Crooked Little Vein gets off to a seriously weird, off-putting start, as the Presidential Chief of Staff goes off on a disturbingly long poetic reverie about the wonders of shitting all over hotel rooms while heroined up. It gets less off-putting (or maybe my brain just got numb) but it does not get any less weird. The whole book exists just so Ellis can string together the freakiest things he'd discovered while doing "research" on the internet. Macroherpetophilia. Testicular saline infusion. Tantric ostrich daterape cults. Roulette parties. [shudder]
It was hard to put down, in a most-demented-part-of-a-Garth-Ennis-title kind of way. I'm a little surprised that I finished it, but I'm glad I did.