By Michael Avon Oeming, Bryan J. L. Glass
86 volts. That's all this little powerhouse must spring to existence. 86 volts of natural strength to perk her up and wake the lifeless. who's 86 Volts? the place does she come from? What does she wish? those questions result in stunning solutions, yet don't inform 86, simply because she understands even lower than you do. She awakes in an international of desires from a few earlier unknown event that left her useless upon a headstone looking forward to a bolt of lightning to deliver her again to life.
What will take place whilst little 86 throws down and mixes it up opposed to a witch and her evil fetus? while black technological know-how and white magic conflict in a religious free-for-all, the one result's natural chaos.
Teaming up once more following their novel QUIXOTE, author BRYAN J.L. GLASS and artist MICHAEL AVON OEMING have concocted one super-charged little fairy story that leaves not anyone status following its no-holds-barred, knock-down, drag-out brawl of the dwelling lifeless. This 56-page one-shot is chock filled with motion, poetry, darkness and redemption. What extra might you ask for?
Make yes your batteries are totally charged (and your lifeless are appropriately buried) ahead of interpreting this factor of utter mayhem and enjoyable.
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Extra info for 86 Voltz: The Dead Girl
Example text
I changed wallets this morning. ” She eyed me skeptically and started to shut the door. “Look, you can call my editor if you don’t believe me. ” I figured if I was going to bluff, I might as well bluff on a grand scale. Mark Simms was my gynecologist. Elaine headed for her telephone, the pants of her two-piece uniform straining at the seams. ” “Forget it,” I said, slipping into the apartment behind her. “I’m not with the press. ” “Oh. ” “Yeah, right,” she said, ushering me toward the door. “Forgive me if my heart isn’t brimming over with sympathy for Mr.
But he didn’t stay sentimental for long. “Be sure you spell my name right for New York Times. D-A-R-Y-U-S-H K-O-L-C-H-E-V. Here. ” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a grease-stained business card. “I’m good handyman. ” Just then a large woman stepped out from an apartment at the other end of the courtyard. “Daryush. Come quick. Is diamond bracelet on television. ” Mr. Kolchev thrust his greasy business card into my hand and scurried off to join his wife. As I stood there watching him, I couldn’t help thinking that Daryush Kolchev had been quite fond of Stacy Lawrence.
The TV reporter said Stacy had been bludgeoned to death. I just couldn’t picture Howard in the act of bludgeoning. I mean, he’s the kind of guy who needs help with a twist-top cap. Howard sat behind a fingerprint-smudged glass partition, his skinny body lost in the voluminous folds of his orange jailhouse jumpsuit. He gnawed at his lower lip, his eyes wide with bewilderment and disbelief. ” I said into the prison telephone. ” He shook his head. ” He shut his eyes, replaying the scene in his mind.
