I only stopped reading for a while due to financial constraints*, so clearly I don't need any strong thrills to carry on reading (see prog 881).
The current slice of beetroot bleeding inconsiderately all over my plate is Skip Tracer. I poke at it with my fork, and am then sad - because now my fork is contaminated. I wonder at it - sitting there on series seven of its mediocrity as the likes of Grudge-Father, Trash, Dry Run, Junker & Babe Race 2000 look on in awe - wondering why they were sent to the knacker's after a much shorter exposure.
Ah now, says Tharg - there's nothing else I could possibly print. Who wants the next installment of The Alienist, or Brass Sun, or Helium, or Full Tilt Boogie (or Witch World, croaks a hopeful patient in the next ward) - when we are yet to find out if the Man With The Magic Eyes and his Daughter of Wonderment will escape an inescapable fate by being threatened and shouted at and probably tied up - perhaps by minotaurs. Oh no! There's no way out, no way they can possibly ... wait! Those foolish fiends have forgotten the magic eye powers of narrative convenience! No bonds, no locks, no burly miscreants can stand against their ill-defined powers!
* "Due to financial constraints the light at the end of the tunnel will be turned off until further notice"