Currently, I'm reading The Wrath of The Spectre by Michael Fleisher and the late Jim Aparo.
If I were the delivery boy of hot, fresh, piping-hot miseries, I would want this man riding shotgun.
This is the man who was given the job of writing Jonah Hex , a character who got a potential sidekick who came with a small pox blanket.
Poignancy and "Damn, that's ****ed up," meet the new boss.
Aparo does some of his best, most detailed art here, a far cry from the looser style employed on such titles as Batman and... um... Batman... And The Outsiders.
Wrath of The Spectre is... how to put this in polite company... bat-shit insane. It's like this little person who just walks into your party, drops his pants and points and proclaims, "You're out of tequila... and taquitos"
It's a bit disturbing and short but one hell of a story.
Add to the mix, a swinging babe Gwen Sterling, heir to a hair salon dynasty, who ten minutes after her after gets blown up in a pool (!) asks The Spectre's alter ego, Lt. Jim Corrigan out on a date. That failing, she finds out he and The Spectre are one and the same causing her to stalk them both.
Later, she will try to kill him with a meat cleaver.
Hey, we all handle our grief differently, I guess.
The main hook of the book is just how f*cked up The Spectre is to everyone, including the people he's supposed to be helping. In one scene, four elderly women are on the verge of being swindled out of their fortunes by a fake swami, The Spectre appears from within a crystal ball, turning the dude into crystal and sorta just casually tips his ass over...
I damn near pissed myself laughing.
These poor women damn near broke, watching their path to spiritual enlightenment shattered right before their eyes by a chalk-white man in a green Speedo and skulls for corneas and all The Spectre could do was, "Is somebody gonna clean this shit up, 'cause I gotta turn into smoke here."
I would pay DC Comics to let me write this comic.