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Archive for the ‘supernatural’ Category

Ever since reading My Best Friend’s Exorcism, Mr. Hendrix has struck a chord in my mind. So as I was going through the list of books to select to purchase for my branch, I came across We Sold Our Souls. Needless to say, I gave it the green light because I am curious to see what delightful ditties this bloke is offering up in this new yarn. Spoiler alert: he did not disappoint. But enough with pleasantries and usual bollocks, and let’s get on with it. Yeah?

All Kris Pulaski ever wanted to do was to play good rock music. Fame and riches were all extras. So back in the 90s (ah yes … flannel, grunge rock, Tamagochi pets, dial-up AOL internet), she was part of ragtag metal band called Dürt Würk and she was living her dream. Then along the way, she and lead singer, Terry Hunt, combined talent and wrote a masterpiece called Troglodyte. And then the shit (slightly) hit the fan. Terry Hunt along with their manager, Rob Anthony, pulled the rug from under the enter party by buying out the rights to Dürt Würk’s music and contracting out all the other members of the band. It was the night (known as Contract Night) that Dürt Würk died and Koffin was born. The funny thing about that is that there is a lot of missing pieces and hours about what happened that night Kris and most of the members of the group can’t seem to recall. So now Kris spends her days at a reception desk at the local Westin Inn as she constantly tangles with the one guest that likes to stroll around, during the early morning hours, naked with a paper bag over his head and urinating in the lobby. How the far the mighty has fallen, since Kris can no longer play rock music since the “contract” forbids her from playing Dürt Würk-type music (translation: she is forbidden to make a living playing rock music). And then Koffin announces its major tour, which not only irritates the hell out of Kris but forces her to reunite with the remaining (exiled) members of Dürt Würk. And then the shit really hits the fan … and things get darker. And for some of us, switching on the lights might be in order. There are murderous assassins driving around in UPS trucks, brainwashing spas, traitorous fans, some otherworldly hellish creatures (which might include the manager) haunting the night, and a conspiracy that is spawned from the depths of Hell itself (literally). On second thought some of these creatures might be from Hell (feel free to imagine Bruce Dickinson from Iron Maiden screaming this word for a better visual). And all are clamouring to get between Kris and her vengeful mission against Terry Hunt and his new band, Koffin.

Hendrix’s Souls is possibly one of his darkest to boot with enough hibby-jibbies to go around possibly till the next major election. Of course, there is a bit of (deserving) commentary on the late 90s “nu-metal” scene. Yes, we all remember that pile of buggering bollocks (though try as we may to forget it). Aye, as grunge faded into the horizon along came that hybrid abomination of rap and rock merged into (and I vomit into my mouth as I write this) nu-metal. Of course, back then the wanks that touted this rap-rock/nu-metal crap as “new” and “happening” forgot that folks like Faith No More, Red Hot Chili Peppers and Fishbone (to name a few) had already pioneered that “hybrid” minus the constant whining about not getting laid and other such bollocks. Oh there, there. I think I’ve detoured a wee bit. Souls waste very little effort in sinking its claws into you and drawing you in, and then you find yourself in for quite a ride. And what a ride it is as you get towards the end. The ending reminds of scene from an obscure 80s, heavy-metal themed, adult, animated movie (from Canada,of all places) named Rock and Rule (check it out on Youtube and it features voices of Deborah Harry and Iggy Pop). It may not be your cup of tea, but back in Guyana, there was only one channel on the telly and this was on. So there. Funny thing about Souls is that I kept picturing Joan Jett in the role of Kris Pulaski. Don’t know why … though I might have to do with the fact that Joan Jett played a receptionist at a motel (or was it a bartender???) in the movie adaptation of Stephen King’s Big Driver. Who knows, my brain is weird like that … but I love it. And I know it sounds strange to say but Souls feels like another heavy metal love letter to those of us who miss those days of flannel, spandex, leather and denim. And you can tell by the fact that Hendrix does this quirky thing of naming the chapters in his book with titles of various metal tracks (though there is no chapter with the title “Ride The Lightning”). Good show, Mr. Hendrix. Jolly good show, mate.

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The first time I read Anne Rice’s The Mummy, it was more than a decade ago and way before I started this blog. Sure, since then they have made several movies with the same title (yes, the Brendan Fraser movies were great, but the last one with Tom Cruise … let’s just say that someone owes me the life of their firstborn, the deed to their houses or for the most, about 11 quid … I can negotiate). I’ve detoured a wee bit.

Ramses continues from where The Mummy ended (now this is the part where folks who’ve never read The Mummy should feel free to exit … because it is spoilers from this point … for The Mummy, that is). If you’ve read The Mummy or you’re very cool with spoilers (such as yours truly) then read ahead. Awakened, unwittingly by Julie Stratford, Ramses now roam the streets of early 20th century England as Reginald Ramsey: a rich, enigmatic stranger that imposes himself into Stratford’s life. Of course, somewhere along the way, Ramsey decides to awaken his former lover, Cleopatra, who basically turned out to be a very strong, psychopathic revenant. Oh yes, like Ramsey/Ramses, she is immortal. There is an accident and a fire and before you can sing “Walk Like An Egyptian” Ramsey and Ms. Stratford are running for their dear lives (and no, I’m not going to spell out the bleedy story for all … feel free to read The Mummy). Damned continues (after several decades of Rice almost going R.R. Martin on us) where The Mummy left off. Ramses and Julie Stratford have become an item. Cleopatra is carrying on a passionate affair with a certain Dr. Theodore Dreycliff. Let’s just say that Dr. Dreycliff rescued her from a scorching situation (to avoid spoiling The Mummy for those that didn’t read it). Also Julie has become an immortal thanks to a special potion from Ramses. With Dr. Dreycliff by her side, Cleopatra is on the hunt for Ramses for she has a score to settle with both him and Julie. With supernatural strength, Cleopatra is terrifyingly vicious and the unwitting Dr. Dreycliff is unaware of the asp that he’s coddling. Then there is Bektaten an ancient Egyptian queen and her two bodyguards/lovers, Aktema and Enamon. And somewhere along the line, another fine (immortal) gentleman named Sagnos is awakened. Sagnos has an army of followers and he has some terrifying plans in store for Julie and Ramses (but mostly Julie). Bektaten is not just some ancient resurrected Egyptian queen: she has knowledge of creating potions that can do all sorts of strange things such rendering immortals mortal and vice versa. And then there is Sibyl Parker: an American mystery writer whose books are centered in ancient Egypt. The funny thing about Sibyl is that her books are so good thanks mostly to the strange vivid dreams that she has about herself walking around in ancient Egypt. Reincarnated memories of a past life? I’m not telling. So as Ramses and Julie hopscotch over Europe into London, they find themselves engaged in cat and mouse game as they dodge a raging, vengeance-bent Cleopatra who is actually dealing with some internal struggles (along with vicious headaches and strange case of immortal dementia). Oh yes, there is the case of Sagnos and his army of immortal creatures that is also gunning for Ramses and Julie. In the midst of all this an unwitting Sibyl is cast into this strange violent theatre: a key to one of the characters life. And so the convergence begins.
A brilliant collaboration between son and mum, Ramses, is a long (with a capital L) awaited sequel to Rice’s The Mummy (1989 …aye, that long) another addition to Ms. Rice’s universum noctis: vampires, witches, werewolves … and yes mummies. I truly hope this is not quite the end the Ramses Chronicles (aye, did I just do that … yes, now Ms. Rice has to write another Ramses book … as I silently implore … with a nice PLEASE). Along with the sensualities that frequently lurk in (and adds to) Rice’s novel, it filled with suspense that grips you in the nether regions (in a nice way) and the only respite you get, as worlds converge towards a thrilling conclusion, lay on the next page. Thankfully, that respite does not come too soon and the ride is quite delightful. Brilliant collaboration … just hoping that the next sequel comes out a bit sooner than a few decades. There IS a sequel? Yes. Pretty please. With sugar. On top. And other such bollocks

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Yes, it is almost the end of 2017 and it has been quite a year. A year that most of us would love to “edit” out of our collective memories. Lost a lot of good folks along the way both in body and spirit. Hopefully, 2018 will offer a bit or sliver of hope’s ray of a most delightful year … which is what I wish for everyone out there: those who read my blog, and those who don’t (give them time, I’m as patient as an Arctic wolf) … and even regardless of how you voted (yes, I mean that). So in light of the strange, topsy-turvey, dark and gloomy year, and just before you rush of to freeze your nips and other body parts in watching balls drop (aye, there is a dirty joke in there somewhere), I have to mention Strange Weather. See it even has the word “strange” in the title.

Ever since having read NOS4A2 and The Fireman, I’ve become fascinated with Joe Hill’s writing and … yes … he has written other titles that I’ve yet to read, but all in good time. Of course, the fact that he is Stephen King’s son did not play into this until I discovered this fact much later (after having read The Fireman). I guess, like father like son … good show, Stephen, good show. So there I was, sitting at the reference desk, allowing myself to calm down (moving from green back to normal skin colour) after having kicked out a bunch of disruptive teens, when I noticed the strange Joe Hill cover on the New Arrivals stack. Slight detour here: whatever happened to folks plugging their phones into their ears? Why is it that so many folks, especially teens, seem to feel the need to “share” their listening/viewing experiences with the rest of the public … in a bloody library? Alas, the devolution of civilization. I’ve detoured enough. To the review. Yeah?

Strange Weather is actually a compilation of four stories (or novellas) that are eerily strange, dark, disturbing, and/or all of the above. In other words, great reading material on a cold, dark windy night … possibly in wooded area.

In Snapshot, we encounter an awkward teenager, Michael Figlione, who becomes an unwitting hero. Mike lives with his father and apparently are bunch of nerds since Mike attends some kind of robotic club during the weekends. Note this is set in the early 80s, so, yes, no smartphones, social media or any of that bollocks (such simple times yet so much fun). They also live next to an older couple, the Beukes, whom Mike is rather fond of. The husband use to be a bodybuilder that now owns a chain of fitness clubs. Mrs. Beukes stays at home and occasionally asks Mike to run errands for her which he does lovingly. But something sinister is happening to Mrs. Beukes, as she claims that someone called The Polariod Man is stealing her memory. Sure, sure you might say, that’s just some old codger losing her mind and imagining things. That is until Mike (and us) encounters someone known as the Phoenican who is this strange character with a Polaroid type camera (Solarid … whatever) that actually steals memories snap by snap. And then the crap hits the fan. Any more will be spoiling the story for you and that would make me a tosser.

In Loaded, there is a bunch of intermingling stories: a philandering tosser and his female teenage lover; a young (ill-fated) Afro-American on his way to attend a dancing school in London; an ex-military type turned security guard that’s dealing with separation from his wife and daughter; an Afro-American journalist dealing with a ghost from her past and trying to change the world. The common denominator in all of these stories: guns. When Jim Kellaway, during his shift as a security guard, stops what could have been a mass shooting at the mall, he is hailed as a hero. That is until Aisha Lanternglass starts poking around, finding holes in his story and causing him to unravel viciously and in a way that would leave most gasping (though maybe not so shocked). It is a nice twist on one of the NRA battle cries about when “bad folks with guns run into good folks with guns”. Just saying, mates.

In Aloft, there is Aubrey, Harriet and June. Aubrey is in love with Harriet and Harriet is in an indie band (called The Junicorns) with June. Aubrey passes up tons of awesome musical opportunities just to be in The Junicorns, simply because … well, it’s a chance to be closer to Harriet. Sort of like a Duckie and Andie thing going on there … and for those you that are wondering, that was a Pretty In Pink reference. Ah, Molly Ringwald, I was supposed to be married to you. A wee bit of detour … ( and too much information). Somewhere along the line June dies of cancer, and so to memorialize the passing of June they decide to … skydive. Personally, a good swig at the pub with a few pints, some Mazzy Star in the background as a DVD plays a looped photo montage of the departed would be fine … and safe. But that’s just me … something about jumping out of perfectly good planes and all that bollocks. So Aubrey, after finding the nerve to jump finds himself stranded on what seems to be floating cloud island. Of course, with his tandem instructor along with the harness being blown off the cloud leaves our man with little more than vertigo to worry about. And then the strange odyssey begins, as the cloud seems to offer all sorts of strange, delightful, erotic (yes, you are reading correctly) and terrifying possibilities. Fascinating, strange stuff that’ll keep you wondering how this poor chap will find his way down to earth. Don’t be surprised to hear Iron Butterfly’s In A Gadda Da Vida playing in your head. Or is that only going to be me?

In Rain, we get the visit a near future Boulder, Colorado through the eyes of a young gay woman named Honeysuckle Speck. Honeysuckle lives with her lover, Yolanda, in possibly one of the most strangest neighbourhoods. Below her apartment lives a Russian meth dealer with his stripper girlfriend Martina (also Russian) that are always fighting. A few blocks down the street is an end-of-the-world cult, led by an enigmatic Elder Bent, who is known to prowl the streets singing Phil Collins songs. Only from the mind of Joe Hill. And to top things off, Honeysuckle babysits a charmer named Templeton Blake who thinks he’s Dracula and lives with his (single) mom Ursula. And then it begins to rain … nails. Yes, again you are reading correctly. Mother Nature decides to go postal and instead of nice, soft, wet, delightful water, people get showered with nails. Yolanda gets caught and in the downpour and dies saving Honeysuckle’s live. I guess being perforated by nails via nature will do that to a person. And so as Honeysuckle makes her towards Denver to inform Yolanda’s parents about her passing she encounters psychotic cult members, a strange Billy Jack drifter type that saves her, the National Guard, murderous, homophobic neighbours and creepy crows (yes, birds). On top of that, in lieu of all the nailstorms happening across the country, we have president in his bunker tweeting about “biblical retribution and payback” on North Korea. Yes, nothing like that will EVER happen in real life, because that would like a really bad dream of sorts. Aye, a president using social media platform to mouth off absolute bollocks … nope, never … only in fiction. Preposterous. Absolute balderdash and rubbish. Aye … we’ve strayed and detoured again. Now you’re wondering what would be the cause of those strange nails and it is in the exciting conclusion to this story. A twist that you’d never see coming.

Strange Weather is indeed a potpourri of strange stories. Dark, disturbing, creepy, occasionally trippy with little touches of heartwarming pecks on the cheek and definitely entertaining as it keeps you riveted as you hurtle towards the end. Rock on, Mr. Hill. And Happy New Years, America. You are already GREAT in my books (pun possibly intended). Cheers.

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I simply had to take this book home. One look at is creepily designed book cover along with the synopsis pretty much signaled “must-read-by-the –fire” book, which is weird since I don’t have a fireplace and live in a condo. But there it is, yet another book beckoning to me and turning out to be a great read (in my humblest opinion). But enough with me and let’s get on with it … yeah?

In the town of Deer Valley, lives Stevie Clark and his cousin Jude Brighton. I know what you’re thinking… with a name like Deer Valley, this going to be one of those “white-picket fences and all before Cujo attacks” story. Nay, not quite. Stevie Clark has a speech impediment and, needless to say, is a bit of an outcast at school. His cousin Jude, is also a bit of an outcast and loner, but the two spends their time together in the woods building tree forts. As if things couldn’t get any worse, Stevie is lorded over by a dick of stepfather (with a capital D) named Terry Marks and is adoringly referred to as “The Tyrant”. It won’t take long for most readers to hate this tosser. I promise you. Jude and Stevie’s foray into the woods is always fun, but there is a limit to their explorations in those woods since there is a house that everyone whispers about and never ventures close to it. You know that house, every town has one of them. Though, as someone growing up in the 70s, the only scary thing such houses had to offer was that, at worse, the possibility of me stumbling upon a swinger’s orgy and then my poor parent’s would to do some modified explanation of the bird and bees. I’ve said too much already … and detoured a wee bit.
Interestingly enough, Crept is actually two stories being told that leads to a horrifying convergence. The other is about Rosamund (Rosie) and Ansel Aleksander. A decent couple settling in Deer Valley, and trying to start a family. After a miscarriage, a bereft Rose runs away for a while where along the way she encounters the interesting Ras and his Happy hope retreat. After a puzzling yet restful one-night stay over at the retreat, Rose returns to Ansel and before you can start singing “Reunited” tragedy strikes and Ansel is no more. Rose is also pregnant.
Meanwhile, Jude has disappeared and for more than a week, Deep Valley searches for him, fearing the worst … until one day he casually shows up. Aye, there are more red flags waving that a Bloods gang convention at this point. At first all seems well, but Jude is not. His mother, Mandy, is over-joyed at his return, so much that she overlooks the growing horror that lurks in Jude. The terror that, only, Stevie has seen and witnessed in action. Crept hurtles at terrifying pace as these two story lines intersect into a shit-inducing, terrifying tale. The kind that wakes you up at night in coldsweats and chills, with that sensation of icy fingers crawling up your spine. Pay attention to the Ras character, and you will truly appreciate the horrifying conclusion. And that’s all I can say since I’d be a tosser in spoiling a really good horror story for you. The kind that’ll make you scream “Bloody hell” and drop the book as if it suddenly glowed red-hot in your hands.
Creepy (and vicious) as hell, Ms. Alborn’s Devil Crept In is the kind of book you’ll want to read on a moonless night, complete with howling winds and tree branches tapping at your window. Or maybe that’s just me. Others might do well to keep the lights on and possibly resist the urge of going down into darkened basements. Just saying, mates.

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realms_atlantis_cvr
I finally got around to reading Ms. Rice’s latest (after wading through the tons of other books that I wanted to read, some … I’m afraid weren’t so good). It has eluded me for a month or so, so when I saw it sitting, unmolested, in the stacks, I simply could not resist. But enough with the niceties and get on with it … yeah?

The Realms of Atlantis is another addition to Ms. Rice’s Vampire Chronicles and quite possibly a chartered path into newer mythologies (time will tell … oh pretty please). The last time we saw Prince Lestat, he had become possessed with the Amel, the spirit that was responsible for the birth of vampires. We also saw some newer faces that were being added to the roster as the world of vampires set out to embrace and come to grips with the twenty-first century: medical research, and (horrors of horrors) social media. Just as the winds seem to settle, something starts stirring … sending waves through the vampire world (no, it is not our past election). They are being stalked and possibly infiltrated by creatures that are seemingly immortal but not quite human nor vampires: Garekyn, Kapetria and Derek. Derek had the misfortune of being captured by Rhoshamandes and was brutally tortured. Kapetria had infiltrated Collingsworth Pharmaceuticals (a vampire medical research company) posing as a research doctor but was exposed by a wary Fareed (a fledgling vampire that is also a medical research scientist). Now what does these strange individuals and the vampires have in common: Amel. And so we find out that Amel has had a history prior to being spirit where once ruled the mythical city of Atalantaya (or what we know, today, as Atlantis). It also turns out that Derek Kapetria and Garekyn are survivors of Atlantis. Pupils dilating? Heart racing?
Yes, it should as Ms. Rice takes us on a mesmerizing journey through an expanding universe that has expanded itself into the lost city of Atlantis. And quite a trip it is down this rabbit hole as the city of Atlantis (Atalantaya) comes alive in the most vivid details as only Rice can accomplish so splendidly. Now if you’re expecting a lot of action … say half-naked teens running around the woods of the Pacific Northwest as they battle vegan vampires and other such bollocks , then I’m afraid that you’re reading the wrong book. Sure I can appreciate the occasional latex-clad, gun-toting Kate Beckinsale sporting fangs and dispatching preternatural creatures … but none such in this book.

It is another fascinating trip through Rice’s expanding universe as the supernatural world intersects with science and new myths are borne with the vampire Lestat in the middle of it all.

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deadsouls_cvr
Once in awhile, though seemingly quite often for me, a book cover or synopsis catches your eye and that’s all it takes to send you hurtling down that literary rabbit hole. December is a month of wishes. Wishes for things under your Christmas tree/mistletoe like Gillian Anderson, and before the day is done there will be wishes for the New Year. And we could really, really use some good stuff for the new year, since 2016 has been a wee bit surreal (and that’s just saying it nicely). So when I came across Dead Souls on the “New Arrivals” rack I was intrigued and like a heroin addict that’s been working overtime at a heroin factory… I had to get my fix. What was all that bollocks about “wishes” about, you might ask? Stick around, mate.

Fiona Dunn is having a tough time in her relationship with some bloke named Justin and on one rainy night in Oakland (California) she sees him getting in a car with a strange blonde woman on his way to a “business trip” to Seattle. It is also important to mention that lady was standing in the rain, bare feet, in pajamas, and locked out of her own apartment. So what’s a bare-footed, rain-soaked, woman to do when she’s locked herself outside of her apartment? Seek solace in the nearest drinking hole. There she meets a strange, enigmatic fellow named Scratch who chats her up, buys her drinks and makes an offer for her soul with the obligation of special favour that will be demanded of her at anytime. Yes, you didn’t read the last part incorrectly. Being the avowed atheist, she is, she thinks it nothing more than small talk and goes along with it. And then the shit gets real … and strange. First, Fiona discovers that she sort of project herself, invisibly, into places and spy on people. Apparently, she’s always wished that she was invisible. And if that didn’t make her stop and pass rabbits, then there is Scratch’s strange ability to be able to contact her at any place at any time. And then … when things couldn’t get any more weird, Justin shows up … with that strange blonde who is actually his (yes) sister and it turns out that Justin is down with something terminal. As Fiona drives around California trying to assess the how much crazy pills she’s been taking, she comes across another strange fellow, taking photos in a cemetary, named Alejandro and he seems to fancy her. Turns out that Fiona and Alejandro has a lot in common: Scratch. He introduces her to a sort of support group called the Dead Souls (hence the name of the book), sort of a support group for folks that may have unwittingly sold their souls to the Devil. And quite the motley crew they are: Renata (a professor of queer studies that wished to be straight and pretty crapped on her career and former gay relationship), Gary (a tech startup founder who wished that his company traded well), Jasmine (a woman that wished for the gift of clairvoyance), and of course, Alejandro (who wished that his photos will make successful). Sounds like a cute version of Daniel Webster meets an intervention. Not quite. The book gets really dark faster than the Northeast in early fall and people and things aren’t all that they seem. And as people wait for that dreaded favour to come in, many try to solve their way out of their contract with Scratch only to find that they are all part of some sick Macheveillian game.

To call Fenn’s tale creepy would be like calling the Mona Lisa a drawing. It’s dark like night in the swamps and as vicious as the serpents that slither through it as every page turn keeps you biting your nails as you brace for revelations within revelations. Don’t expect any happy endings in this one … just maybe a few silver linings and that’s it. In some strange way it might explain some of the unspeakable things that happen in this world: active shootings, terrorism, strange politics, Kanye West, the Kardashians. But what do you expect … when you make a deal with the Devil. Sure he delivers … but when it’s time to pay those dues… that’s the killer. So just be careful when you’re at the pub and some hip bloke “playfully” offers to buy your soul, you might want to walk away from that one … regardless what you believe. Just saying, mates.

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watch_cvr
As promised I’ve decided to put out a second review for October featuring my good man Stephen King, since after all this IS October. You know horror marathons on the telly, horror movies in the theatres, Halloween and (for this year) the inevitable ending of the 18-month circus known as the Election 2016. Aye, that last one has its own horrors of horrors. But enough with the bollocks and on to the review. Shall we?
In Mr. Mercedes, retired Detective Hodges had managed to put Brady Hartsfield into a mental instition on the account that he was somewhat brain-damaged. When we last encountered Brady, it was in the Finders Keepers which was mostly about some murderous tosser wanting to retrieve some old manuscripts. Here in Finders we were beginning to see that even though Mr. Hartsfield was seemingly brain-damaged, there was strange things happening in his room such as pipes turning on and photo frames falling over. Did I mention he was pretty much stuck in a wheelchair? And some point after having read Finders Keepers, many of us must probably suffered from a case of the “goosebumps”. Needless to say, it was foretelling what was to come in King’s next installation.End of Watch, the last in the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, opens with a retelling of the Mercedes Massacre from the perspectives of two EMT workers and evolves (for a moment) around the life of one of the survivors: Martine Stover. Then somewhere early in the book Ms. Stover dies. But then so has some of the staff that worked at the hospital that housed Brady Harsfield who noticed strange occurances like photo frames being moved or pipes turning on and off with no one around except a crippled Brady. Yes, it seems that our bay may have developed some preternatural abilities. So how pray tell, did this happen? Enter Dr. Felix Babineau, douchebag and tosser supreme, who took it on himself to test out unapproved and experimental drugs on the supposed sad case of that is Brady. Of course, there was some side effects. Yes, we all seen this movie before. Ambitious doctor decides to test crap out on disabled psychopath … um … yes, it is not going to end great, especially for the doctor. Using some old Gameboy type game consoles called Zappits that features some game involving fish (aye, seriously), Brady extends himself beyond the confines of the hospital in the most spinetingling manner that could evolve from the mind of King. Could’ve been worse it could have been a modified version of the Pokemon Go app. As the bodies begin to pile up, Bill Hodges along with the brilliant, wisecracking, Afro-American sidekick Jerome Robinson race to stop Brady and his dark plans of vengeance. The suspense grips you by the throat at each turn of the page, and hurtles you at a blinding, fiery speed towards the end. And yes, there will be blood.
A delightful end to the Mr. Mercedes trilogy, it is , as usual, premium King. As usual. And to expect less … um … seriously, mate?

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