Mapping the Terrain of Used and Rare Books
I should not be reviewing this.
I should not have read it, as I kept on reminding myself as I read it.
Do not read this book.
It literally gave me nightmares.
I refuse to recommend it to anyone – on account of my personal integrity and morals.
It is terrible and disturbing.
It is so well written. I couldn’t put it down. Bryan Smith must be some kind of Evil Genius. This is some seriously sick shit. But I ate it up like it was Steven King’s latest. I honestly felt like I was a bad person for reading it. But I couldn’t stop. Does that make me a seriously disturbed individual?
That’s what the novel is about. Ordinary people being over-the-top seriously disturbed individuals. And the genius of this book is that it makes you feel with them. After savage carnage that rivals “American Psycho” you find yourself, somewhere deep inside, rooting for the killers – not because of the killings, which were disgusting, but because they are real people with real emotions that occasionally shine through the psychopathy.
And if there is anything this crazy, immoral, splatterfest is about it is that: We all have both good and evil inside us. “The Killing Kind” just decides to enumerate on the evil, as most books, no matter how dark they seem, always end up chalking things up to the good.
“The Killing Kind” is our darkest impulses magnified times a million through LSD eyes. Imagine Jack Kerouac was Charles Manson but a female with an impossible libido and a vengeance who liked to kill a thousand times more than Manson and then add in some more weirdly impossible and violent characters, and make them believable, and send them on a road trip. You somehow empathize with them on a dark level. Then kill all the good guys. That’s this book.
I should not be reviewing this. This is not for you.