There’s a book I read a long time ago that I probably got from the library and was possibly written by either Richard Laymon or Dean Koontz. At one point, one of the characters (who is possibly a serial killer of some sort and definitely an all-round scumbag) is reminiscing about the time he spit-roasted a hooker with another serial killer / scumbag. There’s a bizarre bit of narrative about how it felt to the one guy that the two of them ejaculated through the prostitute into each others’ penises, thus forming a kind of blood-bond between them.
The reason I can remember absolutely nothing else about the scene and book in question is that it popped uninvited and unwelcomed into my brain as I was watching a cutscene from a videogame. Apparently my subconscious thinks that there’s no such thing as a bad time for ‘sword-as-penis’ symbolism.
Please help me remember what the book was called so I stop thinking about it and move on.
It should be “The Face of Fear”, from memory. It’s the one where she’s in the office building, and has to mountain-climb down the side to escape from this guy. I remember reading it when I was about ten.
Oh yeah, and it’s Dean Koontz BTW.
Hmm… was that one of the books that made it into a four-pack along with Cold Fire and a couple of others? If so, I read that one at a friend’s grandmother’s. It amazing the things you remember when prodded in the right way.
Thanks!
It is, except that they don’t kill the hooker I don’t think, at least that’s not my memory and I’ve read it quite recently.
I picked up some Dean Koontz books from a second hand store, after having read a newspaper article which suggested that he’s a pretty good writer, even if he does sell gazillions … and I quite like Stephen King in small doses so I thought I’d give him a try.
“The Face of Fear” was the first one I read and it is dreadful. Cookie cutter characters, banal dialogue, a plot so silly it makes most Saturday morning cartoons look sophisticated, all round a waste of the time I took to read it.
The next one I read was about a guy with some disease which means he can only go out at night, (I’ve forgotten the title) and it was so much better that I still can’t believe they were written by the same person.
In my experience of many years as a bookworm, people can either write, or they can’t; they can get better at it, but if they don’t have what it takes, then no amount of practice can provide them with the talent.
The disconnect between the two books was so great I’m still puzzled by it.
TMI! TMI! TMI!
Call your shots on stuff like this!!!
I expected a refined literary question, not this!! :mad: :mad:
Give a hint in your Thread Title, Sutremaine! :eek: