Some Dark Goddess of Perversion
Jacob, Charlee. Haunter. New York: Leisure, 2003. 374 p.
oh where we get them I dont know but everybodys got a water buffalooooooooooooooo
Sickness and perversion and silly songs. They just go together!
And kimchi too. Way back when I was youngand mind you, this was quite some time agoI managed to somehow survive four years on active duty as a Marine. During that time I met a lot of colorful people and picked up a lot of equally colorful colloquialisms, one of which was, "deep kimchi," as in, "Reyome, you're really in deep kimchi now." The western equivalent should be pretty obvious. I spent a lot of my Marine years in deep kimchi, it seemed.
But there really is such a thing as kimchi, and for those of you who don't know, its supposed to be food, one of those bizarre native dishes that service folks pick up when they're stationed abroad, mainly in southeast Asia. Culinarily speaking, it's a dressing of sorts consisting basically of cabbage and/or radish, variously spiced, then allowed to ferment. I have heard of some folks stateside who actually can it in Mason jars like Grannys tomatoes and bury it during the fermentation process. Why they ever dig it up is beyond me. The smell is, from all reports, something of a cross between horseradish and old cesspool, like sauerkraut, only way stronger and with fewer redeeming qualities.
Now, being raised where I was, I have a fondness for kielbasa cooked in sauerkraut. But I cannot stand kraut by itself. I dont even want to be around people who are eating it. My gag reflex kicks in pretty quickly, much like it does when I smell green peas. Go figure. But some people swear by the stuff.
...and I had friends in the Corps who served in Korea who would gobble kimchi by the bucket. Of course, most of these people were utter depraved sickos of the worst possible kind, so that probably just stands to reason. The point I am trying to make here is that kimchi is probably one of those things we refer to as an acquired taste. You either eat it or you dont. There is little middle ground.
Though some Necropsy readers might disagree, horror literature too is an acquired taste. It doesnt necessarily appeal to everyone. More power to you if you dont like it; I dont read romances as a rule myself but I have read an occasional romance and have enjoyed those I have read. And horror itself, as discussed in this space in previous rants, has its own peculiar subgenres which may or may not appeal to all readers. I have claimed the term splattergoth as my own, and no doubt there is room for other neolgistic descriptions of scary stuff.
Back when it was worth the paper on which it was printed, Circus magazine would assign to record reviewsand if you still call them records youre as old as I am and can remember Circus as a fairly serious rock magazinevarious icons. A heart meant love it!; a boot, leave it!; and a pair of lips meant something along the lines of, savory, but only for certain tastes. Which brings us back to the kimchi. While some might savor its pungent aroma, I would probably hurl in its presence, and I would avoid it at all costs. And that in turn is what brings us to Haunter, the latest effort from Charlee Jacobs.
Now then, to me, this book is the literary equivalent of a root canal; wholly unpleasant and of dubious necessity. I gave it my customary 50 pages, then just to be sure I wasn't missing something. And because of my duty to Necropsy's editors, I gave it another 50. And that was as far as I could go.
Why did I stop? Its not the gruesomeness of it all, God(dess) knows, because as I have previously noted in this space, a good mental purge every so often is a good thing and something I highly recommend. Is Haunter gruesome? Oh, absolutely. And violent. Did I leave out disgusting and perverted? It's those too. Vomit-inducing? Oh yes. It's a real psych-emetic, this book. Hell, any book in which a man fucks a water buffaloa dead water buffalohas got to be of interest at least. And we also learn in vivid details the life of a 10 year old prostitute in Bangkok and see the disgusting transformation of a constantly erect soldier to a God.
Theres an immolation. Theres a torture sequence in which a man is variously beaten, electrocuted, and has his finger and toenails forcibly removed. And then theres the maggots. Did I mention that maggots eat a man from the inside out? And were treated to the sight of him exploding/imploding in graphic detail?
There is probably even a point to all this, but for the life of me I couldn't locate one in an even hundred pages. Nor could I find much of a coherent story, for that matter. I know, Im not the brightest person in the world, but when I have to read and re-read a segment of a book trying to figure out how a character got into a certain situation, somethings wrong. I wasnt even smoking anything at the time. I wanted to say to Jacobs, "Look, if you cant come to some semblance of a point within a hundred pages, youve lost me, no matter how gloriously splattered those pages may be. You can throw as much gore at me as you like, but if you bore me, hey, Im gone."
Even gratuitous sick sex gets repetitive. After a while it all congeals into a stinking, amorphous mess.
Taking all this into account, I might still have been able to endure the novel, just for the sake of novelty, had it been shorter, but 374 pages is about 150 too many. Life is too short to waste on dreck like this. I am recommending that people not only not buy this book, but that theyyou guessed itavoid it at all costs.
On the other hand, in the past season I have managed to read all seven slim volumes of C. S. Lewiss classic fantasy Chronicles of Narnia, which I can recommend without hesitation (except perhaps for the last volume, which is way heavy on the apocalyptic Christian references), as well as another couple of end-of-the-world pieces: Philip Nutmans splendid zombie epic Wet Work and Richard Mathesons I Am Legend. Which he is, of course. More on these next issue, along withhold onto yer testiculoids, kidsIndys own Jerry Williamson is back with Darker Masques, and if the first four stories are any indication, this will be the gotta-have-it anthology of the year.
As always, comments, suggestions, insults and death threats are expected, if not entirely welcomed at thingsthatexplode@excite.com.