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Fiction Review by The Drug Stuffed Corpse
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03.17.09
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Edward Lee
The success of a hardcore horro novel can be calculatedby the number of times a deranged individual can masturbate to it. Due to its enticing premise of torture and mass murder I have had to sacrifice my limited edition hard cover of The Messenger to the slickly oiled totem of the lubrication gods. My capricious nature commands me to constantly uncover newer sources of sexual gratification; it is these ever fleeting peccadilloes that feed my gluttonous libido. The Messenger is not as scandalous as DeSade's Justine, or nearly odious as Bret Easton Ellis' American Psycho. However, it still bathes in the luxurious abode of hedonistic menace. In small town USA respected members of society are committing acts of (mostly) unspeakable horror. Homicide is becoming a more common cause of death than cancer, old age, and just about every other way to die combined. Can the police chief uncover the malevolent being who is puppeteering these mass murders?
As much as I enjoyed being fed a slice-by-slice depiction of human carnage, it is the subtlety of The Messenger that garners my respect; I can live vicariously through the eyes of an other worldly presence whom in turn is a surrogate to a checklist of horrors: body exhumation, corpse defilement, torture, and death.
Sometimes every lurid detail, every slit of the knife, splintering of bone, or flensing of skin detracts from the story's impetus; the corruptibility of the individual, the impermenance of the body and immortality of the soul. Butin the Messenger this is not the case. For a Necro Publishing release, Lee suppresses the urge to blast every page with a scarlet mist of plasma, instead creating well-structured, believable characters that have unwittingly been thrust into an u nbelievable situation. primordial fears of dark places are warranted, as there are many things that lurk therein. It understands that the human mind is a malleable toy easily shucked of its conscience in a quest of egocentric indulgence.
That being said, allow me to exhibit my favourite scenario: One man. One hammer. And a gaggle of terrified catholic schoolgirls.
You can almost hear the twang of guitar and the tickling of piano keys associated with old school 70's pornography as he consumes every one of them - leaving pummelled flesh and a tepid pool of blood in his wake.
FYI: by my calculations the answer to this reviews opening sentence is 7 times...
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Rating: nan out of 10.0 - votes cast total
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