Hard as it must be to believe, but I really don’t go looking for bad comic books to read. My Dark Horse Aliens and Predator nostalgia cost me more than twenty bucks–I could have killed brain cells and had fun doing it using that money on liquor or Elmer’s glue to sniff. Either would have been more productive than reading this issue of Predator.
Predators aren’t, apparently, rare anymore. Everyone knows someone who’s run into one, had a little encounter; not a big deal, seven foot tall space aliens. Doesn’t rearrange your world view. Getting dismembered by a Predator, in Arcudi’s world logic, is a heck of a lot less traumatizing than E.T. bringing you some Reese’s Pieces.
The only thing this comic book has going for it is it almost being over. It’s so insipid–Arcudi’s narrative logic is inane–I’m running low on negative adjectives.