The issue opens with Beto and Poison River. It’s set in 1970, during Luba and Peter’s honeymoon. In four pages, Beto develops Luba from a scared teenager to a domineering trophy bride (sort of trophy bride). She learns to have fun, she learns to demand. At the same time, Peter’s getting into club management and drug dealing, though the drug dealing isn’t really a factor. It’s a factor in so much as Peter’s doing it (and he’s got a former bandmate kind of threatening him about it), but it’s not really part of the story.

Simultaneously, there’s the stuff with Peter’s other wife (maybe, not clear) and daughter. The family he’s abandoned for Luba. It’s a quick chapter–eight pages–and most of the action happens in the first four pages. The Luba character development is crazy effective, with Beto really excelling at the summary panels. And it’s got a great cliffhanger. Duel cliffhanger. Luba’s getting more personality but somehow she’s even farther now from the established Luba. Excellent stuff.

Then it’s Jaime’s turn. He’s got three stories. The first and third are parts one and two of “Below My Window Lurks My Head,” or, what has Ray been up to since Maggie reunited with Hopey. Mostly Ray’s been up to Danita. But it takes a while for that reveal. First Jaime brings back Doyle, who’s down on his luck and dangerously miserable–very different angle on the character from last issue, when he got his own story. But Doyle’s only there to get Ray into the bar and they’re only in the bar to meet up with Danita and for Ray to have to tell Doyle he’s been hooking up with her and it’s serious.

The next story is Maggie, Hopey, and Penny (Penny’s in the background, in a hilarious mom mode). Maggie just found out Ray dumped her for Danita, which pisses Penny off. So Maggie decides she’s going to show Ray by hooking up with Hopey–while they’re at Ray’s ex-girlfriend Maya’s place. Only Maya wants to make it a threesome and Maggie doesn’t, which brings back the “not lesbian, Hopey only” sexuality Maggie talked about a dozen issues ago (or more) with… well, Danita. The issue ends with some friction between Maggie and Hopey, mostly because Hopey’s avoiding talking to Maggie about it.

Great art on this story. Simple, great art. Jaime does wonders in seven panels, specifically the visual mood of this unnamed city (or, as Ray calls it, “that big old metropolis”).

Then it’s back to Ray and Danita. Ray’s more serious about the relationship than Danita. They’re arguing because Danita’s son’s father is out of jail and he’s looking for them. He’s murderously dangerous. All these people start showing up at Ray’s apartment; every time the doorbell rings, they think it’s the dad. Only it’s everyone else but the dad–including Penny, who’s mad–and ’Litos (from Hoppers) who hasn’t been in the book for ages.

It turns into a nice party, with some great panels and a lot of texture from Jaime. It’s got a kind of funny ending, but also a sad one. At this point in Love and Rockets, in Locas, it’s impossible to tell what Jaime’s doing with Ray. He’s almost entirely different than when he started but still exactly the same. He’s older, tireder, in a way no one else in the book has aged or exhausted. It’s interesting, particularly since Jaime focused on him so strongly for five or six issues a while ago.

Then Beto closes it off with the second chapter of… Love and Rockets. Seems some skinheads have attacked an old Black lady. A teenage girl might know who did it and she used to date one of the guys in the Love and Rockets band and then there’s surfer dude Steve and Riri and Maricela (worrying about Palomar being attacked by the fascist government). There’s a bunch of new characters, or fleshed out minor characters from last chapter, and a bunch of echoes to Poison River. Maricela has acne, like young Luba does in River. The South American governments–in Rockets–are sending out death squads, just like they’re doing in River.

But Beto’s also, apparently, going to look at punk rock and racism. He does the whole story in three rows of three panels pages, lots of dialogue, lots of characters, lots of jumps between those characters. Not much in the way of establishing shots. It’s something kind of new from Beto because it’s not lyrical, but it’s also not particularly sympathetic to anyone. There are likable characters, sure, but he’s not invested in anyone yet.

As usual, great issue. Very different issue. Los Bros are changing up the comic.

The issue starts with Maggie trying to join Hopey and Tex’s new band. They’re delayed getting back to California, which might not even be on Hopey’s radar. It’s a Maggie and Hopey story, a little different given Hopey’s hair, but also because it’s two pages and (roughly) twelve panels a page. Maggie runs into Ray’s ex-girlfriend. It’s a cute little Locas, but feels like Jaime’s just keeping their burner warm.

Next is Beto’s Poison River. Part three. Teenage Luba gets married. The husband is a band manager and conga player (in said band). He’s much older. He’s also married with at least one child, but Luba doesn’t know about the other family. He’s obsessed with her and nowhere near as creepy as the other grown men pursuing Luba and her teenage friends. There’s also the origin of the hammer. It’s an excellent story; Luba isn’t particularly familiar in it. She’s not the kid from the previous issue, she’s not the Luba from regular Palomar. She’s actually far more revealed than her adult self. The husband, who Beto didn’t identify as a husband, showed up in one panel at the start of Human Diastrophism when Beto was going over Luba’s kids’ fathers. There’s also the start of Luba’s bather career; she and her friends work at the local bath house. Beto does a lot with it, especially since everyone except Luba and her family (who don’t play a big part) are new characters. It’s excellent. Beto makes it seem casual in the excellence.

Then is a Doyle story. Jaime’s not done with Doyle, which is a surprise. It’s a flashback story to 1982, so presumably before Doyle met Hopey and Maggie but after he’d been friends with Ray. Doyle’s just out of jail, looking for Ray (who’s gone east), working for with his girlfriend and Lily, who isn’t his girlfriend yet. Lily and the girlfriend are exotic dancers, Doyle collects the money and gets rough if need be. Jaime structures it all around broken toilets keeping Doyle up at night, which is a special kind of despondence. There’s not much with the girlfriend, but the burgeoning relationship with Lily is really sweet and well-done. It’s out of place in the sweetness, but also perfect. There’s some great art too. It’s just a surprise.

But nowhere near the surprise of the last story, Beto’s Love and Rockets: Premiere. It’s this comic–but sad and dark–story about Steve Stranski, a metalhead surfer who… if you look close… once vacationed in Palomar. He’s taking a couple hot chicks to see this band, Love and Rockets, perform. Only they think it’s the actual band Love and Rockets and not some garage band knockoffs. It’s a fun, goofy story and then all of a sudden Steve meets his friend’s new Hispanic housekeeper and starts crushing on her, even giving her a ride home with pal Gerry (another surfer who vacationed in Palomar). Turns out it’s Riri and she and Marciela are trying to make it in the States. And it’s to be continued, which is another surprise. Beto’s doing Marciela’s story too.

It’s a sort of different issue–even with Luba being active in her origin, it doesn’t feel like Luba, and Doyle’s proto-Doyle, and Maggie and Hopey are just cameoing. But it’s another excellent one. Both Jaime and Beto maintain their ambitions throughout.

Love and Rockets #30 stands out for a couple reasons. First Jaime does a retcon. He does a flash forward and a retcon, like he’d written himself into a hole and couldn’t find a way out. And also because Beto, in one chapter, turns in a layered, complex tragedy in the Luba origin and it’s the best single issue piece in the series so far. It’s ambitious as all hell and completely contained.

But first Jaime and Locas.

The story starts two years after the club (presumably the one from #24) burned down. Danita’s kid (who hasn’t appeared in ages) is a toddler now. He doesn’t know Maggie, who passes him on the street (Maggie’s wearing shoes now). And then the club–turns out Maggie hasn’t seen Daffy for two years. Daffy’s got a new group of punk friends. Penny has been in an accident, they tell Maggie, which sets off the story. Eventually, Maggie and Ray are back at Penny’s mansion, hanging out. Enter Hopey.

Hopey’s got a story, Penny’s got a story, even Ray gets a flashback to his time as a struggling artist out east. Jaime retcons a bit–fudging the Hopey timeline, establishing Maggie having a job as a copy machine repairperson (which is an all new development this story)–and it works. He’s able to bring the band back together.

There are casualties of course. Poor Ray gets a major downgrade. He gets a couple good moments. He and Tex are a funny pair. But it certainly doesn’t feel like it did a couple issues ago, when Jaime was prepping him for a leading role in the book.

There’s some great art. Jaime’s not doing the big panels, but he’s able to do some callbacks to the first Costigan mansion story from #4. Visual and narrative. All while maintaing his eight or nine panels a page and his comic strip pacing. It’s fantastic.

It’s also fun, funny, and life affirming.

So Beto’s story, continuing Luba’s origin, is a bit of a kick in the teeth. Almost literally because Luba’s adoptive father is passed out drunk on the street at the start of it. He and Luba make it down to his hometown, where his sister and her daughter, Ofelia, are there to take them in.

It immediately becomes Ofelia’s story, set in the early fifties, in South America (somewhere), where there are facists and there’s a chance for communism or maybe even socialism to take hold. And there’s a new sense of possibility and pride because of Frida–nice tie to Beto’s biography.

There’s a lot.

And Ofelia’s a mean caregiver to toddler Luba. Toddler Luba who has bowel and bladder control issues, which Beto plays–occasionally–for the closest thing the story has to comic relief.

There’s more than political commentary, there’s social commentary–there’s even this subplot about the racist comic book Ofelia uses to teach Luba to read. And then there’s Luba’s adoptive father; he still plays in.

The story is a series of vingettes, irregularly occuring as time progresses. The little moments in the little panels (Beto’s doing like seven most pages).

And then sixteen pages into the chapter’s twenty-two, Beto goes an entirely different, entirely unexpected but entirely logical, organic route and terrifies in a way nothing in Love and Rockets has ever terrified. Horrifies in a way the comic has never horrified.

Then there’s a little epilogue, setting up the next chapter, returning the story to Luba. Ofelia was just borrowing it.

It’s an astounding story. All the layers Beto works in, all the little threads, both in the narrative and the art. It’s phenomenal work. Jaime’s Hopey and Maggie reuniting doesn’t disappoint and excels, which is an admirable feat, but what Beto does with Poison River, Part Two is horrifically magical.

Beto’s back to Palomar in Love and Rockets #29. Well, he’s back to some kind of Heartbreak Soup, maybe not Palomar. He’s got the first chapter of Poison River, which recounts this terrible tale of migrant workers. Eventually. It opens with a housekeeper thinking she’s rescuing a baby from the father burning it with a cigar. Or worse. It’s unclear. Beto doesn’t have any exposition in the story. He often doesn’t have any dialogue. For example, when the man’s wife (and presumably the baby’s mother) returns and gets booted out of the house, it’s all without dialogue.

Then Beto introduces Eduardo and Juan, two ditch diggers. They’re hungry, it’s hard to find work (and the boss lays off at least one person a day). Eduardo has Juan over for dinner; now, Eduardo is the one who took the baby in the opening scene. He’s now living with the mother. Or more like the mother is living with him. Eduardo’s also got another woman, Karlota. It’s unclear who he’s supposed to be with; though it definitely seems like Karlota.

There’s jealousy, drunkenness, disaster, and Eduardo ends up in charge of the baby. Baby Luba.

Beto throws in that revelation in the second to last panel, long after he’s proven the Palomar-free Heartbreak Soup story. His art’s fantastic, the pacing of it and the panel composition. A lot happens in the panels’ backgrounds in the story. Lots with recurring visual motif, lots with expression. Never with exposition. Beto’s got a lot to say in Poison River, a lot to talk about, but he never gives the reader a vocabulary guide. He’ll have these single panel scenes, then multi-panel sequences, sometimes flashbacks; there’s a severe narrative distance. Eduardo’s the protagonist, but the story’s not from his perspective. Not most of the time. Probably.

It’s awesome.

And it maybe has an Izzy cameo. What’s Izzy doing in Mexico? Well, Jaime’s story for the issue is Flies on the Ceiling: The Story of Isabel in Mexico. This story has come up in the comic before, with Hopey wanting to read about it in Izzy’s diaries, but it’s not like Hopey shared her findings with the reader. There has been some back story on Izzy, especially tying her into the version of Isabel from the first issue of Love and Rockets; Jaime repeats some of that distinct imagery here. But then he tells a very different, utterly heartbreaking tale. Frankly it’s hard to imagine Hopey would find anything to laugh about.

In Mexico, sometime after having an abortion, Izzy is shuffling through a town. A single father asks for her help getting his son to eat dinner. Izzy starts rooming with the pair and in a nine-panel page of fantastic montage, becomes a member of the family. The son likes her, the father is crushing on her. Eventually Izzy even smiles.

After an old woman ominously speaks to Izzy on the street, Izzy confesses her past to the man. He loves her anyway. Just as much. Izzy’s happy. Until one day she has a vision and has to leave the man and the boy, locking herself away in a one room apartment; there, the devil confronts her. They’ve–why assume the devil is a he, the devil tells her–been following her. They love her suffering.

It becomes this hard story about Izzy’s emotional and mental breakdown; with flashbacks to her abortion. She’s traumatized, over and over again.

It’s an emotional roller coaster of fifteen pages. Tragic, beautifully illustrated (Jaime does these super-thin background lines, focusing the foreground against them). The whole story plays out on Izzy’s face, panel to panel, with the occasional haunting or disturbing image. It too is an awesome story. And probably Jaime’s best done-in-one and maybe best overall since he’s moved to the nine-panel a page layout, which he uses for the entire story, save the title page. It’s a rending tale.

So, great issue. For maybe the first time in the series, Beto and Jaime are handling some of the same themes between their stories in one issue.

Love and Rockets #28–at least the Jaime stories (he has four)–almost read like an entirely different comic, just with the same characters and the same artist.

The issue opens the only Maggie story. It’s set… sometime after the last issue’s events with her aunt, with Ray painting Maggie. Then he paints Danita instead. There are some jokes and wigging out from Maggie, but Jaime’s a lot more interested in it as Ray the conflicted creative. Lots of thought balloons about his artistic consternation. It’s got a comedic finish (and a Luba reference), but even the finale punchline is a little different. It’s good, with some great motion, but it’s Ray’s comic strip. Even if Maggie’s in it. Weird.

Then is a flashback story about Terry, Hopey’s ex-girlfriend and ex-bandmate. It’s Terry’s story for like a page (in the present people are talking about her to the reader, breaking the fourth wall), but by the second, Hopey’s there and it’s mostly Hopey’s story. Like the subtext is Hopey’s back story (more of it) and the big stuff is Terry’s. It’s beautifully paced. And arguably the most “normal” Locas story in the issue.

Because then it’s another Ray story, only it’s when Ray’s a little kid and it’s like Peanuts. Only with talking adults and lots of trouble and fantastically detailed backgrounds. It’s a cute little story, with Jaime really showing off his comic strip pacing abilities. Some gorgeous silhouettes too.

Then there’s a break in Jaime stuff and it’s Beto’s biography of Frida Kahlo. It’s an illustrated timeline of her life’s big events, with some tangiental information, and some phenomenal art. And a Tonantzin cameo (because Beto couldn’t help himself?). It’s a twelve-page story; the first eight or nine speed past. It slows down before Frida’s death, but Beto doesn’t foreshadow the death. He’s just changing up the pace a little. To be fair, it’s Frida’s life’s events. They’re changing up the pace. Then it’s got a beautiful finish.

It’s confident, measured work from Beto. He’s got his ambitions and he realizes them, even if it is the first time since Love and Rockets started I wished the book was in color. The visuals don’t need it, but who knows what they’d be like if they had color. It’d be cool to see.

Finally, it’s a beautifully paced six pager about Ray and Doyle taking a high school buddy out drinking. It’s played almost entirely for laughs, with a very different sense of humor than Jaime’s ever employed before. The scenes are paced perfectly, there are some great expressions, but there’s no punchline. Not for the characters, not for the reader. Jaime tries something talky for emphasis, it’s just dull. His previous stories all ended with sharp punchlines this issue–even the non-epical Terry story–and it’s a rocky out for the issue. (Beto had a perfectly good finish for the Frida biography too).

So. Kind of strange issue. Successful, especially Beto’s biography thing, but strange thanks to Jaime’s meandering. Sometimes it works better than other times–it might just be Doyle’s a bad character to lead a story, he’s always been a lot better playing off people and Ray’s got zilch in that last story too.

It’s like Locas with dudes, only… the dudes aren’t dynamic.

Beto’s got two stories in Love and Rockets #27, neither Palomar-related, both more concentrated on the art. The first is a two-pager about traffic. Automobile traffic and the false promises of automobile ownership. There’s some really detailed art, much different than anything Beto’s done (at least lately), with an emphasis on patterns and panel layouts. It’s a neat start to the issue.

His second story comes at the end, the dialogue-free A Folktale–oh, right, Beto’s using pseudonyms on both stories. The first is by Bob Dillon, the second is by Loup Garou (on the first page) and then Karl Barx on the last. It’s about a woman who’s (apparently) having a BDSM party, an old man peeing in the ocean, and the devil. There’s a teleportation orb; kids playing on the beach push the old man into the orb, he shows up at the party. Where the devil has just arrived. Only the women isn’t so taken with the woman as she is with a hooded man (with skulls in his eyes). The old man has crosses. There’s a lot going on. It’s eight pages. Lots of liquids, the implication the old man is God, all sorts of stuff. It’s a good close to the issue. Beto’s taking a break from worrying about the narrative.

In between is Jaime’s second part to the Maggie working for her Aunt Vicki story. Lots happens. Vicki is winning all the wrestling matches because Maggie being so standoffish with her is pissing Vicki off so she’s taking it out on opponents. Meanwhile, back in Hoppers (now, for the first time, I think, near or part of L.A.–Vicki’s getting Maggie a plane ticket, it comes up), Doyle and Kiko are sitting around talking about what’s going on with Maggie’s love life (i.e. Ray vs. Hopey). Jaime keeps going back to them for their commentary, as Maggie eventually gets fired and then goes on the road with one of Rena’s old wrestling partners in a hunt for Hopey.

Jaime does a bunch of character development on Vicki, a little on the Hoppers supporting cast–mostly Daffy. Maggie’s hunt for Hopey comes up empty but she does manage to get wasted a lot and go to the zoo. And maybe there’s some resolution for Maggie and Vicki, though Maggie’s almost completely unaware of how much their relationship problems are weighing on Vicki. It’s kind of like it’s Vicki’s story, with everything else just extra to set up whatever’s next once Maggie gets back to Hoppers.

One thing Jaime doesn’t do is anything with the recently deceased Speedy. Kiko mentions him, but doesn’t name him, and Izzy appears silent in a panel during a dream sequence. After the first page, which features Roy Cowboy (a Jaime character from the early days of Love and Rockets) as a wrestling announcer, and has a larger establishing panel, Jaime sticks to six or seven panels a page. He’s getting really good with the detail in these smaller panels. Scene pacing, implied movement between panels, establishing shots during scenes and conversations, all of it’s outstanding.

But it’s all a delay. The story ends with Maggie in stasis for a few months, not having to think about the future, getting to stay in Vicki’s house while Vicki’s on the Japanese wrestling circuit. It’s cute–and works thanks to the story being from Kiko and Doyle’s perspective, at least as far as Hoppers drama goes–but is hard not to feel like Jaime’s avoiding things. Like Maggie being the protagonist.

Beto finishes up Human Diastrophism this issue; there’s a lot to talk about with it. A whole lot.

But first Jaime, who does a very different Locas than he’s being doing lately. It’s about Maggie going on tour with her Aunt Vicki, who’s won back her wrestling belt and needs to defend it. Maggie’s along as her assistant (of sorts).

The story opens with some developments for Maggie and Ray (they’re together in some capacity), though Ray is pretty sure Maggie would pick Hopey. Hopey’s entirely off page. She tries calling Maggie, which is one heck of an off-panel development. Daffy and Tom Tom (who’s been gone for how long) show up for some exposition and fun at the beginning of the story, then it’s Maggie on the road and Vicki’s wrestling insanity.

Vicki’s been in the book more lately, but nothing like here. Jaime humanizes her in a direct way, as opposed to the usually comedic ways he’s done in the past. Comedic and frightening. But here we finally get some insight into Vicki’s role as Maggie’s pseudo-mom, a role previously reserved (to some degree) for Vicki’s nemesis, Rena. Who gets a mention but no appearance.

Art-wise, Jaime’s really going for some comic strip style pacing here. Holy crap, I just realized there’s a cameo from Vincente and Saturino (Palomar). Anyway, the comic strip style pacing. It’s an awesome mix of action and detail. Jaime’s moving quickly, but never rushing through detail. Quite the opposite, in fact. This story’s probably more detailed than Jaime’s been lately. When he’s doing six panel pages (three rows of two), he’s able to do a lot more with the visual pacing, to force the reader’s attention. It’s an almost entirely “for fun” outing, but with some phenomenal visual storytelling.

And now Human Diastrophism.

This final installment would seem like a postscript or epilogue, if it weren’t where so much of the impact occurs. It certainly seemed like Luba’s mad rush of self-destruction and terrible choices peaked earlier, but not exactly. Here’s where her behaviors finally fully explode; it just looked like she was exploding before. Beto brings back something from earlier for the deus ex machina on it, from the second chapter. Beto’s page numbering for the story is straight through all installments (it ends, here, at page 100). The story certainly deserves a full-read through on its own.

But it’s not just what the final installment doesn’t resolve, it’s what it introduces. It’s what subplots turn out to be more important and how they echo with earlier things in Beto’s Palomar stories. There’s a callback to the first one, no less. And then references to some other characters.

It’s a twenty-page story. With maybe three main plot lines and then a bunch of supporting ones. There’s character development going on between panels, not in focus, like Carmen and Heraclio coming to terms with Guadalupe being his daughter. Beto does a lot of visual echos between Luba’s men, Archie and Heraclio in particular, but also echoing Tonantzin off Diana. In some ways, it’s the culmination of all the Palomar stories since the first one (set ten years before or whatever). But it also refers to that story.

So while it’s independent–the character development of Luba’s daughter, Marciela, almost entirely happens in this story, the serial killer story line is contained to it, lover boy Khamo is entirely contained to it–Human Diastrophism is all about Palomar. About the only thing it doesn’t have to do with is the boys who grew up and moved away.

Of course, all that discussion and it doesn’t even touch on the end of Human Diastrophism, which is entirely unexpected but also perfectly in line with the story (and Beto’s Palomar work). It’s devastating, but removed, then Beto zooms back in, only just the reader. The reader is in on a terrible truth.

It’s the best work in the comic so far. Complicated but simple. It’s never hostile. Beto never makes it difficult to follow. He never tries to trick the reader. He just demands patience and attention. Human Diastrophism is exceptional. It’s full of so much sadness, but never once does Beto get melancholic or saccharine. It doesn’t seem possible he’ll ever top it. We shall see.

Before starting Love and Rockets #25, I kind of wondered if Penny would ever be back. Jaime’s been bringing back a bunch of the old Locas characters, but no Penny. Sure, her last appearance was problematic as heck and Jaime doesn’t really do the stylized stories she had, but it seemed weird she wasn’t back.

She’s back. In the second story, Hopey and her new sidekick, Texas, end up in the Costigan mansion where Hopey, Maggie, Penny, and Izzy stayed around twenty issues ago. It’s such a different kind of comic. Jaime’s not moody anymore. The art’s great and the comedy’s great, but there’s no moodiness. It’s kind of sad. Jaime’s gotten to be such a good artist with the smaller panels, he doesn’t have those full-page (or half-page) luciously designed panels anymore. There’s no more visual pacing, which is what he did with Locas back at the start. Back when it was Mechanics.

Anyway. Hopey and Texas are broke and hungry and hit up Penny for some room and board. Penny’s living the bored life of a billionaire’s trophy bride. Jaime plays her–and the strip–mostly for laughs. Maggie shows up in a flashback, which is also heavy on the laughs, but does do some character development (or revelation) on early days in the Hopey and Maggie friendship.

It’s a good story. With a great punchline.

However, it comes after the penultimate chapter of Human Diastrophism, Beto’s truly awesome Palomar tale. There’s Luba’s interal struggle with aging, there’s her daughter Maricela being fed up with life in Palomar (particularly under Luba’s roof), a lot with Luba’s daughters actually. And it finally all ties in with Tonantzin and the letters. Amidst it all the monkeys are going crazier and crazier.

Oh, and the serial killer story seemingly gets resolved, although there are still a bunch of unanswered questions.

Beto moves the story at a rapid pace. Panel to panel, he changes from one set of characters to another, then back again, making a pattern. He slows down for big sequences, like the serial killer stuff (as well as the hint of a red herring to be revealed, presumably next issue), but also with how the Tonantzin letters tie in to everything else. He brings subplots to the foreground, sends them to the background; there’s not just Luba’s oldest daughter running away, there’s Luba delivering her other daughters to their fathers, which is this other visible subplot–the characters stand around in the background talking about it–but Beto doesn’t have any time for it. He’s precise with what dialogue the reader gets to “hear,” what thoughts the reader gets to read. It’s exceptionally good stuff.

I can’t help but think a) Human Diastrophism is the best thing Beto’s done so far in Love and Rockets (and it’s definitely the best multi-issue story arc), but also b) there was an utterly lost chapter–Beto meandered through the second or third installment. Only to turn around and create this phenomenal story. I think it was the second chapter.

It’s a great issue. Beto makes the comic. Jaime, especially with the relative silliness of the Hopey and Penny story, is the dessert.

Beto gets one story this issue, Jaime gets three but really two. It’s an interesting three stories; two are Maggie (and Ray) stories, one is a Hopey story. The Maggie story is about, well, The Night Ape Sex Came Home to Play. Maggie, Daffy, and Kiko (how long has it been since Kiko has been in an issue–has Kiko ever been in an issue) are trying to get into a show with little success, then run into Joey and Tony. Who’ve been around for ages.

Joey (Hopey’s brother) has been holding onto Hopey’s letters for Maggie–which Hopey’s usually writing or avoiding writing in her stories–so Maggie wants to get those. Everyone also wants to go check out Ray and Doyle’s new apartment. Maggie doesn’t want to go because the Ray stuff is still unresolved.

It’s a fast, sometimes funny, character building four pages. Jaime does a lot with the supporting players–as well as some world building (there’s some acquaintance who knows Izzy)–and it leads perfectly into the second story, which is Hopey’s.

The band is finally breaking up. Terry has found a new band (so, after teasing it issues ago, Terry never did get around to seducing Hopey) while Monica and Zero are getting together and running off, leaving Hopey with a broken down car. It’s another four pager, with Hopey ending up buddies with Texas, who’s possibly a musician too (or wants to be) and also has nowhere to go and no money to get there. It’s beginning of a beautiful friendship. And, even though Hopey’s occasionally really nasty, it’s very nice to get to see her not playing second-fiddle to a band story. It’s been a while since she’s gotten to have so much personality.

Then comes Beto’s Palomar and it’s another fantastic installment of the serial killer story, Human Diastrophism. Turns out Luba’s verbally (and physically) abusive behavior to her oldest daughter is rubbing off, horrifically, on her youngest. Meanwhile Tonantzin’s still worrying Diana and Carmen (and, by extension, Heraclio and Pipo). Of course Pipo’s still fooling around with Khamo, Luba’s favorite toy boy. Beto introduces–it can’t be for the first time so I missed it–a mystery enabler for Tonantzin’s behavior; she can’t read the letters from her prison pen pal herself, so someone else is doing it.

Humberto the artist is posting his violent sketches–of the killing he saw–around town as he zonks more and more out, his eyes becoming saucers like the terrible monkeys.

Archie confronts Luba, tragically, over Khamo. Soon after Luba finds out about Pipo and Khamo and plans some kind of response (possibly violent but probably not really, Luba’s not actually terrible). Luba even tries–and fails–to bond with Maricela after hitting her in the last chapter. Meanwhile Maricela’s romance with her secret girlfriend is discovered.

There’s more serial killer victims, there’s some romance for Chelo, there’s a bunch of other stuff. Including some tourists who may have killed one of their friends and that body is either missing or in with the serial killer’s victims.

Speaking of the serial killer’s victims, the story ends on one heck of a cliffhanger involving one of them.

It’s a fantastic story. Beto keeps it moving, he keeps up the character development, humor, tragedy, all of it. Great stuff. And the perfect way for the issue to end.

Except it turns out Jaime’s not done. He’s got the second part to the first story, six pages this time, with Ray deciding he’s going to finally confront Maggie about liking her. On the way he meets Doyle’s weird stripper girlfriend and, after having thought he missed her, runs into Maggie. Jaime doesn’t really give us a Maggie and Ray scene, instead lets Daffy finish off the story, which is fine, she was there for the start.

It’s a neat pair of stories, separate but joined; there’s some great art in them, of course, but none of it seems very narratively ambitious. Jaime’s getting pieces into place, Hopey, Maggie, Ray. There’s nothing about Speedy being dead, which is–initially–very, very weird.

Jaime’s second part to the Locas story (or third, whatever) also means the issue doesn’t end on Beto’s quizzical and disturbing finish to Palomar.

As Beto becomes more stable in his storytelling, Jaime’s still exploring. Not the content but how to tell the stories. It’s interesting.