Quick Sally update while I’m still in the hellish jaws of the NaNoWriMo beast.
In case you didn’t know, she bottled it. I spent the evening happily singing “You’re shit, and you know you are,” to the tune of Go West.
Just been reading one of those books by John Locke – no, not the 17th century philosopher, or the bald guy from Lost (Although there is a faint resemblance, don’t you think?) but the Other Other John Locke.
I admit, I’m confused. I wouldn’t say I liked this book. I wouldn’t say I hated it either. But I am confused.
I’m not even sure what the main character is supposed to do. Is he CIA, ex-CIA or just some psycho who works as a professional hitman? I’m completely puzzled by his unnecessarily elaborate plan to warn his ex-wife of her new boyfriend’s dirty past as a wife-beater. Apparently, because his wife won’t listen to him because she hates him so much (The one bit that does make sense – Creed is kind of a giant bag of dicks.) so he concocts this wild and bizarre plan to make her believe him, a plan which involves finding the abused wife of the ex-wife’s new boyfriend and corroborating her story that ex-wife’s new boyfriend was handy with his fists.
Somewhere along the line it turns into a weird mess involving doppelgangers and Creed beating up a hooker. I think he just really wanted to beat up a hooker.
Then there’s another hooker who’s young enough to be his daughter and he thinks ‘Oh wow, that would be terrible if my daughter grew up to do this’ and fucks said hooker anyway because she’d make an excellent ‘body double’ for some nice lady named Callie. Callie and Creed hang out together in a white van and kill innocent women for money, and then have the nerve to complain about their terrified victims pissing on their trousers.
Anyway, hooker-two has a bunch of Semtex stuffed in her bulky MP3 player (Our hero probably mistook her for a hipster sporting self-conscious retro-tech.) and blows the whole hotel the fuck up. Because her pimp’s trying to kill Creed. Oh, and the pimp’s in the mafia – and he blows a whole hotel full of innocent people up in an attempt to kill Creed. Because that’s a great way to keep omerta or something – I don’t fucking know.
Suffice to say, Tony Soprano would have dealt with this liability. Fast.
Oh, and the ex-wife, Kathleen, who is a dead ringer for the hooker Creed beat up, is in love with Creed. She’s a nice person. You can tell she’s a nice person because she volunteers at a burns unit. For children. They have coffee and dinner and stuff and then he takes her to this old fashioned diner with onion rings and everything, right? Turns out crap Joe Mafioso has seen The Sopranos after all and sends someone in to whack Creed while he’s wallowing in all American nostalgia and humming happily along to Don’t Stop Believin’.
Except he sends in three black clad, heavily armed goons. Subtle.
Creed dispatches all three goons with maximum blood and horror and Kathleen crawls under a table and starts screaming, sobbing and basically having a terrible post traumatic episode brought on by the random awful violence. Which is as you might expect, really. She screams at Creed to get the fuck out of her life and to give him his credit he does.
Then she turns up several chapters later having rapidly unbasketcased herself because he sent a guard to watch over her favourite burnt child in the burns unit. Not only is she totally over the whole ‘I saw you kill three people’ thing but she’s humping his leg like a horny puppy. And then they fuck. Meaningfully. Beg pardon – they make love. Which is revolting. And should be banned.
But yeah, Kathleen’s favourite burnt child is a plot strand unto herself too because some bastard set fire to a family home containing mommy, daddy and twins Addie and Maddie. You’d think children with these names had suffered enough but someone has to arsonise the place, but that’s another story and oh my God, no wonder he’s named John Locke because I am just. so. lost by now.
And I haven’t even got to the angry quadraplegic dwarfs who are hacking into defence satellites.
No, I’m not even joking. Angry quadraplegic dwarfs. With dreadlocks. You couldn’t make this shit up – unless you’re John Locke, of course. Then you could. And you’d be crazy but quids in.
The whole thing is a spectacular mess. And it works. It just…works. That’s the really confusing part. Maybe it’s because it’s not boring. I spent most of my time alternately gawping and saying ‘You have got to be fucking joking’ but never once did it cause my eyes to glaze over and my finger to hover over the ‘home’ key. I just kept reading wondering how the author was going to top quadraplegic satellite hacking criminal dwarfs.
Needless to say, I am so fucking reading the next one.
Right, I’m off – got another 40,000 words to write. And thank you so much to all who subscribed and commented!