By Lisa Gullickson — Party and Prey opens in a crowded gay club. The magenta lights illuminate a thick haze of pheromones and confetti. This is a safe space where people are encouraged to be who they are and get what they want - everyone is entwined and smiling. An older man surveys the crowd. He seems excited but also separate and nervous. He awkwardly rebuffs some guys, hurting some feelings even, until a slim early-twenty-something says “hey” and they begin a negotiation.

The younger man is flirty and forward as they dance forehead to forehead, but the older man is defensive and wary. Assurances are given and intentions are sussed out as they attempt to both speak and read between the lines. Eventually, they agree to go to the older man’s place after one drink at the bar.

The slasher sub genre plays on our fascination with things that are both terrible and true. In order to function in our daily lives, we have to operate from the presumption that, odds are, we will never be trapped, defenseless with our murderer. For some, tragically, that is not the case. The thrill of consuming slasher fiction is similar to looking down from a great height - like the edge of a cliff. We are not plummeting to our deaths, but in that instant we are reminded that some people do. We notice our heartbeats intensifying and our hair stands on end. We step back from the edge, and feel that rush of endorphins subside, and momentarily we feel more alive. In that way, slasher media is life-affirming.

Party and Prey points to another terrible truth revealed by the slasher genre that forces us not only to consider how we are unlike the victim, but there are instances where we have more in common with the cliff. We are cold, and unfeeling. The structure of the typical slasher narrative reveals that we as an audience have a strata of sympathy, starting from a place of indifference. It is accepted as a trope that the fictional slasher killings move towards a “final girl” who is generally the most virginal, socially conforming, and puritanically virtuous. The killer starts by eliminating the outcasts, the promiscuous, morally compromised, and other marginalized persons until they reach the high value target, the “good” person. From this, we get a sense of raising stakes.

The trope of the “Final Girl” is evidence that we, as a society, consider some murders more acceptable than others; the life lost in the first act is not as valuable as the life threatened in the third act. It would be one thing if this bias existed only in our fiction, but it permeates our system of law and order as well. There is a rampant prioritization of some lives over others. Members of populations who are more likely to go missing, like queer youth, are considered less worthy searching tirelessly for. Party and Prey is a cry from the marginalized. The bond of trust has been broken. How can they participate fully in a system that persistently moves their lives to the back of the line?

The experience of reading Party and Pray is teetering on an edge - the danger is palpable and vertigo inducing. Excuse my being purposefully obtuse as I protect the details of the plot, but trust me when I say that the balance of power is always wavering. There are so many variables that create the unease before writers Steve Foxe and Steve Orlando tip you right over the edge. Alex Sanchez’s art with Juancho’s colors expresses a toxic level of proximity. You are too close for comfort. You can get lost in the shadowy creases of a person's expression, but you never afforded the safety of seeing them in their entirety. You lose perspective. All you feel is gravity.

As I was reading Party and Prey, I became peculiarly self-conscious. I found myself wondering if I was the intended audience, like I wandered somewhere uninvited. I’m used to identifying with the “final girl” because, honestly, I am the final girl. I am white, cisgendered, intellectual, liberal-minded, risk-averse, slightly prudish. I proudly support LGBTQ+ issues from the relatively safe distance of “ally.” But in Party and Prey, I was gazing deeply into the intimate fears of queer culture and I wondered if I was inadvertanly trespassing.

Party and Prey is a big swing that lands. It is heavy; it will crack you open; it will leave you angry. As I turned the last page, churning with complex emotions, I found some answers. Foxe and Orlando include at the end of the comic, an Afterword that functions as a statement of intentions. They saw this comic as a platform to tell a really scary story that is not only compelling and entertaining, but that addresses issues that matter to them as queer men. Not only is Party and Prey an opportunity for queer people to see themselves represented in the slasher genre as more than fodder, but it is an invitation for those outside the queer community to consider the gross disparity that devalues and deprioritizes human lives.

Graphic Novel Review: Party and Prey

Party and Prey
Writer: Steve Foxe and Steve Orlando
Artist: Alex Sanchez
Colors: Juancho!
Letterer: Hassan Otsmane-Elhaou
Publisher: Aftershock Comics
Price: $17.99
Alan is used to being ignored by younger guys, so he hardly believes his luck when lithe, handsome Scott makes a move on him in the crowded gay club. But there’s a wolf on the dance floor tonight, and he’s hungry for fresh prey…
A taboo-breaking queer thriller from co-writers Steve Orlando (KILL A MAN) and Steve Foxe (Razorblades) and artist Alex Sanchez (The Evil Within), packed with twists sharp enough to draw blood.
Publication Date: October 6th, 2021
More Information: Party and Prey

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Lisa Gullickson is one half of the couple on the Comic Book Couples Counseling podcast, and, yes, the a capella version of the 90s X-men theme is all her. Her Love Language is Words of Affirmation which she accepts @sidewalksiren on twitter.