Valentine Richards is fit – despite the old woman's bouffant hair, she looks wonderful, whether falling out of a leafy bikini or swaying in purple jeggings. But the real focus of our attentions is supposed to be the bizarre past and future of her subject, a chap that looked the spitting image of Green Arrow once upon a time, and is now an ageing adventurer, and lead cultist in a cult of, er, himself. Mummified ninja things have failed to kill him, and so have decided to kill off everyone who knew him, thus negating his existence – hence Val's presence by his side as official biographer. No, Boswell and Johnson have never looked like this...
This is a really fun look at the legacy we choose to leave for others – or, indeed, whether we should have that as a concern as we go about our lives. A dated art style (bringing to mind the Golden Age, as the artist's work on The Shadow seems to have leached through to these pages, as well as, of course, vintage Vertigo) nails this as a book of a certain type. But what it chiefly will be remembered for is actually giving us the heights of the picaresque, to a narrative form that really on reflection seems fit for nothing else. Eye-opening and thoughtful, then, and a strong four stars.