Apparently -- and thanks to Karasik's efforts -- being a Fletcher Hanks completist is one of the more low maintenance manifestations of obsessive compulsion you could adopt, because this latest 224 page volume contains pretty much everything by Hanks that wasn't already included in Destroy. As such, we get to see a wider range of the artists' stable of recurring characters -- Destroy being pretty heavy on the adventures of Stardust, The Space Wizard and Fantomah, Mystery Woman of the Jungle -- including the likes of half-hearted Flash Gordon knock-off Space Smith; Tabu, Wizard of the Jungle (who basically just seems to be a male version of Fantomah, though without the whole transforming-into-a-flaming-skull business), and Big Red McClane, who's the type of thuggish, strong-arm enforcer for corporate lumber interests that any boy could look up to.
This broader view of Hanks' work also really underscores just how much his inspiration was fueled by fantasies of vengeance. His attempts at conventional, plot-driven narrative tend to be cursory and prosaic, and it is only when depicting his villains' nihilistic schemes and the karmic retribution they provoke that his imagination really takes flight, pouring on the perversely elaborate detail with obvious relish. What also struck me particularly with this volume was the staggering isolation of Hanks' heroes. With the exception of a few serially-imperiled damsels, there are seldom sidekicks or supporting players here, and while there is the occasional villain with an actual name and recognizable countenance, these never hold their place on the stage for very long, with the hero's nemesis just as likely being depicted as a faceless horde, often seen only in long view as insect-like huddles drawn with no attention to individual detail. It is almost as if the presentation of any kind of one-on-one interpersonal relationship was beyond Hanks' capabilities.All of the above -- as well as much of what has been written elsewhere about Hanks' comics -- might lead you to believe that a collection like You Shall Die By Your Own Evil Creation! would not be your type of thing -- that it would, in fact, be kind of a downer. And it's hard to argue with that. This is indeed a hard look into the mind of a man consumed by bitterness, rage and despair, albeit one rendered in brightly colored splash panels and emphatically worded speech balloons. I myself find it absolutely compelling. Because of its broader scope, it lacks the focus of the previous volume, but still provides a vivid portrait of a jarringly distinctive artist, one whose emergence might only have been possible during the "Wild West"-like formative years of his medium. Recommended.

