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YG Published monthly ond copyright (©) 1986 DC Comics Inc. CE MSAK Ceca The stories, characters and incidents MRL ey PLO All choracters featured in this CRRA wa Doreen trademarks of DC Comics Inc RO Ne CTea Crm) RORS "@ FOURN/ BORSSHACHIS Tot (2TH, 198: 006 CARCASS In aLLeY THIS MORNING, Tike TeeaD On Bukst stOMacH THis + 2itV 1s areaip oF in L Wave seen irs TRUE Face He Speers ai QR FULL Op 81000 Gi WHEN THE OR Seas bvew auc tH 2 VERMIN WIE OROWN, iD INS Finally THey HOB a cuoice, * ALL OF THEM. THey COULD Wave FOLLOWED IA THE FOOTSTEPS OF GOOD MEN Like MY FOTHeR OB PResioenT Funan a eee Watsepmen sees ANd COMMUNISTS Ano doneranaere ay Beasts oe Tt @ ApeD Pr ey 720 EIT Si SP a Walsts arb Olt Wnones ano eouiricians SHOUT "BOVE US! TL een, OND WHIEPER ONS NOW THe WHOLE waece : STands On THe BRINK, STARING Down INTO BLOODY HELL LL TH LIBERALS Ghd eLLECTUGLS ¢ an TALKERS, anyTHine TO say. FRANKLY, E = wwiiat 00 WELL, LOOKS CONT NEeb TO } ( GiKE SOMEONE BROKE IN BY, BUSTIN THIS OR Bown THAT WOULD. TAKE EITHER le N SERIOUS DRUGS, Secagse me boos HAS ‘A CHAIN FASTENED ON THE INSIOE: WHAT. You MEAN APART | [I "NO..0 MEAN THIS GUY, THIS FF BLAKE GUY, THE OCCUPANT HE HAD MUSCLES LIKE A WEIGHTLIEFTER “HE WO, Have Bat UB OME KINOA EIGHT, I'M CERTAN. MAYBE THE DATA We Have HIN TT Pee 5 Tatar wy THEY DON'T iwrerrere J} SCREW THEM WHAT ASOUT HE'S CRAZIER THAN A SNAKE'S, PIT AN JUST A SHIVER 2 BUTTS N CORPSES. MUST BE GETTINA coup. Un |) ot Pra a 4 Created by ALAN MOORE writer & DAVE GIBBONS illustrator & letterer im ALLTHE AGENTS mse jeoe LEN WEIN editor x i 4 Ase NY: aN \3 e = UH, HOLLIS, CISTEN I's ALMOST MIDNIGHT. I QUGHTTA 6o- (Sse You musta SEEN BoREO AS HELL iN Ou, T BUT HiKK away ‘A DOZEN TIMES: INTHE! HE MED] N' TUIRKIED TO. 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He Is Pampeges ano becodenr;, sereayine even His OWA isezoL TATIONS. possigl Homosexual? A Musr. ‘ Wi] _comemece iy TO INVESTIGATE “ROCKEFEN 1 MILITA orman’s in an. fl THe sunouerte fom J "rerieesin Ge In digewace, ate muepowen six Neers Layee Bra mal aoveRsaev eecine Revence 6.9 BLOATED, 6 ore DOLLOR BILL GOT 6uOT. ‘HooDed. Justice went migeing ins. I SHALL GO and Tec Tue Indésteucti Man THOT SOMeovi Plans To MURDER HIM e Remain OTH SARE Private QUaRTERS or RockereLler MAIL ITOR ReISERS OS BAD Brel Sieay Paitoee Wig etre WHIMPeRNs MRE saseuent. Way ORe 60 | Few rus Leer active, Hearty at Winoer Peesonayity disoRvers? WHAT ARE YOu BOING HERE, RoRscHAcHS THIS ic A OVERNMENT Age Anos Hear Vou'ee WANTED BY THE POLICE. THATS, JUSPECZYK. a BPREGRY FueT Kuane ky MOTHER YOU HAVEN'T ANSWERED MY Ques’ good EVENING, OR. MANHATTAN APOLOGIES: THE. COMEDIAN 15 DEAD. NOT MY MOTHER'S BIGGEST ADMIRER BUT ‘SOME THINGS ‘SHOULDN'T HaeBEN TO ANYBODY. ESE sites, BLAKE WAS A BASTARD Le wae A MONBTER V' Te WE COULD Pere 44, Nate Smee SOMETIME THar's \/” TON ?0HVEAH TERRIFIC. YEAH, TON'S IN PRETTY 6000 San SHAPE, Someone THREW HIM dur dea winoow ano & WHEN He HIT THE Because Here 1s soon YF Ono THeee IS and FHéke |6 evil, AND SOLITTE TIME. | eviL MUST 82 PUNISHED wee even in THe Face OF Mee ice @@MaGeDDON T SHALL « guen. miLtione J | nor comPeomise WILL PeRisH In TH Sick} ‘ano BUT THERE age soMony deseeving oF eereisution,, NOT REALLY, is Tusy THAT HEY, YOU UN WHILE. SITTER Ui IS EVERYTHING OKAY WITH | YOU'ANO JON ? T'S SUST E KEEP THINKING COULDN'T BE WTI THIBTY-E'VE. WHAT BETTER. HAVE I DONE ?* 2. Ae a Siar COSTUME BECAUSE STUBO. You ai Y'KNOW, WHEN © THAT COSTUME? THIN, BACK... WHY DID WE o'r? WHY Bib We DRECS Em UP UKE THAT? WITH THAT Stupip viTTe P SHORT BK? i THE KEENE: NO THE NECELINE AGT Was THE GONG DOWN TO gest THING May NAVEL 20D, Hat ever Tat WAS 2O HAPPENED DREADFUL TOUS) OH, You MEAN CAPTAIN CARNAGE LA HA uA HE Was ONE Foe tHe 600K Uy WELL HE PULLED br ON RORSCHACH, AND RORSCHACH DROPPED Hit DOWN! ANS ELEVATOR HAT. uaTEVE? SappeXeo TOHIM? THAT Tent FUNNY. HA HA HA HAHA He TRIED THAT WiTH THINK" TEEZ / HE'S BREATHIN' FUNNY: DOES He wave ASTHMA Foucows nie Bet it greeer EES DAYLIGHT, ar Hed AY IG SANs NO! CET. tosT! UNDER THE HOOD I. he lady who works in the grocery store at the co: my block is called Denise, ‘and she’s one of Americas great unpublished novelists. Over the years she’s writ- ten forty-two romantic novels, none of which have ever reached the bookstores. I, however, have been fortunate enough to hear the plots of the last twenty-seven of these recounted in installments by the authoress herself every time I drop by the store for a jar of coffee or can of beans, and my respect for Denise's literary prowess knows no bounds. So, naturally enough, when I found myself faced with the daunting task of actually starting the book you now hold in your hands, it was Denise I turned to for advice “Listen,” I said. “I don't know from writing a book. I have all this stuff in my head that I want to get down, but what do I write about first? Where do I begin?” Without looking up from the boxes of detergent to which she was fixing price tags, Denise graciously delivered up a pearl of her accumulated wisdom in a voice of bored but benign condescension. “Start off with the saddest thing you can think of and get the audience’s sympathies on your side. After that, believe me, it’s a walk.” Thank you, Denise. This book is dedicated to you, because I don't know how to choose between all the other people I'should be dedicating it to. The saddest thing I can think of is “The Ride of the Valkyries.” Every time I hear it I get depressed and start wondering about the lot of humanity and the unfairness of life and all those other things that you think about at three in the morning when your digestion won't let you sleep. Now, I realize that nobody else on the planet has to brush away a tear when they hear that particular stirring refrain, but that’s because they don't know about Moe Vernon. ‘When my father upped and left my Granddad’s farm in Montana to bring his family to New York, Moe Vernon was the man he worked for. Vernon's Auto Repairs was just off Seventh Avenue, and although it was only 1928 when Dad started working there, there was |just about enough trade for his wages to keep me and Mom and my sister Liantha in food and clothing. Dad was always really keen and enthusiastic about his work, and I used to think it was just because he had a thing about cars. Looking back, I can see it was more than that. It must have meant so much to him, just to have a job and be able to support his family. He'd had alot of arguments with his father about coming east rather than taking over the farm, like the old man had planned for him, and most of the rows had ended with my grandfather predicting poverty and moral ruination for my dad and mom if they so much as set foot in New York. To be living the life that he himself had chosen and keeping his family above the poverty line in spite of his father’s warnings must have meant more to my dad than anything in the world, but that’s something I only understand now, with hindsight. Back then, Ijust thought he was crazy for crankshafts. ‘Anyway, I was twelve years old when we left Montana, so during those next few years in the big city I was just the age to appreciate the occasional trips to the auto shop with my dad, which is where I first set eyes on Moe Vernon, his employer. Moe Vernon was a man around fifty-five or so, and he had one of those old New York faces that you don't sce anymore. It’s funny, but certain faces seem to go in and out of style. You look at old photographs and everybody has a certain look to them, almost as if they're related. Look at pictures from ten years later and you can see that there's a new kind of face starting to predominate, and that the old faces are fading away and vanishing, never to be seen again. Moe Vernon's face was like that; three chins, a wiseacre cynical curl to his lower lip, a certain hollowness around the eyes, hair retreating back across his head, attempting a rendezvous with the label on his shirt collar.