Starts with a bang! A hired assassin called Robobash kills our hero. Capt Eris, the queen bitch of the Tweaks, once again finds herself on a tropical beach staring at silent death before coming back from the brink to exact her profane and certain vengeance.
Pulled out of retirement just as surely as Michael Corleoni was pulled back into his mafia family, Eris turns to the only thing she can trust, which is, ironically, a humanoid machine-learning AI called Al. Confusing AI to Al but it's almost exactly the same. There's some kind of metaphor, bites breaking to bits metaphor in there somewhere that I'm just too lazy to capitalize upon. So, anyway. A clue to the aesthetic of this books may be found in a bit of its dialogue:
"True, eventually, the universe will decay, and life will disappear entirely."
"See, there is hope."
ba dump bump. Take my life, please! I'll be here all week. Try the veal!
Believe you me, if you were a DARPA project genetically altered human weapon who is prepped for missions being thrown into vats of acid and pulped and pureed because the point is she becomes temporarily invincible right after multiple sessions of violent dying, you'd probably be cynical, too.
Pro tip cuz I'm the foshizzle my gizzle (please don't judge me by dating me but if you do, to hell with you then) I'd shitcan some of the adverbs in the style. But that's just me. I'm a stickler for economy, but then again my favorite author of all time is Thomas Wolfe of "Look Homeward, Angel" fame who is hardly anything or at all close to to the property that I just said is near and dear to me so be careful who you ever listen to these confusing and contradictory latter daze.
Another annoyance is Eris's profane potty mouth. It wears on you, as well as grows. Halfway through the book it doesn't occur to you that it could be any other way. Meaning, her over-the-top untoward Tourette's is just what the doctor ordered, with a side of amphetamine, please. It's enough to drive you good crazy.
Bonus points: There is a band referenced in the book called "Crazy, Fat Ethel." I wanna party with them, if only in my nightmare dreams. I picture them sounding just like Alice in Chains.
DEATH ENGINE is set in an America where legislation titled The Right to Murder Act has just cleared Congress and there are unselfconscious newscasts worthy of the parody newsfeeds of the 1987 Robocop. In other words this book puts you in a twist because you don't know whether to laugh or cry.
There are a lot of one liners and subtle zingers (or not so subtle I should say) that when they hit are damn hilarious. Like Eris hasn't bathed in days and storms her old boss corporate towers monologuing about her newfound super powers, to which he quips, "What, Skunk Powers?" Which I thought was pretty damn funny once I realized he was making a joke. I'm a little slow on the uptake sometimes, having reached the beginning of my very own latter daze.
Eris, she of the rotten table side manner, excaims "Don't play dickfuck!"
Need I say any more? Like I said, this kinda juvenile obsession with profanity is so consistent throughout the novel that it actually becomes endearing.
Although there is plenty of levity in here, I'd not recommend this for the language prude nor the faint of heart either because some of the descriptions of Eris's past deaths are downright shocking and utterly grotesque.
The clash of her immediate materialization onto a beach to mingle for a while with smiling, mute death is a hell of a juxtaposition that really works. Too back Eris always comes back! At the end it's somewhat in question, but then again once you read the last word you realize that it really isn't and never really was.
There are some really cool scenes aside from the hellbent for leather action that lend a pleasing sense of balance to the proceedings.
The feeling of abandonment and despair is very well done, both in the setting and the character of Eris. The trip to buy A.’s new leg really hammers home her sense of forced solitude or whatever you want to call it. I really like the shrine to the Peace League. Reminds me of the photos of the self-glossed superheroes in their heyday at the beginning of the film "Watchmen."
Love this line: They were dry, day-old toast served with synthetic butter on my genetically altered breakfast table—a tasteless bite of nostalgia that promised flavor but delivered disappointment.
Love this line: They were dry, day-old toast served with synthetic butter on my genetically altered breakfast table—a tasteless bite of nostalgia that promised flavor but delivered disappointment.
So. I don't want to make this review into a novel. Go read a real one and one that delivers both solid action and some subtle critiques on present day America via allusions to corporate takeover of the housing market via its own off kilter take and funny take on the current crisis as, and I paraphrase: a vast conspiracy of uptight realtors tricking the plebes into selling their little piece of terra firma for a false and bogus upgrade in the outer colonies of Mars. Or is it the rings of Saturn? Is this author or is she ain't a fanatical something of Elon Musk? The Magic 8 Ball sez: All signs point to "Yes!" If you like your prose nasty and stripped down as a vintage Mustang in a chop shop in South Central then you should be reading the ongoing story of the trials and travails of Death Engine Eris and her fuckockta and not at all cleanly or Godly protocols.
Fuck yeah, and Amen.