The last time I reviewed a Garth Ennis book, I wrote that Ennis is a talented writer given to laziness and pandering to the LCD. Case in point: "Hitman." Ennis wrote the series concurrently with his (for lack of a more accurate term) masterpiece "Preacher," and every idea that was too stupid for "Preacher" (oh, and believe me, there was no shortage of stupid ideas in "Preacher") wound up in "Hitman." In "Ten Thousand Bullets," Mobster Moe Dubelz offers half a million dollars for the head of Tommy Monaghan, the titular hitman, who killed Dubelz's conjoined twin (still attached and dead and rotting). Meanwhile, a Batman wannabe named Nightfist is ... Oh, what am I doing? Why even bother? Any snarky recap of "Ten Thousand Bullets" that I could write would take more effort than Ennis spent on the book itself. I probably expended more effort just READING this nonsense. It's a lame excuse for Ennis to collect a quick and easy paycheck by writing "BLAMBLAMBLAMBLAMBLAM" over and over again. John McCrea's art is equally sorry. He sketches childishly crude figures all out of proportion with themselves: big heads, little bodies; big bodies, little heads; mutant appendages; grotesque, leering faces. But I've never seen him do any better, so I assume McCrea's problem is that he's incompetent, rather than merely lazy like Ennis. Director Kevin Smith, who wrote the substanceless intro to this substanceless volume, thinks "Hitman" is pretty nifty, but then Kevin Smith also thinks it's a great idea to cast his girlfriends in his movies and let them sing. Garth Ennis is one of the most popular and successful comix writers, but for every rabid fan, he's got an equally passionate detractor. "Ten Thousand Bullets" gives the haters plenty of ammo.