His girlfriend offed herself in his bathtub and now he’s just fucking done. Doesn’t give a shit. He spends his time drinking booze by the gallon, boning whores where he can, and gambling like a fucking degenerate. If the first two can’t kill him, looks like the third just might. He owes twenty-five K to his bookie and has zero means to pay said sum.
First he’s thinking he may as well just let the bookie’s thugs kill him, faster than the way he’s going about it now anyhow. But then a beautiful woman with a flimsy story offers him fifty grand to help fake her own death. Jack jumps at the chance, if only for the chance to jump her bones down the line. Little further into this tale, Andrelli’s thinking he shoulda let the bookie’s guys take him out after all.
JJ DeCeglie’s Drawing Dead sounds like the stuff of old school noir, but the hyper-sexual, uber-profane and completely politically incorrect voice of the novel makes it strictly for basement noir crazies, middle-boiled fans need not fucking apply. Jack starts telling his story with the line, “I wasn’t always an asshole” and proceeds to prove what an asshole he is throughout the rest of the book.
He does despicable, self-destructive acts throughout, yet the rawness of his wounds and his nasty sense of humor let you root for him all the same. And though Jack may seem like he’s all about self-hatred and the simple pleasures that momentarily free him from his tortured mind, he at least has good taste in books and movies, a trait that always goes far with the Nerd.
Drawing Dead is classic pulp with some generous fucking helpings of despair, graphic sex, and dark humor, a tight neo-noir that’s not afraid to go full-dark when it counts. If that sounds like your piping hot cuppa, dear reader, go and fucking get yourself some.