Usually people go on smoke breaks at work to take a break from their routine paper-pushing to talk all raw about chicks and cuss a lot. Thank god where I work I can do these things from the comfort of my desk, so when I go on a smoke break I can talk about things that actually take up to ten minutes to discuss (seeing as I’ve been seeing the same chick for years I don’t have much in the way of interesting conversation anyway). Sometimes I will rap about the futility of Chicago football, usually I’m rapping in a negative manner about the clods I have to deal with in a day’s work, or sometimes movies and music, and once in a great while, I’ll actually discuss a book. Usually it’s just one person talking about the book and how much it ruled or sucked while the other person nods with slight enthusiasm; this is because finding two people who have read the same book and can openly discuss it in this day and age is less common than finding a large chunk of platinum sticking out of the ground. Well, even if you’re not on quite the same page, or in the same book, for that matter, you can get a recommendation of worth.
Or, you can be led into the fallacy that Dean Koontz is worth a shit as an author. Sure, someone might say ‘hey, if you like Stephen King you’ll love this guy’, and in the seldom-used recesses of the mind you think, ‘hmmm, I’ve been seeing Koontz’s name for ages, he’s obviously a NY Times bestseller several times over, maybe it’s time to finally give the guy a chance.
And Velocity is exactly the type of reason that I’m not listening to anyone tell me that a particular author is worth a damn. I’ll go back to either judging books by their cover or getting some recommendations from ‘Brick’, the spirit I channel via my ouija board. About all I can say on a positive note about this book is that I wasn’t exactly offended by it, not as if that is a rave review, but nothing within made me throw it out the window, a fate that’s been suffered by only two books in my time. It just doesn’t do anything for me; no entertainment, no enlightenment, it certainly didn’t make my manhood any bigger.
Good old Billy, the common Everyman, becomes a pawn in a dangerous game being perpetrated by a crafty villain with the singular goal of psychologically harassing him while offing people. The catch; prior to every murder, the killer leaves Billy a note giving him two choices, either take no action and he’ll kill victim A or to run to the cops and he’ll kill victim B. As the game plods along, he starts including people who are close to Billy (or at least could be people close to him, as the descriptions of the victims are always vague enough not to point to anyone in particular) as potential victims, and our intrepid bartender has to use every shred of cunning and resourcefulness he can muster to rise to the challenge; to reveal the identity of this vicious bastard and kick his ass. The killer, of course, isn’t about to let him do that, and begins planting evidence on Billy’s property, pestering him over the phone, dropping misleading clues as to his identity, and generally being a nuisance. After the killer makes a few personal appearances and beats Billy down and becomes and even bigger pain in the ass, the final confrontation is afoot, in what might be the most mundane and completely preposterous finale imaginable.