Nerding Day: ICE the Comic Book (Patreon)

Breaching hell’s a start. We still haven’t mapped it, learned what’s edible, or picked up local history. With the gate wide open, I’m curious how the daemon princes got there. Competitive job, after all. Time for a cultural tour of hell.

Starting with hell’s blockbusters.

Or aspiring blockbusters. I.C.E. wears its Bad Boys dreams on its forehead. 12-Gauge Comics thought this would be a TNT rerun by now, though studios are still days away from optioning this. Weeks, even.

That’s our hero.

As a 2011 mistake, I.C.E. hints at how modern maskcels see themselves. And eats this-isn’t-us laments. The Migrant Slayer trade paperback debuted after Vine. This would be a film recap if the plot had more oomph. Perhaps if the cartel supersoldier planned to get caught? That was a free pass for decades. Alternatively, the gangs could be a VagueCorp front to maintain the status quo. Thrillers love that one.

Knowing a bit about the writer helps. Doug Wagner broke out later with Plastic, a horror/action romp about a serial killer avenging a blow-up doll. I thought it was fun, but I should be on most lists.

Think John Wick from a secret order of sex offenders. Much more tasteful than I.C.E., with a more relatable hero. It’s nice to see growth.

Plastic makes better use of your time, and tips Wagner as a controversy hound. Both pitches sought clicks when clicks mattered, and finger-wags when shame existed. In the aftermath, I.C.E. feels like an old yearbook.

I didn’t dig high school.

Good thing I.C.E. emerged as a comic, since I can finish anything with decent paneling. Hand me sixty pages of my own murder, and I’d compliment the inker. On that note, the art has flavor. Not for emotions and stuff, but you can tell Jose Holder likes violence. Me too! I’m glad he drew non-I.C.E. comics later.

I’ll be back for that.

The ode to jackboots starts with a chase across the border. This bit’s important. Like most executive decisions between Flight 175 and this morning, founding I.C.E. reeked of imperial rot. So a blockbuster tribute has to reach for upsides. Like racing gun runners to the border.

If nothing else, I.C.E. isn’t slow. First, some mortal cops flop around.

Pitiful. Luckily, Blitzmensch Joe arrives with the will to triumph:

That’s Ezra, a caricature that bends bullets, represents The Good Ones, and dies.

That’s Benno, a caricature that loves guns, loves pussy, and represents Real Americans.

That’s Alli, a caricature that complains, tempts death, and isn’t really in the book. If you outlined this nonsense, you’d merge Alli with Cole or Ezra. But Cole embodies I.C.E. girth, so that’d kill the mood. Plus Ezra’s here to die, and Kyle Rayner’s fridge is crowded. Can’t have I.C.E. aging poorly. Sometimes, Alli holds two guns.

That’s Cole, our leader and power fantasy. Power fantasy’s a neutral concept—one-man corpse factories fill half my library, and my entire psyche. But 120 pages of Patriot Act Rambo stabbing Mexican C.O.B.R.A. gets bleak. It recalls the untermensch-hunting sniper from Inglorious Basterds/American Sniper/American Sniper 2: Protester Hunt. Cole’s a caricature that cuts outsiders, grunts orders, and begs for Jumanji alumni.

Right, I should explain that last bit. Issue Zero triple-underlines Cole’s island roots, mass, and balding. The other four center his mass, gruff authority, and balding. Clearly, 12-Gauge Comics wanted Kevin Hart.

See? Straight out of Think Like a Man.

That electrifying cameo’s the first cliffhanger. After the tutorial cartel, shit gets serious. When I said I.C.E.’s heels didn’t plan to get caught? A naked lie. Plans to get caught peaked in 2011. Villains planned to get caught by heroes that planned to get caught in an infinite helix, spiraling towards heaven, which Lucifer planned to fall from. It evolved from a twist to a tradition, like haiku.

Lord, I should’ve given InstaPoets more rope. I’d take a thousand Rupi Kaur clones baby-birding the same breakup poem over one Kirk meme or jawbone shaving guide. We need garbage with heart.

Back to the action: the sting’s a trap by Morales, the Lu Bu of human trafficking. His spear’s too strong for nerd cops and their rules.

The fears of a thousand Kirks made flesh. Unstoppable by the minions of oversight. Here’s the last undercover cop that tried:

Grim stuff. Even Benno’s scared, and he fucked today. I’d trade your rights to avoid that fate. Not mine. Mine are sacred.

It’s not a one-agency show. After Morales springs his trap, S.W.A.T. turns the tables.

Just kidding, they’re not renegade enough. That carriage explodes like a covenant marriage. Near a brown baby, you go full auto or meet God. Only I.C.E. have the balls to keep their balls.

Morales’s lines bounce between 1960’s Joker and high school Spanish. The blend captivates, like two trains kissing.

Despite the ambush wiping local beat cops (pussies) and SWAT (franchise-stealing cowards), Morales gets cornered by the premium lats of I.C.E. Then Ezra begs for a taste of extrajudicial murder.

Cole’s not feeling it. “Otnay inyay ontfray ofyay ethay odybay amerascay,” as they say. He gives the same speech about the law we’ve heard since the first mammoth thief captured in a cave painting. As the biggest caveman, Cole’s word is the law.

Morales escapes in ten pages, and fillets Ezra in twenty. There’s a flow to these things. In copaganda’s first arc, the law is an honor. In the middle, it’s a shackle. In the end, it’s a bludgeon. That, and Morales planned to get caught after planning to get caught. He’s corrupted I.C.E.’s only bad apple:

God, look at that Fox News anxiety dream go. Here, I accepted that Morales is a mentat. Two hits of CIA-grade melange, and the future’s an open book. A book he uses to kill more cops, to get more melange, to see further ahead, to kill more cops. Life can be a treadmill, find one you love like Morales.

Meanwhile, Ezra likes being alive, duty, America, and just the last two really.

Earning the American dream: management approval. Whether you love I.C.E. or read books, the main lesson is “anyone can be a fascist.” Now that his career’s peaked, Ezra can find his destiny.

Man, destiny sucks. Riffs on accepting fate would track better if fewer fates were “labor, suffering, fertilizer.” Even if you never piss off Lu Bu, chemo and nursing homes make a knife fight exit look appealing.

Now, it’s normally only a bit funny when someone gets crucified. But take a moment with the cover. I call it Madonna and Customs:

That guy, on the left? That’s not Benno.

The stranger’s pale and grizzled, sure. And he’s not pleased to find Ezra dying for Mexico’s sins. But he’s not Benno, our blonde, permanently-confused playboy. St. Ezra had two friends in the world, and a boss. His funeral portrait should get them right.

If you’ve seen an action flick before, you can channel the plot from here. All the omens are in your hands—Wagner’s less inept, more on a doomed mission.

First, hardcore survival.

Note: that’s the best page. It’s an old spot, but so’s an Irish whip.

Then, softcore suits get in the way. Boo them.

Don’t you hate suits? How they say you can do exactly what you want, to who you want, with the full backing of the death machine, but have to wait fifteen minutes? Thank White Jesus and Token Mary our cowboy cuts through the red tape (and Mexican sovereignty). Cole hands in his badge and swears to become our worst crime in Mexico that week.

Finally, hardcore vengeance.

The national psyche is fine. That’s a hero during an upward spiral. Ignore the alarmists in future textbooks.

Mercifully, Cole’s squad talks some sense into him.

Go Joe!

I mean really, leaving your friends out of your court martial? Uncool. Global headlines are more fun together. Especially surprises. Brendan doesn’t even know he’s half of the Washington Square Park Incident yet. It could be the Union Square Incident, but we’re not tourists.

Now that’s a sheepdog. I wish I had more rights to sign over.

We’re full-on Bad Boys now. It’s time for Will Smith to smack the shit out of starting over. It’s time for the P. Diddy track to starting over. It’s time for an oversight-free I.C.E. hit squad to Jesus Christ.

It’s time…time is a relentless, demonic master. How do we conquer time? I need to figure divination out soon. Even Morales’s plot-perception fails him:

You might imagine a thousand plots, sane or otherwise, from an I.C.E. agent’s stay in Mexico. Eat shit. It gets one issue. Wagner’s Mexico is one big Call of Duty map, and Cole’s on a streak.

In case this is your first taste of action: the rogue patriot avenging his best friend wins the knife fight. Narratives, like dick jokes, are neither good nor evil: they simply obey the user. For every Sisu, there’s an I.C.E.

Wait, there’s a lesson here! Building a body ladder to settle a vendetta isn’t cool. I’m glad we cleared—

There’s a real lesson too! There’s no sane America to return to. We need a new angle.

Under clown bushido, I’ll note some circular plotting: I.C.E. ends on a border run to America. Get it? It’s like the start of the comic. You get it. I’d rather make Birth of a Nation than A Rebel Born, so these distinctions matter. It saves future sociologists time.

You didn’t think the war machine would leave Cole behind, did you? Even suits crave the fresh flavor of heathen blood. They just like to have meetings first. Nerds.

Thus Cole returns to a hero’s welcome. He did break a treaty or twelve on the way, along with the only law he enforces. So they’ll probably melt all his medals into one big, inconvenient medal. That’ll learn him.

For imperial madness, I.C.E.’s a bit like finding blood in your urine. In a sixteen-year-old medical report. Below fifteen others. You might have a rough year.

This article was brought to you by our fine sponsor and Hot Dog Supreme: Dusty's Rad Title, who reminds you that paint and sand is fun to mix in a balloon, but be careful because it is very hard to clean if it pops.

You can read this article and every other one on the much better in every way 1900HOTDOG.COM