Let's get my biases out of the way first: I've read enough Richard Laymon to know I don't like him very much. I was a fan of horror back in the '80s but I think it's pretty safe to say my preferences for fiction lay more on the lyrical/literary side of the scale than the splatterpunk/grindhouse side. (Of course, horror fiction being horror fiction, only at the farthest edges will you find something that doesn't have at least a touch of both but I hope you can grant me the efficacy of my hasty, hackneyed metaphor.)
Laymon was always too far over on the grindhouse side for my tastes. The original publication of The Woods Are Dark seriously screwed up thirteen year old me (as a priapic teen, I couldn't help but go back for the copious sex and nudity, even as things grew progressively more and more awful). But even as a teen at my most helplessly lustful, I found elements of Laymon's worldview strangely hollow and unconvincing.
In my experience, Laymon pretty much writes consistently from this worldview--that of a teenager with a boner--even when the POV is from one of his female characters. As in the slasher movies of the day, no situation is so awful that a character can't find themselves aroused by noticing someone else's ass, or suddenly being aware of the fabric rubbing against their too-sensitive nipples. The world of Richard Laymon is an EC Comic written as a Penthouse Forum letter, where either a violent beheading or a passionate slide into second base (or, not infrequently, both) is only a page-turn away. I suppose I would be fine with that if the sex was sex-positive, but it's frequently squalid, obsessive and more than a tad objectified. It's pretty typical sex-hatey sex, the type usually written by lonely, inexperienced dudes for lonely, inexperienced dudes.
Anyway, let's move from the general to the specific. If I don't like Richard Laymon, why did I pick up Funland? The honest answer is, it appears to be one of the few books of '80s horror available on the Kindle at what I consider to be a fair price. (In fact, I believe I picked it up as a Deal of the Day for $1.99, which is better than fair.) I'm all for the writer and publisher seeing the maximum return on their royalties, so I don't begrudge any professional author or publisher for not charging less than $2.99...but a lot of the books from that era really shouldn't be charged more than that, either. They were designed to be disposable reads at disposable prices. Anyone who reads this book more than twice either needs a life or professional counseling.
All that said, as a non-fan of Laymon, Funland is probably the most enjoyable book of his I've read. Although the book's view of humanity is still smutty and dismal, it's not as unrepentantly smarmy and shitty as some of his other books I've read. (Although, as always, Laymon always makes sure to save an extra dollop of disgust for the overweight girl who's interested in sex, which I always find depressing.) It probably helps that Funland takes a chunk of its central conceit from actual occurrences in the '80s--during a brief period where Santa Cruz teens terrorized the homeless--and Laymon works his plot to make sure there are at least one or two good characters on each side of the conflict, as well as a fair share of maniacs on both. I also have to say Laymon does a great job of catching and describing the Santa Cruz boardwalk in the boardwalk of his fictional "Boleta Bay."
And Laymon takes the time to build his two main protagonists--a male and female cop team who patrol the boardwalk--into more than just libidos with firearms: the couple is kept apart for most of the book by their own efforts to respectfully end the bad relationships they're in with other people. In fact, although the male cop's relationship is with a shrill and unpleasant harridan, the female cop's failed relationship is surprisingly nuanced, and handled with far more care than I've seen in Laymon's other books.
Considering this is only one of three romantic relationships portrayed in Funland, I wonder to what extent this book was written by Laymon in part to either extend his audience or extend his own writing range. Although Laymon uses romantic interest as a plot accelerant in his other work, it barely moves deeper than that. But at least for a few pages here and there, he dips his toes in the water of romantic regret and it's surprisingly effective. There are other sections where the author goes overboard with the sentiment and the syrup (you always know it's going to be tough going when one of the characters is a musician and their original lyrics get quoted at length) but I prefer it to the rape-threats and diseased sexual-organ fondling. (I'm a soft touch that way.)
By Laymon's standards, Funland is a slow build. In the early pages, people get stalked, grabbed, and swiped by mysterious "trolls," but things cut away before anything gets too graphic or Laymon-esque. (Although this may be because the scenes with homeless people in the daylight give the author enough time to indulge his usual disgust with scabs, sores, stenches, and poor hygiene.) But by the end, the teen trollhunters and the mysterious inhabitants of the shut-down funhouse are thrown into direct conflict with another, and things get as gory and grindhousey as a horror reader would want. The shocks are bloody, cheesy, and occasionally surprising as the author happily rockets things over the top.
Like a pungent cheese or a sausage of mystery meat you find floating in a jar of pickled brine, Richard Laymon's work is an acquired taste and any resulting nausea you might feel afterward is entirely your own fault: his books are quite open about what they are, and he is unrepentant about the type of author he is. Chances are good you'll find his work enjoyable in its efficiency and unpretentiousness, or you'll find them crushing in their cynicism, repetitiveness, and cynicism. For me, Funland was a surprising mix of both. Although I suspect that means it's less-than-optimal to either the standard Laymon fan or the dabbler in commercial horror fiction, if you want a few hours of efficient but disposable fiction that edges toward darkness without being utterly nihilistic, this may be an effective way to enjoyably kill some time.