Monday, 25 April 2011

Bullet, Another Gods Awful Book by Laurall K Hamilton That I Thought Would Be Amusing To Review

Take a skin mag, your average copy of Bizarre, and a wildlife booklet.  Tear out the pages and stick them to your walls, your floor, cover your furniture with them.  Collage them together until all you see is an ocean of skin and fur, and lots and lots of leather.  And bondage toys.

That fair and gentle reader, is Bullet. 

It is 440 pages of sex orgy.  Yes I have used the singular, because though there are a few moments when someone is not fucking someone else, that is pretty much the whole book.  It is, cover to cover, one big orgy.  No story.  Just orgy.  It might as well have terribly graphic pictures of all this "creamy goodness" as the writer likes to put it.

What plot there is, that of the Mother of All Darkness (a big bad vampire goddess apparently) usurping the bodies of the Vampire Council and threatening every vampire and werecreature in America, is put aside, tucked beneath the sex like the silk sheets on Jean-Claude Vampire Cliche's bed. 

But I am not being fair perhaps.  There is the rather immediate subplot of assasination, and a rotting vampire master who's gone bat-shit crazy and skipped his way to a killing spree. 

That's dealt with in the epilogue children!  Not finished, dealt with.  He gets one paragraph, but not even a whole one, and the assasination that seemed to so bother Anita and her harem is quite forgotten.  Well I suppose thats easy when you're boinking your way through all the preternaturals in the southern states.

Now, I like reading about sex, but when every fucking chapter is a continuation of orgiastic fantasies, I get bored.  Note to the writer, I even get bored enough to pick up another book!  And the descriptions of every last character's eyes and fur and hair and clothes is enough to make you scream, literally fall on your kness and rend your vestiges of identity from your body. 

And they're all so gods darned pretty and fit it makes me want to vomit the chocolate egg I had earlier onto their so tediously described hair.  And then I want to point and laugh at Anita Blake for being the most uninspiring role model I've ever had the misfortune to read about.  And for having sick in her hair.

I would recommended this to any writer who wants to feel safe in the knowledge that there is someone out there worse at the craft than they are.  If I advocated book burning, I'd throw it on the hearth to be of some use and heat my soup, because it sure ain't a book to stretch your mind with.  It might stetch your pants, but definately not your mind.

Tell you what, it might not even do that.  Unless you stuff it down your trouser front as the crotch guard it is destined to be.  But don't keep it there for too long.  Your manhood might get squished.

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