S’not a good time time to be a killer. DNA technology has made it mighty tough, I’d say, to get away with nothin, these days. Jus ask serial murderer Gary Ridgway, who avoided arrest for some odd twenty years until science caught up with him. You might ask me why ahm thinkin about all that, killers and whatnot. Well I’ve been reading The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson and I guess it’s the kind of book that leads you to thinkin some. An I suppose you wanna know how I got on, how I liked the book an all. I don’t know if I can say as I enjoyed it, but, well, it sure went down easy. Like a fifth of whisky or a two dollar whore. An it left me feelin much the same way: kinda satisfied and warm but dirty too. Theys say that readin these hard-boiled, these here noir novels is some kinda escapism, like they’re a holiday from reality, but that don’t make a whole heap of sense to me. I guess it depends what you escaping, but from whats I see these here typa novels are the most real of all. Jus look in a newspaper, folks; do that an the reality of the world hits you square in the jaw, an it takes a lotta effort not to fall to the floor. Now I’m not sayin that murder and violence and darkness is all the world is, but it sure is a big enough slice of the pie, all told. Certainly these hard-boiled novels are as least as real as something like Madame Bovary; more real I’d say despite everyone falling over themselves to call Flaubert a realist. This particlar book is a lil’ bit diff’rent to most of the classic noir I’ve read, as the bad guy is the sheriff, is the law. A dirty cop is not exactly something I find it difficult to believe in; I’d wager there’s more corruption in law enforcement than bristles on my chin. Anyways I liked that about this particlar book. I thought that wasa neat twist of things. An like all good noir the writins sharp an thrilling, like a brand new knife. There’s always so many quotable lines in something like this that you sometimes gets to thinkin maybe it’s the best kinda writin there is. An then there’s that about Lou, the dirty deputy, an how he speaks in cliches all the time because it’s his way of thrillin himself. Well i liked that about the book a whole bunch, I must say. Lou speakin in glib an trite phrases, makin all the folks think him some kinda simpleton, jus because it amused him to do so, while in actual fact he’s a card-carrying Sadist. Woo boy some of that made me laugh, ‘though ahm not sure you should admit as much in polite company. Good thing you’re not all that polite, I guess. But anyways ahm makin it sound as though I loved the book, an that would be real unfortunate. Thing is, The Killer Inside Me is like a pretty girl with no brains. You might not notice it in the beginning, what with all the lipstick an painted nails an such to take in, but on the third date you’re at the point where you’re kinda like gee, she looks fine but we’ve been speakin now for hours and all I can think about is how my ass has gone numb. Lou was certainly in’eresting for a while, but he’s basically a mess of a character. Like how can he be a Sadist, a murderer an a child molester? There was no psychological or criminal consistency. I gots to feelin like Thompson was jus throwing crimes at him, throwin evil at him. I was surprised he didn’t have him killin JFK. An there was the mighty dumb plot about the brother, who once took the wrap for Lou, but then gots murdered hisself. Well I guess my expectations were screwy because I wanted somethin dark, I didn’t want vaudeville; I wanted edgy not American Psycho in the deep south. Kubrick called it believable and chillin, an well I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, specially not one who directed Dr Strangelove an Full Metal Jacket, which are fine movies, but Stanley was talkin out his ass.