The Legend of Luther Strode #6

written by Justin Jordan
art by Tradd Moore
colors by Felipe Sobreiro

I'm not entirely sure how you can sneak up on someone with a chainsaw, especially when that someone has superhuman hearing, but Petra's dismantling of a distracted Jack is greatly satisfying.  Luther Strode might be the titular hero, but The Legend of Luther Strode belongs to Petra.  It's her story, and the series is at its best when she's in the middle of it.  Strode and Jack's super-duel is entertaining but not nearly as lively as Luther's flirtation with Petra and her fiery bravado in taking down Jack and rescuing his hostages despite being physically over-matched.  She may seem glib—"Once again, there anyone fucking here?!  I swear I am not a mutilating mummified psychopath!  Usually." (The Legend of Luther Strode #6: 15)—but she's the human heart at the center of the horror.  Her visceral reaction to the bloodbath, even if perpetrated by Jack, is welcome recognition of the inhumanity that's become part of Luther's life.  And for it, Luther is a better man when she's around.

Jack, on the other hand, is a reminder of Luther's world, the one he's stumbled into and found difficult to escape.  Cain, the first murderer and founder of Luther's bloody discipline, has many followers, a brotherhood of powerful, blood-thirsty men.  I assume, mostly men, though a woman would be an intimidating twist.  For most of the mini-series' concluding issue, it seems that tracking down the rest of this grisly coterie would be Luther and Petra's final task, but then they find themselves standing outside a mass murder, covered in blood, and confronted by a legion of police.

The Legend of Luther Strode #6 isn't the series' finest visual offering, but it's a beautifully gory end to the tale.  Tradd Moore's two-page splash—and I do mean "splash"—of Jack's massacre in the shopping mall (2-3) is powerfully reminiscent of a bloody, morbid Where's Waldo seek-and-find:  dead and mutilated bodies decorating the fountains and food court, sculptures of limp and impaled corpses, and such a chaotic glut of carnage that making out the details is part of the perverse fun.