Listen, I could be witty (easily) or tell you a thematically relevant story to go along with this review (because I've got a million of them), but honestly, all you need to pay attention to are the next four words I'm typing:
Get this book now.
Andy Conway has absolutely nailed the uncontrollable insanity of being a teenage boy in that unreal period between faking a maturity you haven't the vaguest clue about and being hit in the face with more bloody maturity than you could ever dream about. Everything here rings true: characters, dialogue, and the situation as well, and it had the added bonus of making me have to dig out my old Joy Division albums and remember when I was one of those cool outsider kids with impeccable taste in music... because, you know, obviously I was.
And, obviously, so was Andy Conway.
As a bonus, you'll find at the end of the novelette a chapter from his next novel, Train Can't Bring Me Home, which if you are anything like me will ensure that Andy Conway becomes one of those authors whose novels you just pick up as soon as you see there's a new one to grab.
Obsession can be a lovely thing.
The best mix of Speed Racer/Death Race 2000/Cannonball Run you'll read this year!
Okay, maybe not so much The Cannonball Run.
Seriously though, people, The Scarab is definitely worth your time and investment. This one blasts out from the opening page and doesn't let up until you cross the finish line, all covered in road dust, twitchy from the adrenaline high and desperately in need of a shower. The characters had me straight from the start, the wild virtual racing sucked me straight in and refused to let me go again, and now I absolutely want to own my own hover car. I also want to date Mary Ann, but that's another story.
Very much looking forward to the next book Scott Rhine puts out there, and absolutely so will you.
First though, go buy this one.
Hop on that, people!
Twenty-five years? It's been twenty-five years since I read this? Good God. That's horrific in and of itself. Fortunately, this book has aged almost as well as I have *coughcough* and is still a fun and wild read. No sparkly vampires here, kids, just the good old-fashioned kind that murder with abandon, thrive on power and vengeance, and live in a world of Reaganomics, Miami Vice and Motorola pagers.
John Skipp and Craig Spector, the fathers of Splatterpunk, wrote six novels together before splitting off and doing their own thing, and this one was the first. If you like your horror old-school and full of sex, violence and rock and roll, you should do yourself a favor and pick this one up. It'll take you back, brother.
Especially if you're as old as I am.
Now get off my lawn!
I got angry reading this book, angry and mean and horrible. The reason is simple: from the moment I started reading it, I didn't want to stop. I ignored my family. I didn't work while at my job. I didn't eat. I didn't sleep. My personal hygiene went out the window.
All I wanted to do was keep turning the pages.
What I suggest you do before purchasing this book (and you simply must purchase it) is take time off from work, lock yourself in a panic room, and prepare to ignore everyone and everything. Violence! Humor! Explosions! Chases! Sex! More violence! More sex!
Just be prepared for your personal relationships to take a back seat while you're reading it. A small price to pay in exchange for a novel like this.
After Jaws, I couldn't go back into the water. Now, after Mandibles, I can't ever have another picnic. In the best Bert I. Gordon tradition (wikipedia him, youngsters), we have a fantastic tale of murderous mutated mega-ants, devouring their way through everyone that gets in their way in lovely, humid Tampa. Blood! Gore! Ant guts! Everything you could want from a giant insect novel and more!
Keep your Raid handy, people. You never know what's going to crawl out from under your sofa.
Or who it might want to chew on.
Elves + Clint Eastwood + A Man Called Horse = awesome.
Ian Thomas Healy continues to impress the spurs off of me. I'm beginning to think there's nothing he can't write if he puts his mind to it.
How does he DO that?
I chop my own firewood from the depths of the darkest redwood forests. I take my coffee black as a corporate CEO's soul and my steak still with the cowbell around its neck. I once told Chuck Norris to punch me in the face as hard as he could, and then once the bones in his fingers finished healing, I had him punch me again just to hear him cry like a girl.
I am a manly man.
I also read every word that Cameron Garriepy writes.
Sometimes, I might even cry a little.
Just in a manly way.
Download this, and then download everything else she puts into the world. Solid advice, people.