By Chris Condon — Pull up a review of That Texas Blood. Go all the way back to number one, if you’d like. Maybe even our first review from The Nerdist. No, really. Do it. I’ll wait.

Okay. So now, you’ve got a review before you. Scroll through it. You don’t have to be thorough, just peruse it for a moment and get the general gist of it. I would venture a guess that at some point in this review or, hell, even if you wanted to scroll through the comments or jump over to Twitter or Reddit, that you’ll find some mention of the comic’s environment or specific location. For our readers, the story and the ‘where’ of it all go hand-in-hand.

That’s not a coincidence. 

The location and, consequently, the environment in which our comic is set is just as important as any character quirk that I write into a script or that Jacob beautifully renders onto the page. It’s not just because we’ve got the state in the title. I believe that if you establish an environment well, you will be creating a sense of place and, thus, a sense of authenticity that is hard to shake. Hopefully, if you’re lucky, that authenticity can last you for the entire series, no matter the narrative twists and turns that you throw at your readers. 

For That Texas Blood, we didn’t even wait for the first page to establish where we’re setting our story and what said story will be like. Again, it’s in the title. But aside from that, we wanted to let you know what was coming, and what better way than by quoting a travel guide designed for tourists seeking thrills and adventure on a dull road trip?

“It’s like a whole other country.” What a sentence. I wish that I could take credit for it but it’s the real deal, folks. Many novels will begin with an epigraph that bears some sort of thematic connection to the ensuing material. Our epigraph does that, yes, but it also gives us our first mildly ominous peek at the environment in which our story will take place. Aside from the great Jacob Phillips cover, this quotation is our first introduction to the world of That Texas Blood. It precedes the title of the chapter and precedes the very first panel. It’s creating a world in your mind that we will then build on as we tell our story through sequential panels for the following twenty-some pages. If we did our jobs well, once you’ve finished, you’ll feel that we’ve created the world you foresaw as you read that epigraph. If we did our jobs really well, you’ll feel that we’ve exceeded your expectations and will have you wanting more of the world, more of the characters, and yes, more of the story. 

Now, let’s take a look at the first few pages of our first issue. Again, we’re establishing a world; introducing its character as well as our human character, Joe Bob, yet unseen.

These first three panels tell us a lot. The very first panel introduces us to the place itself. It’s sparse, not a human or building in sight. The hills are low-lying and the sun is just cresting over the top of them. It’s a brand-new day. What’s to come of it? Next, we see a gas station and the sign advertising the town of Fort Lehane in Ambrose County, TX. Now, because of this sign, we know that this isn’t a completely barren desert. There are inhabitants. In fact, there are 1,250 people who live here. This gas station isn’t your average gas station though. The pumps aren’t up to date. That, right there, tells us something more about this place. It’s a slow place with a slow pace. Things don’t change like they do elsewhere in the United States, which harkens back to our epigraph. This is also reflected in the dialogue in both of these panels. Again, though, there are no physical people that we see. No vehicles. No homes. No sign of life. Just a gas station, maybe abandoned. Finally, the third panel. Ah, life. A well-kept home. Two cars, both clean. There are living people here. But who are they? One of them seems to be a cop. What kind of cop? Is he or she a good cop or a dirty cop? 

Next, we have another set of panels introducing our world further, this time the interior of the house. This page also establishes a past for this place and its characters. Let’s take a look.

Ignoring the early designs of both young Joe Bob and Eversaul (which changed, yes), let’s take a look at what these panels are doing and how they establish the location and the past. It should become clear in this page that we are not just moving through a location but a person’s life. We begin with a leap into the house that we saw the exterior of previously on page one’s third panel. We’re not in a living room or a kitchen. We’re in an office. It almost looks like a playroom. Model airplanes abound. There’s a sheriff star on the wall alongside various pieces of paper, some tacked to the wall, others framed. The next panel sees two men smiling and shaking hands. Both in uniforms. One of them must be our guy, right? Okay, so that introduces us to who we may be dealing with. But they’re smiling, right? Nothing bad could…well, let’s take a look at the following panel. Uh-oh. Satanic. Reign. Midnight. This doesn’t sound so good after all. Now, the following panel. A body on a gurney. The smiling sheriff’s deputy we saw previously looks shaken and his shoulders have been covered by a blanket. “Sheriff Gunned Down,” the headline reads. 

All of this leads, finally, to the introduction of our character, lying in bed. He’s the same man from earlier, only he’s older. Much older. It almost looks like he’s meditating.

It takes us three pages to get to our main character in the first issue of That Texas Blood. Why not just open on that overhead view of Joe Bob, looking down at him sleeping? Why waste so much time? Well, here’s the reason. Joe Bob isn’t just the man in the bed. He is a product of his environment. We see this from the very first panel. We see it in the hints that we get of his past. This man in the bed? He’s been through some stuff and, well, he’s thinking. And he doesn’t think fast. He takes it all in, just as his world does. Those sparse hills, the maybe defunct gas station? It is all reflective of him. His environment, in many ways, is him. It represents his past as well as his hopes and dreams. If we look at his office, we see those planes that populate the room. Why are they there? Why would a sheriff who has rarely, if ever, left town be obsessed with airplanes? You tell me if you don’t have a fantasy. Joe Bob certainly does. Does he want that sparseness in his life? Does he want the unchanging world that he lives in? It seems that, no, he’d rather be free, flying away to somewhere else. But has he done it? It appears he hasn’t. He lives out those hopes and dreams through models. 

Now, let’s jump forward a few issues to talk about how an environment can establish tension.

This sequence in issue three was very much inspired by the great crop-dusting sequence in Alfred Hitchcock’s North by Northwest, which also utilizes its desolate location to its full narrative advantage. Like its inspiration, we allowed the environment (and likewise Jacob’s artwork) to speak for itself.

There may be blue skies overhead, but they’re anything but hopeful. There is inherent tension in the scene. Why? It’s a simple equation. It’s because of the scenery and because of how much we have decided to show of it in each sequential panel. This is largely a silent scene, aside from the first page of it. Once we go to wide to show Randy’s isolation against this expansive, desolate backdrop, words flit away. All we are left with is the silence of the world and the looming threat that approaches. These panels largely showcase the environment dwarfing Randy. In some panels, you might think that the dusty soil beneath his feet will consume him. 

This scene is a prime example of how letting a scene, and yes, also the scenery, breathe to establish tension. Not everything needs to have a gun pointing in close-up or a fist being thrown and parried in quick succession. Those are fun, sure, but sometimes slowing down and looking around at what is and what isn’t around you can be much more suspenseful. In this scene, Randy is in the middle of the ocean without a life vest and just ahead there’s a shark approaching. Utilizing the environment in the way that we have allows that tension to simmer until it either cools or boils over.

Our use of environment continues into our current arc and will likely continue for the duration of the series. You can see this in our overhead view of the cult massacre in issue seven or in the arrival at the Wellman ranch at the conclusion of issue eight and in issue nine. Even in issue ten, we have a storm approaching, again, affecting our characters through their environment. I’ve often said that our story is about Ambrose County itself and it’s true. The location and environment of our comic is integral to the story. This is That Texas Blood after all. The place can’t help but to flow in its veins.

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Chris Condon is the writer of That Texas Blood.