A bright, dumb, gap-toothed lad goes rambling out-doors, inevitably finding himself within the deepest bowels of a living, breathing dog. His passage out the other end involves homespun dental work, a transforming pan-flute and the kind of reverse infestation which will make anyone look twice before they flush.
This comic, told with a void of verbiage that would make Franz Masreel howl at the moon, writhes with rubbery ink while doing a frenetic dance on the fence between classic cartooning and op-art abstraction. If you shoved John Kricfalusi in a blender with Mat Brinkman and successfully dared Bridget Riley to drink the mixture, her resulting stool would look identical to this comic book.
For some, it will recall the joys of freestyle walking down curved pavement, greeting dripping dogs and cross-eyed children. For others, it will recall their lunch as it lurches onto their tongue. In either case, the cyclical structure and ingrained velocity of Violence Valley will instigate the kind of reading experience that leaves folks wet and grinning.