Hence, Fukitor.

Fukitor is Karns' latest stab at gory glory in the sequential art netherworld. For those of you not in the know (shame, shaaaaame), Karns previously made a name for himself in the illustrated underground with titles like Tales From Uranus, Tomb Of Satanic Gore, Crypt Of Sadism, and Bloody Skull Comix. Imagine if William Gaines and Robert Crumb got plastered and somehow managed to give homosexual birth to a perpetually pissed-off and eternally L.S.D.-addicted sociopath. Then they taught him to draw. That might give you a good idea about what you're getting into when you pick up a James Karns comic book. They're raunchy, ugly, offensive, cruel, and overflowing with splatter. They're gross, depraved, obscene, vicious, and vile. Oh, and they have a completely irrepressible sense of humor.

To put it simply, boils and ghouls, this is low brow entertainment of the highest order.

Don't believe me? Fine. Then read on, true believer, and discover a world of garish macabre delights, as yours cruelly dives in and dissects the first five issues of Fukitor, for your review-readin' pleasure.

Don't say I didn't warn ya.

Fukitor #1

The first issue begins with a story titled "Poseur Holocaust," which, for those of you unable to glean the plot from that title alone, concerns the gruesome massacre of a trendy group of cemetery-loitering "dumbfux" at the unholy hands of a shitload of ugly-ass zombies. "Dungeon Of Bloody Death," meanwhile, takes its cues from TOMBS OF THE BLIND DEAD, showcasing a horde of hooded undead monks rise from the grave to torture and murder one very unlucky braindead skank in the most grisly, graphic, and sexually violent ways imaginable. Wait until you see the horrific results of her exposure to "the booby trap." Then, "Carny Tramp" (which is easily one of the best tales in the entire series, no shittin' ya) explores the seedy world of sideshows and scum-encrusted, smoke-stinking fairground folk. Though this one is just as over-the-top offensive, uncompromising, and flat-out gross as all of Karns' tales, this one feels, more than any of the others, like it could fit right in at home between the pages of one of E.C.'s popular monster mags from back in the day. In fact, it instantly brings to mind stories such as "Lower Berth," "Well Cooked Hams," and "Food For Thought" (not to mention, bizarrely, LEPRECHAUN 3), as it recounts the story of a bovine five-dollar hooker who becomes the apple in the solitary eye of the traveling carnival's freakshow cyclops. It's a touching tale of unrequited love, brutal vengeance, and disgustingly large phalluses. It's worth noting, by the way, that the tagline for this one ("She'll put mayo on your corndog!") never fails to make me chortle like the retarded hillbilly spawn of Jim Varney's loins that I am. Next up, in "The Chesty Cannibals," a pair of bubbleheaded bimbos go through a questionable and untested medical procedure to give them super-duper jumbo-sized honkers, with appalling consequences (natch). That's right, now these twats have got an appetite for human flesh and tits so humongous they could crush a man's skull (which, you can bet your ass, they damn well do indeed). And, finally, with "Poseur Holocaust 2" another band of irritating idiots, this time a bunch of whiny, d-baggy, poetry-bloggin', mallrat goth motherfuckers, get their deadly desserts when they run afoul of a family of inbred redneck psychopaths who know all the real secrets to culinary greatness.

Fukitor #2

The second issue starts off strong with "Zombie Gorebath," a hilarious bloodbath/clusterfuck that combines virtually every zombie movie cliche' together in one decadent orgy of entrails that ultimately climaxes with no less a devastating event than Arma-freaking-geddon! Next up, we've got "The Horrors Of Doctor Sadist," a similarly biting humorous take on the classic mad scientist archetype, which tells the tale of a pair of clueless fornicators who make the bad move of mistaking an ancient, accursed castle as a prime make-out spot, and end up subjected to the devious, diabolical experiments of the titular doc as a result. Last but not least, "Face Eaters" tackles one of the most commonly skewered themes in Karns' books: human stupidity. When a nuclear power plant experiences some, ahem, malfunctions... the result is the monstrous mutation of several of its employees, a problem that eventually becomes a virtual epidemic thanks to the bundled attempts to stem the problem by fighting it with, well, more radiation. The moral of the story, kids, is if a monster that was spawned by nuclear radiation attacks you, don't nuke it. That'll only make the problem worse. All in all, issue two definitely ranks as one of the strongest, funniest books to bear the Fukitor name yet, and "Face Eaters" in particular has a groovy, Troma-esque vibe to it.

Fukitor #3

Despite the fact that this ish has a mere two tales to work with, the usual putrid piles of viscera, gratuitous nudity, nonstop cussing, and uproarious tongue-in-cheek camp comedy are nonetheless supplied in abundance. "Tomb Of The Sick Fucks" regales us with the unsurprisingly bleak and blood-soaked downfall of a pair of headstrong, money-hungry, grave-robbing would-be archeologists who dare to set foot into the unholy Tombs Of Diktar. They go in search of riches and valuable old-timey artifacts, but what they get is their own dadgum asses handed to them by a clan of maggot-puking yellow-skinned gutmunchers. After that, the "stalk 'em and stab 'em"-style "Suburban Slasher Massacre" makes light of the curious horror film trope of insane asylums full of rabid psychotic lunatics being located right in the unsuspecting innocent hearts of humdrum suburban towns. Watch in cruel, crazed delight as a nuttier-than-a-squirrel sociopath breaks free of his captivity and goes on a penis-ripping, chainsaw-revving, hedgeclipper-thrusting, severed head pizza-serving, weedwacker-wielding rampage, only to meet his own messy, bullet-riddled demise thanks to the smoking gun of a pissed-off copper whose wife the maniac dared to bloody up during shower time oh so many years ago. Though the quantity of stories present here is minimal, the quality of said stories is pumped up to the maximum, making issue number three another of Karns' best.

Fukitor #4

Hey folks, do you like zombies? Of course you do! How about vampires? You like them? I thought so! Alright, one last question. Do you like cannibals? Damn fuckin' skippy right! If you like all that, in addition to wicked pistol-blazing fury, intentionally lame dialogue, and heaping helpings of wanton sex, then you're gonna love "Blood Cult On Zombie Island," the story that starts issue five off with a bang. This bad boy bubby throws flicks like MAKE THEM DIE SLOWLY, DOCTOR BUTCHER M.D., and CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST into a blender with hearty doses of cheese, turkey, ham, and corn, then hits "puree." Mm-mmm, delicious. Hot on the heels of that freaky-deaky cerebellum-molester is the triumphant return of mad scientist shenanigans with "Claws Of The Fetus," which features the zit-faced son of the earlier-described Dr. Sadist attempt to follow in his fallen father's footsteps... with similar results. Last but not least, we've got one of my favorite Karns stories so far, "Summer Camp Maniac," which plays out as a combination of SLEEPAWAY CAMP and TRICK OR TREAT. In it, a teased and terrorized loser summons the satanic spirit of heavy metal to imbue himself with the power to brutally kill off the other campers who've made his life a living hell. If you're like me, then you're a diehard metalhead with an intense hard-on for the sleazin', skeezin' slasher flicks of the 1980's, and you simply have to read "Summer Camp Maniac," period. Ear-to-ear smiles will be had by all ROCKTOBER BLOOD/BLACK ROSES/ROCK N' ROLL NIGHTMARE fans and THE BURNING/KILLER WORKOUT/FRIDAY THE 13TH fans alike.

Fukitor #5

Okay now, this issue is the special "Insanely Idiotic War Issue!" Although there are only two tales in this ish, there's no shortage of blood, guts, or ballstomping ultraviolence. This is also one of the most unrepentantly offensive and politically incorrect issues by far. First, "The Green Hellion" takes us back to the heady days of Vietnam, as we watch a platoon of inexperienced rookies led by one put-upon combat vet get shot to shreds by Charlie's guerilla soldiers. That is, until one of the good ol' boys suddenly loses his shit and goes all white trash RAMBO on their asses. The other story meanwhile, titled "Special Forces Attack Squad," keeps things solidly in the present day. In it, we watch a crack team of American G.I.'s wreak havoc on Middle Eastern terrorists, and the whole thing comes across like some twisted action figure play session performed by a deranged twelve year-old future serial killer armed with a bucketful of army toys and a head full of thoroughly inappropriate ideas about what war is really like.

There you have it. Fukitor, issues one through five, described, divined, n' defiled by yours cruelly for the benefit of you, the faithful BthroughZ reader.

These comic books aren't just acts of defiance though. They're also acts of genuine love, honesty, and nostalgia as well. Fukitor isn't just about being gleefully offensive. It's also about paying tribute to the trashy fringe cult masterpieces of the past. Not only do you see a lot of Robert Crumb and E.C. Tales From The Crypt/Vault Of Horror/Shock SuspenStories influence here, but you can also clearly see the genetic codes of such illustrated schlock literature titans as Creepy, Eerie, Gore Shriek, Twisted Tales, and the Skywald "Horror-Mood" magazines. The content of Fukitor might be well summed up as a hybrid of those infamous Eerie Publications books (a la' Tales Of Voodoo, Tales From The Tomb, and the like) crossbred with Mike Judge's Beavis & Butt-Head cartoons.

Imagine that.

Now imagine turning any n' all attempts at civility, class, or culture all the way down (goodbye Poe adaptations), while simultaneously turning all the crass sleaze, cheese, and exploitation insanity all the way up. All the way to eleven, Spinal Tap-style. Throw in a few million swear words, remove anything that resembles respect for the idea of storytelling subtlety, and finally stir in a heavenly lump of carefree sex and violence. If that sounds like the kind of toxic pop culture vomit you'd enjoy ingesting, then I definitely advise you to seek out a few issues of Fukitor for your putrescent perusal.

Some of the above-reviewed Fukitor stories are actually reprints of materials from Karns' earlier works, such as Tales From Uranus and Bloody Skull Comix. But that's totally cool considering the fact that, unless you bought 'em when they first came out, those titles are now out-of-print and utterly impossible to find. Sorry newbies, no back issues available.

If you're new to Karns' work then these Fukitor books are indispensible. If, however, you're already a fan and have several issues of Tales or Bloody Skull, then you may be wary about re-buying material you already own. Ultimately though, it's more than worth it just to get your hands on the stuff that's brand new, which is just as good, if not better, than those rootin' tootin' reprint stories.

Jake Karns' soul is a dark place to visit, populated as it is with chainsaw-wielding nutjobs, deformed sideshow freaks, out-of-their-gourd scientists hellbent on world domination, testosterone-crazed bullet-blasting Arnold Schwarzenegger clones, supernatural heavy metal demonoids, hooter-wobbling cannibal trollops, undead monks, Amazonian headhunters, nazi weirdoes, and every kind of zombie you can think of, and even a few you can't. Not to mention all those helpless naked women who so frequently wind up whipping out their milkbags only to get dismembered, disemboweled, and decapitated in short order soon thereafter. Still, as dark as Karns' devil-owned soul may be, it's also a place that, if you're like me, you'll never want to leave. Because mixed in with all that tenebrous terror n' decrepit doom is a genuine sense of fun. Remember that these aren't "straight" horror comix. They're horror-comedies. And the sense of fun in them comes, most predominantly, from a warm-hearted devotions towards the 70's and 80's, the gruesome glory days of horror comics and cinema, back when the genre made no apologies nor efforts to fit in n; rip a few bucks off the tween market.

Karns recalls a time when Don Dohler's three B's (blood, boobs, and beast) were the order of the day, and he clearly yearns to keep the spirit of that time alive. Nevertheless, that doesn't mean he isn't willing to have a few laughs at the expense of some of the dumber crapola that ran so rampant through the genre back then (and, in truth, pretty much still does). Fukitor's tales often highlight the outright idiocy of horror movie characters, and the ridiculous, stereotypical situations we've all come to accept as narrative standards, with equal parts irreverent parody and nostalgic esteem. He makes fun of the dumb-ass bologna, while simultaneously taking delight in it, never failing to remember that, truth be told, the nincompoopery of it all is what, in all actuality, holds much of the appeal. If John and Jane weren't moronic enough to sneak into the spooky, foreboding graveyard after midnight, then we wouldn't even have a plot, would we? We wouldn't get to see them torn limb from limb by slobbering, cleaver-swinging ghouls. Heck, we probably wouldn't enjoy watching it as much to begin with either, y'know, if they weren't so fucking stupid and thus deserving of the vile deaths that befall them.

Overflowing with graphic and gratuitous gore n' nudity, as well as a powerful, ever-present strain of nihilistic wit, these Fukitor comix delivers copious amounts of sex and violence in excess, paired with some truly vicious jet-black humor, as well as enough referential comedy to keep even the most esoterically adept exploitation movie geek playing "Spot The Homage" for days. If you like old-school underground comix, the classic illustrated horror anthologies of yesteryear, and psychotronic schlock cinema sickies like BURIAL GROUND: NIGHTS OF TERROR, PORNO HOLOCAUST, or ZOMBIE LAKE, then there's not a single reason in the whole bloody universe why you shouldn't already be clamoring to get your hands on the output of the maniacal Mr. Karns.

Itchin' to give his shit a shot? Then visit www.Fukitor.blogspot.com for all your toxic Karns-produced needs n' wants. And remember... true independence, like the kind that Jake Karns deals in, is worth its weight in gold.

Pick up an issue, slap a Fondlecorpse disc in the C.D. player, and sit back with one of these almost plotless tales of sadistic subhumanoid anarchy. Turn your brain off, and throw your horns up. Excelsior!!!

Until next slime...
Stay sick!
Your pickled pal,
William Weird.