Notwithstanding the traditional comic book dictum that mutations are almost always the by-product of military/industrial catastrophe; a trope that embodies, quite literally, the imagined fallout of Cold War nuclear paranoia. That is unless, of course, these transformations originate from outer space; a vague and nebulous region from where the repressed inscrutably returns — here in sticky, gooey, indistinguishable form. Or rather, a black, amorphous, and (go-figure) oil-like substance through which the pleasures of darkness can be channeled — like any contemporary hipster — into monochromatic clothing, a dangerous affinity for soul music, and quasi-ridiculous emo-boy-band-haircuts.
