A greasy cloud of chaos hangs over this collection, where Simon Hanselmann lets Megg, Mogg, and Owl spiral deeper into emotional sludge and deadpan cruelty. The jokes land like ashtrays, blunt and a little sad, as friendships warp under boredom, drugs, and passive-aggressive needling. Owl, forever the punching bag, tries to cling to structure while the others gleefully dismantle it, panel by panel, leaving behind a trail of psychic debris.

There’s a strange gravity to it all, a mix of gutter humor and quiet despair that keeps pulling you back in. Hanselmann sharpens his rhythm here, stretching awkward silences and mean little jabs into something almost musical, like a dirge played on broken instruments. It’s ugly, funny, and uncomfortably familiar, capturing the slow rot of bad habits and worse company with a kind of hypnotic precision.