"Burn this book," insists the narrator of this particular book.
Being a demon of some effect, narrator Jakabok Botch demands that the reader cease reading his memoir - or else. You see, the words within go far beyond telling tales of damaging proportion. The words are, in actuality, Jakabok himself, the demon having been trapped within the literal pages since the fifteenth century.
Pure gimmickry.
The book begins as a somewhat amusing romp through the mind of a "demon." And then the reader is brought out of that state by a sudden tale of childhood abuse, drunken spousal beatings, and a fierce mutilation of a child (albeit a demon-child, but a youngster nonetheless) via fire, causing oozing, unrepairable facial disintegration.
Ha, ha.
Though the book (or at least, its fictitious guise) was written some six hundred years ago, the demon "speaks" to the reader in the vernacular. This is explained away by the concept of the narrator "living" within the words on the page, having been unable to escape for this duration of time, lying in wait for some (ahem) "unsuspecting reader" to pick up the book and have the demon speak to them. This also explains the "real-time" nature of the one-sided dialogue: "Hell and damnation! I let that slip without meaning to," says Jakabok, upon revealing his true nature. The words are "live" just as the demon is within them.
Yeah. To have a demon speak directly to a reader, simply pick up a mass-produced hardback from HarperCollins Books. Why not?
The demon goes on, beseeching the reader to destroy the book, interrupted by schisms of anecdotes regarding his abuses and evil deeds, performed both by and on him: "I'll give you just one more piece of my life and then we're going to get this book cooked. Yes?"
(Remember primary school? Your teacher had her own bookshelf in the back of the classroom, and during indoor recess one day you discovered that Grover, the Friendly Monster from Sesame Street, had his own Little Golden Book called The Monster at the End of This Book. So you read it in about seven minutes, and laughed as Grover begged you not to turn the pages because there was a bona fide monster waiting for you both by book's end? You turned them anyway, despite Grover's pleas, only to discover... well, not to spoil the ending for those of you who haven't read The Monster at the End of This Book, but that particular breaking of the fourth wall was much more clever than Clive Barker's grown-up oriented title of the same theme.)
Jakabok describes his grotesquely melted features - with which, remember, he no longer lives since taking up exclusive residence within the printed word of this book - in an attempt to elicit... perhaps pathos? horror? morbid bemusement? It's altogether unclear. But it is not funny.
Boredom sets in, and the reader notices the half-toning on the artificially-aged pages. The reader flips the pages in an attempt to see whether or not the book redeems itself later. Page 106: "You're going to set fire to this book very soon, aren't you?" Page 117: "Burn the book, please, just burn the book." Page 169: "All you have to do is burn these words - and me with them - so we are never again seen on the face of the earth." Page 238: "Burn this book."
Burn the book? Better yet - simply don't buy it. Let it rot for six months in the remainder bins at a conglomerate national book chain before seeing the front cover rendered from the spine, the book marked with a big black "SURPLUS" line, and thrown into the Dumpster behind the spray paint-tagged brick building, destined for some stinking landfill outside the city limits.
Do this in the name of Jakabok Botch. Amen.