Again, just look at Moon's image. The strange spaceman emerges and you have to wonder if he's the anachronistic element of the scene or the tribal people wandering near the crash site. Does it even matter when everyone is carrying a weapon is blood is surely to flow?
As seen on the Dark Horse blog!
Ladies and gentlemen, that's how you write a comic company blog. Enjoy.
Once, in the long, gauzy stillness of the line for the blood pressure testing machine at the pharmacy, I heard storied political strategist James Carville say that variant covers for comic books are “about as useful as (redacted) on a warthog”. Like current NASA Administrator Charles Bolden at a congressional budget hearing, his voice was subdued by the wistful, languid remorse of a man who had been burned before but good. I recoiled! So taken aback was I at the solemn, threadbare, peat moss hillock of a man before me. I asked the usually Ragin’ Cajun what, if anything, I could do to steady his spirits.
Sanford Greene's Cover
Stretching out a desiccated talon, he beckoned me closer while unfastening the cowhide shawl covering his face. Through a Homerian shipwreck of gnashed teeth, and in halted breaths that smelled curiously of jellybeans and turmeric, this is what he said:
“I… want to see a cover. A cover… by FÁBIO MOON! And, and, and… it should have an ASTRONAUT!”
His broken posture began to right itself as what was quickly becoming a sermon rang out.
“And this astronaut… this is no ORDINARY astronaut. He’s gotta be from… from… FROM THE FUTURE… or something!”
The color returned to his eyes and a convocation of bald eagles screamed overhead as the fireworks stand in the parking lot exploded. He continued.
“And this upstanding spaceman, his ship has CRASHED!”
Neal Adams' Cover
He crescent kicked a nearby schoolmarm who began to ask where.
“IN THE JUNGLE, BABY!”
He grabbed the lapels of my editorial coveralls and pressed his forehead to mine. As his sigil (nine cobras eating kettle corn) burned into the flesh betwixt my eyes, he screamed one last mercurial proclamation.
“WAKE UP! TIME TO DIE!”
It was then that the vapors took hold. I collapsed in a heap of confusion, too far from the Pedialyte for salvation. I’m told Carville transmogrified into a grist of red bees, formed the “a-ok” sign, and rocketed out of sight.
I came to in a nearby FEMA tent, certain of what needed to be done. For comics, for art, for mankind.