Joe Surkiewicz's Blog - Posts Tagged "noir"
Stupidiocy by Cindy Rosmus

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
One definition of noir is the MC starts out fucked (can I use that on GR? guess I'll find out) and it goes downhill from there. In this collection of short stories, Rosmus gets into the heads of her characters as they spiral down to rock bottom, which is sometimes left to the reader's imagination (very effective). Murderers, crack whores, demented children, struggling alcoholics and druggies populate this collection of short, sharp, poignantly drawn glimpses of lives lived hard. The illustrations by Coates Walker are suitably disturbing and a reward for springing for the print edition.
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Published on September 14, 2020 07:02
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Tags:
book-review, noir
Switchblade Issue Ten

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
A great collection of hardcase crime and "gutter noir" (from the blurb). C.W. Blackwell's "For Love or Money" kicks it off. If it was the only story in the collection, it's worth the price of admission. Paige is a femme fatale for the ages and I won't spoil it. (Bonus: Blackwell is the subject of mini-interview in the back of the book.) Yet the always reliable Serena Jayne gives Paige a run for the money in "The Nature of Nurture," with this winning opening line: "Cynthia preferred her men big and dumb." I'm catching up with all the Switchblade issues; they don't disappoint.
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Switchblade Issue 12

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
How's this for a lede: "The motel room smelled like cooked dope and sex." Kinda hard to stop reading. I couldn't and neither will you. It's C.W. Blackwell again, this time with his short story "From Dusk to Blonde," a revenge tale that will leave you slackjawed. Yep, that good. "They Call Me Cuban Pete" by Andrew Miller is another keeper. What can you say about a hitman story featuring, of all people, Desi Arnaz? It resonates, like all the crime stories in this edition. Switchblade is my go-to source for dystopian, hard-hitting noir. Just in time for the end of the world.
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Switchblade Issue Eleven

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Another collection of hard-hitting crime noir shorts. Men will find "The Lady Urologist" by David Rachels particularly disturbing, so of course it's highly recommended. The lede: "I'm complaining again about how my piss burns when Seymour asks me if I've got the clap. I say, 'Not unless you can get the clap from your fist.'" I'm particularly prone to humor in my noir and this flash fiction nails it. As do the other stories in this edition.
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Lethal Injection

My rating: 3 of 5 stars
There's noir and there's grim, and Lethal Injection definitely leans toward grim. Me, I like my protagonists to have some redeeming values. That's noir to me, a hero with character flaws who rises to the occasion. Old school. Not much of that in Lethal Injection. On the plus side, Nisbet is a good writer, definitely pulls off some memorable phrases, a bit overwrought at times, but he kept me reading. And the book is short, a big plus when none of the characters are likable. One flaw at the end and I can't describe it here without being a complete dick. Or maybe it's me, I just didn't get it. And this one very big positive: Nisbet's descriptions of a heroin high makes me wonder (yet again) about what I've been missing. Might be something to look forward to when I get that incurable cancer diagnosis.
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Published on October 02, 2020 07:14
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Tags:
noir
No Goddam Androids
My latest flash fiction on Horror Sleaze Trash: https://horrorsleazetrash.com/2020/10...
Joe Surkiewicz
Horror Sleaze Trash Fiction October 4, 2020 2 Minutes
No Goddam Androids
Stenciled in black letters on the frosted glass of my office door was “Adam Murky/Investigations.”
Scrawled on a sheet of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven taped below was a footnote, “No Goddam Androids.”
Not that it made a difference.
The door opened and wowie zowie. It’s a dame, all curves and shoulder-length blond hair, who sauntered into my seedy office. I swept the nearly completed jigsaw puzzle to the floor and settled back.
She nestled her haunches in the chair across from my desk and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “It’s my husband. I think he’s—”
“Are you human?”
“What does this look like, glycol?” she shot back, offering the damp wad.
“So you think he’s seeing another woman?”
She looked puzzled. “Not at all. He went out for a pack of cigarettes week before last and never came back.”
“Was there anything unusual in his manner?” I asked. “His mood or disposition—anything different?”
Forefinger to chin, she closed her eyes. ‘Yes, there was,” she said. “It just occurred to me. He doesn’t smoke.”
Now I had her.
“Duh, cigarettes were banned by the Global Warming Reform Act enacted by President Thunberg more than a decade ago,” I snarled.
I stepped around the desk. “Okay, lady, you’re going to stand for an inspection. There’s no second way.”
I yanked her to her feet, ripped her bodice and grabbed her left boob. A twist to the right and it swung open like a bank safe.
Her blubbering stopped. “Press star nine to reset,” she recited in a monotone. “Press star nine to reset….”
I entered a different code, swung her boob closed and pushed her back in the chair.
Her eyes took a moment to refocus. Then she looked at me, bewildered. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Fix your bra, honey, you’re hanging out.”
She scanned my squalid office as she made the adjustments. “Is this where I pay my gas and electric?”
“If only, baby,” I said, sliding the credit card reader across the desk. “Twelve hundred smackeroos and we’ll get those triple pane windows on order. Only a down payment, of course.”
She inserted her card and tapped in a code. “When can I expect delivery?”
“It’s on the way,” I said, and stood up. “Just like you. Don’t let the door hit that shapely ass on the way out.”
She stood in the doorway, started to say something, thought better of it, and sauntered down the hall.
Fucking androids. It’s a helluva way to make a living, but someone has to do it.
Joe Surkiewicz
Horror Sleaze Trash Fiction October 4, 2020 2 Minutes
No Goddam Androids
Stenciled in black letters on the frosted glass of my office door was “Adam Murky/Investigations.”
Scrawled on a sheet of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven taped below was a footnote, “No Goddam Androids.”
Not that it made a difference.
The door opened and wowie zowie. It’s a dame, all curves and shoulder-length blond hair, who sauntered into my seedy office. I swept the nearly completed jigsaw puzzle to the floor and settled back.
She nestled her haunches in the chair across from my desk and dabbed her eyes with a tissue. “It’s my husband. I think he’s—”
“Are you human?”
“What does this look like, glycol?” she shot back, offering the damp wad.
“So you think he’s seeing another woman?”
She looked puzzled. “Not at all. He went out for a pack of cigarettes week before last and never came back.”
“Was there anything unusual in his manner?” I asked. “His mood or disposition—anything different?”
Forefinger to chin, she closed her eyes. ‘Yes, there was,” she said. “It just occurred to me. He doesn’t smoke.”
Now I had her.
“Duh, cigarettes were banned by the Global Warming Reform Act enacted by President Thunberg more than a decade ago,” I snarled.
I stepped around the desk. “Okay, lady, you’re going to stand for an inspection. There’s no second way.”
I yanked her to her feet, ripped her bodice and grabbed her left boob. A twist to the right and it swung open like a bank safe.
Her blubbering stopped. “Press star nine to reset,” she recited in a monotone. “Press star nine to reset….”
I entered a different code, swung her boob closed and pushed her back in the chair.
Her eyes took a moment to refocus. Then she looked at me, bewildered. “Who the fuck are you?”
“Fix your bra, honey, you’re hanging out.”
She scanned my squalid office as she made the adjustments. “Is this where I pay my gas and electric?”
“If only, baby,” I said, sliding the credit card reader across the desk. “Twelve hundred smackeroos and we’ll get those triple pane windows on order. Only a down payment, of course.”
She inserted her card and tapped in a code. “When can I expect delivery?”
“It’s on the way,” I said, and stood up. “Just like you. Don’t let the door hit that shapely ass on the way out.”
She stood in the doorway, started to say something, thought better of it, and sauntered down the hall.
Fucking androids. It’s a helluva way to make a living, but someone has to do it.
Published on October 04, 2020 13:54
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Tags:
androids, flash-fiction, humor, noir, private-eyes
Switchblade reviewed

My rating: 3 of 5 stars
In-your-face noir, loathsome characters doing loathsome things, with an emphasis on car washes, loathsome places. Also an unfortunate uptick in typos when compared to previous issues (I'm a fan), an unneeded distraction (especially since I shelled out ten bucks for the print version). And only one woman author (Serena Jayne, always good). Just like Mars, Switchblade needs more women.
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Published on December 13, 2020 10:37
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Tags:
carwashes, noir, serena-jayne, switchblade
All Due Respect 2020

My rating: 3 of 5 stars
An entertaining collection of dark crime fiction with one outstanding story, "49,000 Ways to Die" by Tom Leins (pronounced lines, according to a YouTube clip). It's way over-the-top, outrageous and funny. Check out this lede: "The meaty motherfucker with the leprous complexion is taking his Doberman for a shit on the grass when I hit him." I knew I was in for a wild ride and wasn't disappointed. It's the definitive hardboiled voice I've been searching for.
Honorable mentions to Stephen D. Rogers ("Mad Dog"), Preston Lang ("The Woman from Florence") and Jay Butkowski ("What's One More?").
And, yes, I'm getting more Leins, who has a whole slew of short noirs with tantalizing titles like Skull Meat, Boneyard Dogs, Slug Bait, Spine Farm and The Good Book: Fairy Tales for Hard Men. Can't wait!
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Published on January 17, 2021 09:07
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Tags:
crime, hardboiled, noir, tom-leins
The Good Book by Tom Leins

My rating: 5 of 5 stars
Exploring the dark, bottom-end of short crime/noir fiction (Switchblade, Horror Sleaze Trash, Yellow Mama, Shotgun Honey, Tough, Pulp Modern, Rock and a Hard Place ...), I've identified a couple authors who nail it, including C.W. Blackwell, Cindy Rosmus, and Serena Jayne.
Add Tom Leins to the list.
Bleak, obscene, violent, grotesque--Liens checks all the boxes.
Add one more. Laugh-out-loud funny:
"Ordell knew he wanted to be a hooker the first time he saw Mama zip up her thigh-high boots, lean against the sink and scrub her rancid fanny with a wet wipe."
Or this:
"Plenty of people hate him, but he's a good man, always done right by me. He has a ragged, perforated cheek where he was hit with knuckle-dusters in a bar fight at the Dollar last Christmas. When he smokes it oozes through the flimsy patch of skin on his face."
Liens has a way with words, including a Pynchon-esque flair for character names: Fingerfuck Flanagan, Gringo Starr, Chicken Lips Delgado, Horace "Pig Pen" Pigg. And he writes memorable fight scenes:
"He rounds on me, using my kidneys as a speedbag. I slide the Motorola out of its holster and slam it into his cheekbone. He grunts, and I bring it down on this nose--hard. I crunch the handset into his eye socket, and he wobbles like a Salvation Army wardrobe. He offers me a mad, rubbery smile. I hit it hard enough to loosen his dental work, and he finally collapses."
And nails the aging and decrepitude that's heading our way: "I look down at my gone-to-fat chest, straining against my tribal police uniform. It looks more swollen than Sunday Night Suzette from the Slop Shop after her botched enhancement. I laugh to myself. That was some fuckin' night. Between her tits and my meaty torso, we couldn't even get close enough to kiss. I had to fuck her bandit style over the trunk of my cruiser at closing time, while the club spewed its patrons out into the parking lot."
Leins' talent for figurative language, as in the Salvation Army wardrobe cited above, kept me turning the pages. It just keeps coming and coming. Here's more:
"When people ask me what a hostile takeover is, I tell them it is just like a regular takeover, but the guy signing the papers has a sawn-off shotgun barrel between his teeth."
"Walter 'Waxwork' Wallace is tall and gaunt. He's a man of degenerate appetites. The kind of guy who uses prostitutes as alibis. He quit wrestling after suffering a prolapsed rectum almost a decade ago, but stuck around Testament like a particularly virulent STD."
"On my first day in the big house a guy named Lombard who I sat next to on the prison bus told a couple of gangbangers I was a chomo because I refused to give him my last cigarette. Those bastards fucked me methodically, like it was a job application."
I read The Good Book twice to see how it held up. It held up. It's grim, but not too grim. There's an underlying sympathy for the creatures in Leins' universe of washed-up wrestlers, thugs, bag men, whores and swindlers that smooths the edges. The humor and wit elevate it above other hard-edged crime fiction I've read. No, it's not a book you want to curl up with on a rainy afternoon, that's for sure. It's best enjoyed in short bites. Five stars.
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Published on March 09, 2021 10:41
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Tags:
crime-fiction, noir, tom-leins
Meat Bubbles

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
Sick but not too sick. Leins is an amazing writer, although I do worry about him.
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