Revolution is a young man's game, isn't it?Ĭut to early November 2010, the Tories are in power again and the papers are screaming "RIOT!" I sit there drunk and incredulous as my girlfriend runs through a list of tactics the police employ in such situations. I was obsessed with The Invisibles at the time, but as my twenties wore on and even Morrison began distancing himself from many of the book's conclusions, as good as admitting in recent interviews to their retrospective naivety, I became aware of an increasing disconnect between myself and the book. The Invisibles, Grant Morrison's hyper-sigilic magnum opus detailing the final phase of the primordial war between the forces of Order and Chaos, ended eleven years ago and with it an age of conspicuously politically motivated popular comic books, a trend beginning in the early eighties with the advent of 2000AD, which briefly flourished in the early nineties with comics like Crisis and Animal Man (another of Grant's books) and was finally killed off by Mark Millar and his CNN-infused but ultimately apolitical Ultimates run, where the news leader of the day was employed as entertainment as opposed to the starting gun for real critique. Which would be all very well if only Miles' voice didn't waver.Īnd if by this time, we, the readers, weren't wavering on this point too.īecause in fiction characters aren't bound by their pasts, they're not fixed in place, and if their creator wills it they can be a violent super-ninja freedom fighter, a successful, totally harmless horror writer and a dimension hopping agent of Chaos simultaneously, their "true" self located only in whatever overlapping sites of meanings the reader cobbles together from each cover story, forever hidden in the gaps.
Of course Ms Dwyer expects answers, and so the script above resolves itself into an affirmation of Miles' certainty that they've got the right man, the "King Mob" they've been looking for. The problem is that whenever Miles barges his way into his captive's mind to prise from him the details of his cell - its origins, structure and planned future insurrections - instead of being presented with a smooth self-history from which any relevant information can be plucked like paragraphs from a book, he's met by a discontinuous jumble of conflicting narratives, a choose your own adventure set of identities that resist coherent interpretation: the hard facticity of the man in Room 101 pinned to his chair by electronic manacles, psychotropic drugs, and a gunshot wound, sharply contrasted with the hazy question of who said man actually is. The man in question's identity is still unconfirmed, and the future crushing of enemy forces, forces opposed to the mind-tyranny of the Outer Church, the secret rulers of the earth that Miles and Dwyer represent, hangs precariously in the balance, and if results aren't forthcoming soon, well. Dwyer’s threatening her poor, beleaguered second in command with her tit.
"Now let me ask you again: is he this writer, this Kirk Morrison, is he Gideon Stargrave, or is he King Mob?"Īt this point in his interrogation of the leader of the terrorist cell incubating the future Buddha, Sir Miles is taking a severe ticking off from his kinky commanding officer, the were-bug, Ms. INCURSION ONE: IN WHICH MY GIRLFRIEND AND I CONTACT THE SPIRIT WORLD AND GET OUR FIRST BRIEF GLIMPSE BEYOND THE VEIL. Features Bomb Light in Faraway Windows: The Invisibles and Hauntology
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