".[S]uper-sexy, uber-sleazy, super-weird. I can't think of another book that feels like a Peter Saul painting, reads like the diary of someone's darkest fantasy, and never for a second lets you forget that it's the most unreal version of a 'realistic' subject ever put to paper. Like a pop song written by a masterful craftsman, there's never a verse that goes on too long or loses the overall rhythm, even when he's riffing off into a Hendrix-like frenzy of spontaneity and power chords. The book builds to a complete orchestral crescendo, making its message about the retarded nature of a mind that thrives on pulp violence unmistakably clear. Everything he is hinting at about how this phenomenon is at the center of modern American culture is pretty clear too.".