Joyce Carol Oates and Bret Easton Ellis did the same thing years later with ZOMBIE and AMERICAN PSYCHO only they won awards for it, whereas no one remembers this book at all.
A neglected classic of absurdist horror, recently revived for the Kindle format with a new cover by yours truly. Big Gurl is an outsized character, a monster of the id, a bad seed grown into a fearsome weed-- a psychotic innocent reminiscent of Zippy the Pinhead or Baby Huey, but with a murderous streak, like Lennie Small or Moose Malloy, and mighty powerful, rather like Herbie Popnecker, or little Anthony from "It's a Good Life," but without the supernatural angle.
The writing has the sort of uninhibited, gleefully transgressive inventiveness that I associate with the glory days of National Lampoon and the early films of Peter Jackson and Sam Raimi. At first blush, I thought it was mischaracterized as "horror," being essentially a black comedy romp in the vein of A CONFEDERACY OF DUNCES, albeit with a good deal more bonecrunching violence. A few chapters in, I realized that it is indeed a horror story, a shuddery if queasily hilarious look into the grim recesses of psychopathology. As I continued, I began to understand that this novel is a small, darkly gorgeous gem of a book, well worth rescuing from obscurity. Kudos to my friend, OVO publisher Trevor Blake, for taking it upon himself to do so. I heartily recommend it to anyone whose peculiar tastes have led them, like us, to worship at the feet of Eris or "Bob."
Wow, one thing you'll surely remember is the titular character, Big Gurl, a hulking 7-foot monstrosity that every man wants to defile, a sinister killer with the mind of a six-year-old who also happens to be best friends with a possessed doll named Vuvu. This is juvenile and playful scum, and co-authors Metzger and Scott ratchet up the absurd moments with reckless abandon. The episodic novel is a deviation of parody, masked as a horror novel but really it is an unholy mixture of slapstick, potty humor, and murder set-pieces in the tradition of films like 'Maniac' and 'Henry: Portrait of Serial Killer'. This is a world that feels like Pee-Wee Herman and Zippy the pinhead squatted on and took a dump in, a world that at times reads like a William Burroughs script filmed as an 8mm sitcom by John Waters, a world where Looney Toons turns into a XXX stag film set in a suburban hell. At times painful to read, at times subversively brilliant, this is a refreshing fart in the face of conventional storytelling. Definitely not for everybody. Still not sure how many brain cells I'd lost reading this one. Lines like "Beware of the ghost with dirty diapers" give you an idea why.