altered, omitted, interpolated, and eventually assimilated into a narrative. A parodic mythology springing from a couple minds over a couple decades seems like it should make a bit more sense, but there’s always the chance that the incoherence is a deliberate emulation of apocryphal history.
In any case, there was a time when I may have gleaned something of more value from a sporadic, disjointed series of hapless glimpses into a world of sentient bottles and skeletons getting drunk on bananas in a dystopian city in disarray, in which crucified rabbits are the inheriting meek, and a struggling artist strives to thrive in an industrial hellscape.
But I found the showcasing of varied stylists in a frankly nauseating competition of anarchic squalidness draining. Perhaps it was intended that I feel fatigued and inebriated and overwhelmed; by design, but no more endurable for it.
The panels are cluttered. The connecting stories are muddled. The accounts and actions of characters fall somewhere between a NyQuil dream and a memory in which you can’t quite place yourself.
I dizzying array of artwork, all of which illustrates the evils of a capitalistic society and how soulless it can be to merely survive. I enjoy fiction particularly for how the absurd can be exaggerated to prove a point. The hierarchy of rabbits vs bottles vs kuskus made no sense, but was funny. Overall, for a free book picked up in Halifax, it was an enjoyable read
I liked it. I enjoyed the artwork and how each chapter was slightly different in style and perspective. I found the concepts a little out there, but found entertainment in a critique of capitalism.