Writers: Ron Marz, Brandon Peterson
Artist: Brandon Peterson
Publisher: CGE (Crossgen)
I really must stop giving everybody the benefit of the doubt. The cover really does say it all. Chimera is about breasts. In the opening pages, the perky ones seem to be shy, and there's almost the possibility of a story, but by page ten the jugs jut proudly, and although there seems to be a woman attached, it is indeed these wonderful silicone globules of joy who absorb the attention, rather like conical sponges. The buttocks also get some face time, but not quite so much as the cachongas.
By page ten, the casabas control everything. Somebody seems to be speaking, but ah, those breasts, they command the audience and force the eye to notice their bosomy "goodness." Notice how they create a posture for the woman attached that resembles Bigfoot's gait shown on the Patterson hoax-film. It is clear that the woman is immaterial. The melons manipulate the model.
On page eleven, the heavenly spheres shimmy out of a jacket whose purpose only seems to be accenting their prominence and importance to their characters. If the jacket were being worn for warmth, then it would have been zipped up all the way over their canteloupean contours. So, clearly, it is a fashion statement by the breasts that says: "We're here! Come see us!" And it's hard to miss them. Bless their cheek.
On page twelve and thirteen, the cameraman brings into focus the most important characters of Chimera. That's right. The breasts. This is a simply fascinating technique. The characters seem out of focus for one, two and three panels, and it really looks like the background is going to compete. The words aren't very interesting. You can however appreciate that there is some dialogue in this scene, but here we come. We're getting closer. We are the breasts.
On page fourteen, the watermelons wear something even more revealing. They are packed with girlish enthusiasm, let me just say. They now switch to a pink tank top: the better with which to tease gravity. On page fifteen, there seems to be a story trying to push past their pulchritude, but once again the braless wonders usurp control from poor Ron Marz.
The sweet succulents incur another costume change on page fifteen. They discreetly discard the pink tank top off screen. After all, this is a PG-13 comic book, which will no doubt rivet the attention of adolescent boys and lesbians everywhere. The doggies don a satin, light bronze number to better emphasize their jiggley acting skills.
In case you believe the breasts are prima donnas and give no time for the other members of the cast, we do learn the woman attached to the stars has a sigil on her back. I guess branding it to one of her boobies would have been too, too obvious.
On page sixteen, the cleavage show their chops. Back in their pink tank top, they behave mysteriously as an arm blocks half of their Siamese twin double-act. The shadows darken to gently caress the lefty's curvature and enhance her enigmatic performance. The breast just may be hiding something besides a nipple.
On page sixteen, both ta-tas turn back to the support of their white Power Girl type costume and act heroically as they point out of the framing leather jacket. The girls just positively dance in the air and convey a sense of Úlan as they pilot a hovercraft over the snow.
On page seventeen the curious cup-fillers pry out of their thanks for trying harness to investigate a promising patch of snow. On page eighteen, our heroes--by which I mean the breasts--fall into a crevice. Such is their power that they take the woman attached with them. This just may be very clever Freudian subtext. In short, better than Killraven and a night spent watching J.A.G., but then what isn't?
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