One of the absolute best experiences for any fiction fanatic is discovering a character who’s the absolute worst. There’s just something so delightful about a well-conceived psycho- or sociopath hell-bent on ruining a protagonist’s life. Call me a romantic.
It’s not exactly clear what drives our fascination with villains and anti-heroes. Perhaps it’s that we like to meet people—even if imaginary—who make our own flaws, issues and neuroses seem like commendable virtues in comparison. Or it could be that deep down we are just as sick and disturbed as the dangerous antagonists we hate to love and love to hate.
Whatever the reason, “bad guys” are the best. Here are eight that none of us would be caught dead with though can’t seem to get enough of.
Annie Wilkes from Misery by Stephen King.Annie Wilkes both terrifies me as a reader and gives me something to strive for as an author. I mean, what writer wouldn’t want a reader devoted enough to a character to abduct and very nearly kill its creator?
That said, Annie is not somebody you want to upset and definitely not somebody you want to complain to about missing typewriter keys. Not since my grandfather four scotches in on Thanksgiving several decades ago has anyone handled an electric carving knife as creatively and brutally as Annie.
Judge Holden from Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy. No character has given me more nightmares, caused me more physical and mental distress, than Judge Holden. And for that I’m eternally grateful. Standing seven feet tall and completely lacking any hair, pigment or remorse, Judge Holden makes Cormac McCarthy’s other renowned antagonist—the terrifying Anton Chigurh from No Country for Old Men—look like Mary Poppins. The former is evil personified—perhaps even Satan himself, as some literary scholars have suggested—and yet he makes it nearly impossible for readers to stop turning pages.
So, if any of your reader friends ever say, “If only there were a novel featuring an immense, murderous albino man as adept at killing and torture as he is at languages, dancing and diplomacy,” be sure to whip out a copy of Blood Meridan and exclaim, “Have I got the book for you!”
Alex from A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess. You know how when a friend charms you with such elegant, poetic, lyrical language you almost fail to realize what they’re describing are terrible acts of violence they’ve carried out? No? Well then, allow me to introduce you to Alex from A Clockwork Orange. He’ll have you at, “And, my brothers, it was real satisfaction for me to waltz—left two three, right two three—and carve left cheeky and right cheeky, so that like two curtains of blood seemed to pour out at the same time, one on either side of his fat filthy oily snout in the winter starlight.”
It’s hard to imagine ever having sympathy for a nihilistic teenager whose favorite hobby is ultra-violence. Until you read this book. As horrific and despicable as Alex is, I dare you not to feel for him at least a little once you get to the part where he’s imprisoned and forced to undergo aversion therapy that strips him of free will and any sense of self. I mean, c’mon—what’s sadder than a psychopath who lacks agency?
Villanelle from Codename Villanelle by Luke Jennings.That’s right, the irresistibly sadistic cold-blooded assassin from the smash TV series Killing Eve was a literary character before wowing and terrifying us on the small screen. (Author Luke Jenning’s novel Codename Villanelle is actually a compilation of four novellas published between 2014-2016.)
Villanelle is vicious, duplicitous, psychotic, incapable of remorse, and highly skilled in the art of ending lives. She’s got it all! And even though we know how incredibly dangerous and deadly she is, we still can’t help falling in love with the idea of her and Eve (the story’s protagonist and Villanelle’s arch nemesis) falling in love.
We’re SICK, I tell ya.
Tyler Durden from Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk.I almost didn’t include Tyler Durden in this list because it’s hard for me to call one of my favorite characters of all time a “villain.” But yeah, technically he is the antagonist to the book’s protagonist, even though he’s also the protagonist’s best pal, and also lives inside the protagonist’s mind.
Hey, we’ve all had difficult friends.
As far as villains go, Tyler Durden is arguably one of the most passionate and heroic, and one that millions of readers (male readers, anyway) secretly long to be just like. Sure, he’s volatile and violent and dead-set on breaking the world, but in a good way. Sort of. If you take away his penchant for explosives and underground melees and compound fractures—and you discount the fact that he’s merely a figment of a highly unstable fictional person’s mind—Tyler’s the kind of guy you’d want as your best man. Or pallbearer.
Patrick Bateman from American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis.He is far and away the most despicable and unlikeable character on this list, which is why I know you’re going to keep reading.
Throughout the controversial and infamous novel, Patrick Bateman commits unspeakable acts of violence, misogyny and, perhaps worst of all, investment banking. But there’s something, dare I say, oddly satisfying about being inside the mind of a psychotic homicidal narcissistic yuppie killing it in New York City in the late 1980s.
Humbert Humbert from Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov. On second thought, this guy—not Patrick Bateman above—is the most despicable villain on this list. But here’s what’s terrifying: He’s also perhaps the most likeable.
That’s the paradox of Humbert Humbert. You’ll never encounter a main character more educated and erudite, more cultured and refined, more romantic and charming and full of wit. It’s all almost enough to distract you from the fact that he’s a pedophile. For every page that readers find themselves rooting for and riveted by him, there’s one that leaves them repulsed—not only by Humbert but also by themselves for traveling with him.
Absolute enchantment and severe self-loathing—what more could you hope to get from a book?
Hannibal Lecter from the “Hannibal” series (Red Dragon, Silence of the Lambs, et. al.) by Thomas Harris. A brilliant and successful psychiatrist who just can’t seem to kick his pesky serial killing and cannibalism habit. Um, YES please.
Like Humbert Humbert from Lolita, Hannibal Lecter wins us over with his eloquence and charm. But where Humbert is a human consumed by illicit love, Hannibal loves to illicitly consume humans.
Boom!
mic drop
Who are some of YOUR favorite villains and anti-heroes from literature? Or even better, from your own family?
Nothing says “I love literature” like cheering a fight to the death.
Every reader at one point or another has found themselves enthralled by some epic melee between a favorite protagonist and that character’s sworn enemy—or some other human obstacle standing in the protagonist’s way. As much as I love such scenes of intense conflict and tension, I often find myself wishing for even more. Like, wishing I could lift different characters out of their respective books to see how they’d fare in a fight with one another.
Yes, I am seeking professional help for this condition. But in the meantime, I’ve come up with a few literary death-matches for the ages—ones any devout fan of fiction would die for. Or at least finish reading this blog post for.
Enjoy!
Tyler Durden from Fight Club vs. Alex from A Clockwork Orange
A no-holds-barred bout between these two anarchy A-listers would be as hilariously entertaining as it would be deadly. I can already hear the cacophonous laughter from both characters as they suffer and deliver bone-shattering blows coupled with witty, derisive barbs. Their mutual love of destruction and mayhem would further inspire each to keep bringing and receiving the pain. In the end though, it’s hard to imagine Alex still standing. As hard as it is to defeat a highly disturbed fictional individual, it’s even harder to defeat a highly disturbed figment of the imagination of an a even more disturbed fictional individual. Which is why the first unspoken rule of Fight Club is you don’t get into a death-match with the founder of Fight Club.
Lisbeth Salander from The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo vs. Patrick Bateman from American Psycho
I’d pay good money to see one of the most badass vigilante feminists in literature square off against one of the most psychotic misogynistic serial killers in literature—and I’d place more good money on the former taking down the latter. Sure, Patrick Bateman knows how to time the dropping of an active chainsaw down a spiral stairwell so that it perfectly eviscerates a fleeing victim, but such gruesome stunts wouldn’t fly with Ms. Salander, who’s smart enough to wear her kickass black motorcycle helmet whenever she senses the slightest chance she’ll encounter trouble. That, plus Patrick’s insatiable ego and lust would put him at a distinct disadvantage. Where he’d be focused on having sex with Lisbeth and adding her to his list of amorous conquests before murdering and dismembering her, Lisbeth would be focused solely on going for the kill. She has zero interest in external validation from men, and is the last person a man like Patrick would ever want catching him with his pants down.
“Richard Parker” the tiger from Life of Pi vs. the cat from The Cat in the Hat
Who doesn’t love a good catfight, am I right? Now, I realize a 450-pound Royal Bengal tiger versus a fast-talking street cat might seem like a total mismatch on paper, but the truth is … nah, I’m not gonna lie—The Cat in the Hat would be a goner. But that’s okay; I never really liked that damn cat or his hat. True, he did teach millions of bored children how tons of fun can be had even on a dreary, rainy day; however, in the process he nearly destroyed a perfectly nice home, forced two innocent children into a high-stakes game of deception with their mother, and made his two kooky friends live inside a box. What a dick. So, him getting completely devoured by a giant ferocious feline—who by the way, showed tremendous restraint with that boy on that boat—well, that’s just karma.
Katniss Everdeen from Hunger Games vs. Robin Hood from The Merry Adventures of Robin Hood
I’ve got nothing against either one of these characters and wish neither of them any harm; it’s just, archery is totally badass and I can’t help but wonder which of these two legends would be the truer shot when the stakes couldn't be higher. No doubt both heroes are highly skilled and very brave, but I’d have to give Katniss the slight upper hand—not only because she has more modern equipment, but also because Robin Hood’s skimpy tights would offer little in the way of protection. One shot anywhere near the femoral artery and the dude would bleed out. One shot a little bit higher and the dude would wish he'd bleed out.
Hannibal Lecter from Red Dragon vs. Sweeney Todd from Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street
As with the Katniss/Robin Hood matchup, I think both of these characters are fine, upstanding individuals whom I’d be honored to call friends. It’s hard not to respect how they each use the whole human whenever they kill one. That’s very green of them, very ecological. Still, it would be an absolute morbid thrill to watch them battle to the death and, depending on the outcome, witness the winner either eating the loser with a nice Chianti or having their friend make sausage out of him.
What literary character death matches would YOU love to see? Or do you find the very notion of even fictional violence and murder appalling? If so, why are you reading my blog? You must be lost.
I just want to lead off by saying violence never solves anything. That said, smashing things to bits can feel pretty damn good—especially when the things you’re smashing belong to the spouse who robbed you blind and destroyed your life just before losing theirs.
Don't worry, I'm not referring to anything from my life (though I do like smashing things to bits); rather to that of Odessa Scott—the protagonist from my upcoming (some day) crime thriller Into a Corner.
While we all have stuff to be furious about these days, few of us will ever become as furious as Odessa is throughout much of my book. At the start of the book we learn her dead husband—before getting dead—drained all their accounts AND the accounts of Odessa's widowed mother (Mama), then ran off with the cash ... and his mistress. Odessa found all this out the next day, when her husband and his mistress and every cent Odessa and Mama ever earned exploded. Talk about a change of fortune.
When you create a character who has a serious axe to grind with someone but that someone is already dead, you have to give your character an opportunity to vent in a healthy manner; otherwise they'll end up destroying themselves and all the innocent people around them before they reach even the middle of the story. Fortunately for Odessa, I came up with the idea of having her good friend Griff come up with the idea of giving Odessa the gift of catharsis ... by taking her to a "rage room" and letting her loose. For those of you who don't know what a rage room is, you are about to find out—and will likely want to visit (or create) one yourself afterward. If you do, remember to always wear a helmet and protective eyewear before beginning to obliterate everything in your path. Safety first.
The following is an excerpt from Chapter 14 of Into A Corner. It shows how, when pushed too far, even an artist who's all about creation will fully embrace destruction.
I swing the bat so hard, several of my thoracic vertebrae pop and crackle. The forty-inch glass screen implodes on impact. Shards skitter and glisten across the stained concrete floor. What’s left of the television screen is a web spun by a crystal spider. I stand there admiring the damage.
Through the spectator portal, Griff gives me a double thumbs-up. “Hell yeah!” he shouts, barely audible behind the plexiglass and over the Wu-Tang song blaring out of the speakers. Lucky for him, I’m not wearing the earplugs the owner of this place offered me.
Griff taps the partition and points my attention toward the Kawasaki in the center of the wrecking room. I look at him and shake my head till my safety helmet rattles out of position. “Not yet!” I yell through the glass while readjusting my helmet and goggles. “Saving the worst for last.”
The digital display on the wall says I have eight minutes and thirty-seven seconds left to destroy everything around me.
I’m off to a damn good start. Wayne spent half his waking life and most of his sleeping one in front of that TV I just demolished. Beneath my All The Rage-issued white coveralls and work gloves is all the sweat.
Eight minutes and twenty-four seconds left and I line drive one of Wayne’s golf trophies off a table and against the cinder blocks of the side wall. The little gold man bounces back toward me with a crushed skull, a lacerated spine, and none of the granite that allowed him to stand around showing off his swing for years.
I show off mine and send two more trophies flying disfigured across the room while several members of the Wu-Tang Clan shout about how they “ain’t nuthin’ to fuck with.”
The song holds a special place in my heart.
This room is all about rage, but it’s hard to resist smiling as Griff cheers me on. He’s matched my every smash, crack, and shatter with a booming exclamation of support. If this keeps up, the worst years of my life will give him laryngitis.
Seven minutes and sixteen seconds and the last remaining wedding photo. The only one that didn’t go through the shredder in my studio months ago. I switch out my bat for a sledgehammer, then switch out the sledgehammer for a golf club because irony. Besides, ten pounds of steel to obliterate a marriage is overkill. Plus there’s no need to hurt myself. Getting injured over Wayne would raise my rage to a level not even a place built for it could handle.
I pick up the framed photo and fold its stand flush against the back of the frame, then lay it flat on the oak table. The tabletop is scarred with scratches, dents, and gouges from All The Rage’s previous satisfied maniacs.
Wu-Tang switches to The Clash. I raise the nine iron over my head machete-style and bring it down on the thin panel of glass no longer protecting Wayne’s face on the happiest day of his life. The opposite of wedding bells pierces the air as the frame’s edges detach and hurtle toward the four corners of the earth. Most of the glass panel is now scattered in assorted shapes and sizes across the table and floor. The rest of the glass is slivers and sand pinned between the head of the nine iron and the head of Wayne. My smile and wedding dress have escaped with just a few scratches and glass splinters. I go to lift the club but the edge of its head is stuck in a groove behind what’s left of Wayne’s face. A tug releases the weapon from the oak surface underneath and I smile like King Arthur, then search for what to slay next as I catch my breath.
Griff’s “woohoo!” and “go get it, girl!” competes with The Clash’s “Straight to Hell.” The song list was my creation. This has all been carefully thought out and choreographed. It’s the opposite of my life.
Out of the corner of my goggles, Ray, the owner of All The Rage, has joined Griff in the spectator portal. The two bump fists and start chatting like a silent movie. Ray looks like Denzel Washington and Bruce Lee had a baby and told that baby to work out a lot and shave its head when it got older.
With five minutes and fifty-three seconds left, I don’t need this kind of distraction.
Ray points at Griff’s new watch and says something while nodding. Griff nods with him, gives him a closer look at the watch, then points at me. I avert my eyes as the two of them peer through the window at my kindness and mayhem.
It’s time for the bowling ball. Wayne didn’t bowl. The ball isn’t his—it’s included in the Deluxe Destruction package. The blood-splatter pattern painted on the ball is a nice touch. Ray was kind enough to help Griff and me set Wayne’s stupid rare beer bottle collection up as a double-decker ten-pin bowling installation against the back wall when we arrived earlier. He even threw in a thin ceramic tile to separate the two layers of bottles, for free. But I didn’t come here to think about Ray or his generosity. Or his Zen-like ruggedness or his wild stallion glutes.
I pick up the bowling ball that’s not a bowling ball but Wayne’s severed head and stand close enough to the bottles to read their labels. Griff and Ray urge me on, roaring over The Clash’s chorus of hell as I take aim. With two fingers stuck through Wayne’s eye sockets, my thumb shoved up his nasal cavity and my weaker hand supporting the rest of his head, I step toward the glass pins, rear my arm back, and release.
Gutterball. But the smack and whirr of Wayne’s head hitting and rolling across the concrete floor before bashing against the cinderblock wall behind the bottles was almost worth the boos now coming from the spectator portal. Wayne’s decapitation rolls back to me. I bend over, pick it up, and turn around to stare down my taunters, but a tiny laugh escapes my scowl.
Ray’s beauty is ruining my temper tantrum. His kind eyes and smile are sucking the life out of my anger, spoiling my desire for violence and displaced aggression. So I turn around and think back to Wayne telling me he’ll be working late again hours before he exploded. I think back to seeing the checking account statement the next morning. I think back to hearing about who was in the car with him.
His head leaves my hand like a cannonball and turns the stacked bottles into a terrorist attack. Every microbrew Wayne ever bragged about now mimics what was left of the windshield in the photos the police showed me. Only this time I’m grinning the width of my goggles instead of shrieking like a brand-new widow.
“Strrriiiiike!” shouts Griff from the spectator portal. “Fuck yeah!” And if he doesn’t stop pounding his appreciation against the portal window, there’s going to be even more pieces of glass for Ray to clean up when we leave.
I turn around and flex, then do a little celebratory jig, shaking my booty a little more than I probably would if Griff were alone in the viewing booth. Ray gives me a thumbs-up and goddamn it another smile. If he doesn’t get the hell out here and leave us alone, fat chance of me mustering up the kind of unbridled fury I paid good money to finish off with.
I turn around and approach the Kawasaki. Griff and Ray slap their palms against the plexiglass and shout out inaudible words of encouragement. I do my best to block them out with thoughts of Wayne paying for the motorcycle with money he secretly siphoned from my dead father. Thoughts of Mama losing her house. Thoughts of Mama losing her mind.
The Clash switches to Rage Against the Machine just in time.
Three minutes and forty-one seconds and a crowbar. I pick it up from the weapon station and grasp it so tight it’s a part of me. Even with Zach de la Rocha shouting the heavy-metal rap of “Bombtrack” beyond the limits of the volume bar, my ears are hungry for louder. One swing of my steel appendage, and the Vulcan 900’s headlamp is a head-on collision. A swipe above the width of the handlebars beheads both mirrors like a Samurai and sends them sliding across the floor to mingle with the glass-and-ceramic remains of my previous victim.
More joyous cheers from the box seats force me to watch Wayne pulling up the driveway on this beast two years ago, calling me out to brag about its fierce power and beauty, promising me I won’t regret his unilateral decision.
He’s finally right.
With enough downward force to knock a lighter bike into hell, I bring the crowbar down on the gas tank and almost regret not heeding Ray’s earplug advice. The ringing makes it harder to hear the motivational distortion and screams of “Bombtrack,” but not even possible deafness can ruin the aluminum carnage for me. I grin at the huge dent and gash in the tank, imagining Wayne’s reaction. He gives me a smirk and asks if that’s the best I can do. My reply is another deathblow to the tank, then one to the taillight, two to the exhaust pipe, and who knows how many to the midsection. But enough to knock the motherfucker’s metal heart out.
One minute and fifty-three seconds and oxygen. Not enough of it. Not to fill my lungs or to lift a finger, let alone a crowbar.
So this is what total muscle failure feels like. Success.
The concrete cools my back through my coveralls and damp shirt. I didn’t realize how high the ceiling was before. My chest heaves toward it to bring air inside. Gas and oil fumes get mixed in despite me draining everything out last night. Now I understand why Ray rejected my request to bring my acetylene torch to this session.
My helmeted head falls to the side. Through the spokes of the rear wheel there’s the battered engine, lying motionless on the other side of the bike’s upright carcass.
Griff is overjoyed someplace I’m too tired to look.
Rage Against the Machine switches to Gloria Gaynor, but I’m still struggling to catch my breath. Having a coronary during “I Will Survive” would be humiliating and ruin an otherwise wonderful tantrum. I roll my head to the other side of the floor and catch Griff following Ray out of the viewing portal. Despite my urge to fake unconsciousness and steal a little CPR action from Ray, I sit up, then struggle to my feet and take in all the beauty of my unnatural disaster. Hurricane Odessa has been downgraded from a Category 5 to a mild tropical storm.
And time’s up. The buzzer on the digital display says so.
“You okay?” asks Griff, bounding from the padded door Ray’s holding open for him.
Doubled over, panting, I give Griff a raised fist and a “yup,” then return my torso to its fully upright position and pretend to breathe normally as Ray enters the wrecking room, closing the door behind him.
“You sure?” Griff asks.
I nod again and remove my helmet so he can see my eyes begging him to help me look like I have my shit together.
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the excerpt and are now counting the seconds until Into a Corner comes out, which should be sometime between Fall 2021 and Summer 2050—depending on my agent’s success landing a nice deal for it. (She’s starting the submission process very soon and she’s a rock star, so stay tuned.) If you’d like to learn a little more about—and read some additional pages from—the book, I posted an earlier excerpt a while back, and another one before that, and ANOTHER one even before that. (What can I say, I'm a giver.)
As for cool crime novels that are available NOW, it just so happens I recommended a couple by badass authors in the latest issue of my newsletter today. Those books/authors include:
Coyote Songs by Gabino Iglesias. As poetic as it is visceral, Iglesias' second novel howls its song and rips into our social fabric and fabrications like few other books dare to do. It's a story as old as injustice but as fresh as tomorrow. Don't just take my word for it. Here's what Booklist has to say about this up-in-your-grill cult masterpiece: "Coyote Songs is gorgeously written, even when Iglesias is describing horrible things."
Whisper Network by Chandler Baker. Yes, Chandler Baker lives in the same city as I do (Austin). No, I don't know her. But after reading this phenomenally sharp, smart and witty thriller, I'll likely seek her out (no, not in a creepy way) for an interview over drinks once COVID-19 calms the hell down. Furious and hilarious has always been a great combo in my book; if you feel the same, then be sure to check out Baker's. It's Outstanding. Entertaining. Important. I'd list all the praise and accolades this novel has received, but that would require a book of its own. Read. It.
Don’t want to miss out on my future recommendations for books by baddass Cri-Fi authors? Then I have another recommendation: Sign up for my newsletter! (Just enter your email address in the sign-up box near the top-right corner of this page. Trust me.)
Some might think it’s odd to blog about how a pandemic that’s still going on in real life will shape future works of fiction. And I agree. But hey, I also think it’s odd to have huge beach barbecues and house parties while a pandemic’s still going on in real life, yet THAT doesn’t seem to be stopping people.
At least this blog post won’t infect anyone. (That is, assuming nobody who already is infected prints out this post and licks it before handing it to their least favorite person. [More on that later on in this post.]) Besides, it’s only natural for a writer to think about the effect COVID-19 may have on the genre they write in. Especially a writer who has been cooped up for months with a year's supply of liquor.
So yeah, I have been thinking about how crime fiction might change and morph and evolve as the world changes and morphs and evolves. And today I’m going to blog about it. Now, some folks will say I’m doing so in a desperate attempt to create a bunch of buzz around the new crime fiction subgenres I’ve listed below while I secretly work on novels in those subgenres in hopes of becoming a mega-bestselling author in the near future. Really? That would be ridiculous—nobody reads my blog.
Regardless, I hereby present three new crime fiction subgenres that, with any luck, will emerge from the coronavirus pandemic as hot literary trends:
1) Quarantine Murder Mysteries.These books will be sort of like the traditional country house murder mysteries of yesteryear—only with a lot more hand sanitizer.
Few things are more thrilling than a good “closed-circle” murder. There’s an elevated sense of suspense and reader engagement when the list of possible suspects is very limited but where each suspect has a seemingly strong motive. Add in the fact that every character is related and has been cooped up together for weeks or months or possibly even two straight Thanksgivings, and the tension becomes thick enough to choke someone before dismembering them. As if that weren’t already enough to keep readers of quarantined murder mysteries riveted, each scene will be informed by a killer virus lurking outside every window, forbidding any character from letting off steam at a gym, yoga studio or monster-truck event. And don’t forget the added tension caused by characters having to home-school any kids who may be in the story.
From the inciting incident all the way through to the final chapter, a well executed quarantine murder mystery will leave readers guessing who done it?
Was it the wife, in the bedroom, using a golf club?
Or the mother, in the family room, using an algebra book?
Or the brother, in the bathroom, using an iPad with the browser found open to Pornhub?
What’s more, quarantine murder mysteries will provide ample opportunities for shocking twists. Like, maybe the murderer turns out not to be someone quarantined in the house but rather a Favor driver who got stiffed on a tip after risking their life to bring the victim a measely quart of Kung Pao chicken. Or, even more shocking, maybe the murder turns out not be a murder after all—maybe it was an accidental poisoning caused by the victim injecting Lysol into their own ass after watching the news.
2) Supermarket Thrillers.Since the coronavirus started hogging all the headlines a few months ago, Grocery shopping has gone from being an uneventful weekly errand to Mission Almost Impossible. Expect to see this not only reflected but prominently featured in the thrillers of the very near future.
Think Jack Reacher kicking ass at Albertsons—all while remaining at least six feet away from any ass that needs kicking.
While an entire novel set inside a supermarket would have been scoffed at or completely ignored by publishers and readers alike back in early January, today such books would hit the international bestseller list faster than their protagonists will move through a produce department. The high stakes along with the non-stop action and suspense will have readers on the edge of their plastic-covered seats inside their underground bunker.
The heroes in supermarket thrillers will face peril on every page. Every food item they touch could mean the end not just of them but of civilization as we know it. All it would take is one false move, a single lapse in concentration: Maybe the hero loses focus at the deli counter and rubs their eye without thinking; or slides their facemask down to scratch a nose itch after having just handled several peaches; or uses their mouth to pull off a disposable glove while busy using the other hand to send a text to headquarters alerting them that they’ve made it out of the store alive.
Oh, and the fight scenes. They’ll be magnificent—not just because of the creative fighting methods the hero will need to use in order to throttle their nemesis without touching them, but also because there will be more thanone nemesis. There’ll be dozens—basically anyone in the store who refuses to wear a mask or to adhere to social distancing rules or who tries to buy more than the allotted amount of toilet paper.
3) Bioterrorism Noir.When it comes to crime fiction, I’m most drawn to the darker characters: the lowlifes; the villains; the weirdos; the anti-heroes. Maybe my interest in and affinity for the “criminal mind” simply means I have moral ambiguity in my genes. Or perhaps it has more to do with me not being breastfed as a child. Regardless, I love me some noir. Transgressive tales where the protagonist is perfectly and often tragically flawed, someone you can’t resist rooting for in a book but whom you wouldn’t be caught dead with in real life.
Bioterrorism noir will go beyond even that—it will feature protagonists you can’t resist rooting for but whom you likely would be caught dead with in real life. That’s because the protagonists in bioterrorism noir will carry out all the dangerous and deadly acts that people like you and me merely fantasize about during a pandemic.
Oh, come on, don’t pretend like you haven’t imagined being able to purposely infect people you feel the world might be better off without (even if they go away only for a few weeks of quarantining). Don’t act like you haven’t entertained the notion of targeting … oh, I don’t know … rapists and pedophiles who are still on the loose, or politicians you loathe with every fiber of your being, or the guy you saw lick his fingers before turning the pages of a magazine in your doctor’s waiting room. Or politicians you loathe with every fiber of your being. (Did I already mention that one?)
Soon there will be loads of great novels featuring a main character who isn't afraid to take the law—and a deadly virus—into their own hands. Perhaps the character will be a member of a secret organization that’s developed an accurate and efficient virus-delivery system to ensure that innocent bystanders aren’t infected. Or a rogue vigilante with a personal score to settle using a vial of the virus stolen from a lab. Or maybe just Bob from Accounting who has gotten used to working from home and can’t bear the idea of spending hours in rush-hour traffic ever again, so he contracts the virus on purpose and walks around mask-less coughing on everyone he sees.
Bioterrorism noir novels will elicit fear and paranoia among regular, everyday citizens—sort of the same way Jaws did among beachgoers.
"Just when you thought it was safe to go back into the world."
YOUR turn! What subgenres do you think might emerge from the pandemic? Which of the ones listed above would you be most likely to read? Please share your thoughts in the comments section below. Or don’t—I’m not the boss of you.
NOTE: Some of you may be interested in a subgenre that wasn’t listed in this post but is no less compelling: it’s called the Sardonically Twisted Greg Levin Crime Thrillers subgenre. Be sure to check out the books that fall under this yet-to-be-discovered but fantastic category by clicking HERE.
I’ve been so busy recovering from the holidays, working on novels, and teaching English to Chinese children via video, I haven’t had much time to create new content for my blog. It’s kind of like how a lot of you have been so busy doing all the things you do, you haven’t had time to read all of my books. So I figured I’d do us both a favor and create a blog post featuring the best bits from my three novels. This way, I get content to fill this space, and you get some of the greatest lines of neo-noir fiction ever written by anyone named Greg Levin.
Now I know what you’re all thinking: “Greg, that isn’t fair to you—it’s not an even trade, you deserve more!” Folks, please, don’t worry about it. It’s my pleasure to share my work.
Okay, fine, if you absolutely insist on not taking advantage of me, I guess you could purchase one of my novels. Actually, you couldn’t pick a better time do so—because for the first time EVER, ALL of my novels are available for JUST 99 CENTS! (Kindle version only.)
Never before haveIn Wolves’ Clothing,Sick to Death, andThe Exit Maneach been priced at under a buck at the same time. So why now, you ask? Because never before have I overestimated my net worth by so much or overspent so badly during the holidays—thus, I need to do everything I can to bring in some extra cash without having to endure the pain and inconvenience of getting a better-paying job or making any real sacrifices.
To help you decide which of my ridiculously low-priced novels you’d like to buy (or gift to a friend), have a look at the rest of this post. Below you’ll find a brief description of each novel, along with what I and three of my five fans believe to be the best lines from each book, as well as praise from renowned writers/reviewers I didn’t even have to bribe.
(Note: Click on any of the red title links above or below to be brought to the Amazon Kindle page for that book. Have I mentioned each book is currently just $0.99!? )
On his best days, Zero Slade is the worst man you can imagine.
After seven years on a team fighting international sex trafficking,
Zero's quite good at schmoozing with pimps, getting handcuffed by cops,
and pretending not to care about the young girls he liberates. But the
dangerous sting operations are starting to take a toll on his
marriage and health. Not to mention his sanity.
Some "killer" lines from IN WOLVES' CLOTHING:
“There’s nothing better than being the bad guy. Long enough to do some good.”
“I tell him I’ll be back to my old self once we’re getting handcuffed in Phnom Penh.”
“I can’t remember if I took an oxy during the flight, so I eat two. They pair nicely with the scotch. It’s good to be home.”
“That’s one of the drawbacks of good narcotics—they often cause you to say cheerful things.”
“Appear too confident and comfortable, and your cover is blown. You are a perverted coward with no shred of decency, so for God’s sake act like it.”
“To get into character, think about the biggest douchebag frat guy you’ve ever met, imagine him with several million dollars, multiply his money and demeanor by ten, and then act like that guy. Right up until the cops remove your handcuffs and thank you.”
“Before I joined Operation Emancipation, I was just like the dozens of people fuming at Gate A-11 right now. Flight delays would ruin my day. Now? Now I can smile and whistle while walking through a pediatric cancer ward.”
“Whenever out with others, I can do pleasant. I can do content. I’m even able to muster empathy and interest on occasion. It’s not as easy as doing conniving, creepy, sleazy and sinister, but sometimes you just have to leave work at the office.”
“Barrett and Malik just arrived. A former Navy Seal and recovering coke addict, and a former Secret Service agent who got fired for punching a senator in the throat. Finally, some people I can relate to.”
“Maybe Caleb really is the bright and shining star Fynn has described. Maybe he’s self-actualized and stable and moral. Maybe he’s undamaged goods. If so, he’ll never fit in.”
“Human trafficking has a tremendous future. Even brighter than drug trafficking. It’s why many big-time dealers are diversifying—dipping their toes into the sex trade.”
“The reaction I’m looking out for is anger, which is the natural reaction and thus unacceptable. I’m also looking out for sadness, especially tears. Tears are completely normal. This job is not.”
“It’s more serious than I suspected. Caleb isn’t an alcoholic or a drug addict or suffering from PTSD. He isn’t depressed or bipolar or a masochist. He’s a Buddhist. I can overlook a lot of shit in a Jump Team member, but total enlightenment is where I have to draw the line.”
“And here I am, toasting a silver and sapphire blue ceramic container, trusting that the Eden Funeral Home got things right. That there were no mix-ups in the crematorium. I don’t like drinking with strangers.”
Praise for IN WOLVES' CLOTHING
“Levin movingly conveys the horrors of child sex trafficking in this effective thriller. He provides a window into one of the world's darkest underbellies, while somehow managing to insert appropriate lighter moments. This author deserves a wide audience.” —Publishers Weekly
“A riveting, fast-paced thriller. In Wolves' Clothing is an immensely satisfying read by an author with a genuine flair for originality and narrative-driven action. Unabashedly recommended.” —Midwest Book Review
“I highly recommend In Wolves' Clothing to those who love dark crime fiction and thrillers, as well as edgy literary and transgressive fiction— especially Chuck Palahniuk fans.” Lauren Sapala, author of Between the Shadow and Lo and The INFJ Writer
“Truly original and enthralling. Levin's blazing prose and acerbic wit capture the madness and the humanity of working undercover in the darkest corners.” —Radd Berrett, former Jump Team member, Operation Underground Railroad
“A sharp novel, both in action and in style, with fabulous dialogue and a flawed hero you'll love.” —Olga Núñez Miret, Rosie's Book Review Team
“There’s no escaping the adrenaline-packed punch of emotions that conclude with a thrilling ending. An unforgettable novel.” —Paul Falk, NetGalley reviewer
When Gage Adder finds out he has inoperable cancer,
things really start to look up for him. He leaves his
soul-crushing job, joins a nice terminal illness support group,
and takes up an exciting new hobby: serial killing.
Some "killer" lines from SICK TO DEATH:
“Over the previous six months, there was only one thing Gage had become more efficient at than killing… and that was dying.”
“Gage had never cared much for dark comic books. He was simply becoming the main character in one.”
“He never praised me whenever I’d hit a home run in little league, but I kill a few people and all of the sudden I’m his idol.”
“That’s the problem. They potentially have decades and decades ahead of them. A long and bright future. Too much life is getting in the way.”
“It was like picking teams for kickball at recess, only there were three team captains instead of two doing the picking. And getting picked meant you’d soon be dead.”
“Dying was the least of Gage’s problems.”
“Prison? You’re worried about prison? You’re already on death row, my friend.”
“It’s best to discuss mass murder behind closed doors, and Jenna lived the closest.”
“Learning he might not be dying really threw a wrench into Gage’s plans. He didn’t see how he could go on killing if there was a chance he’d go on living.”
“The problem with celebrating a birthday in a hospice center is all the oxygen.”
“Sitting in a hospice room staring at three uncommon zombies, the sickly triplets behind the most popular murder spree of the century.”
“That’s one way to lose your religion. Watching your deity vomit next to some road kill.”
"We’d be dead. Big deal. Death’s not such a long drop these days. Not for us."
Praise for SICK TO DEATH
“A tour de force dark comedy.”—Craig Clevenger, author of cult classics The Contortionist's Handbook and Dermaphoria
“A satirical thriller that says serious things as well as telling a stonking story. It'll appeal to readers who enjoy Dexter's adventures. For me, it ranks alongside Josh Bazell's Beat The Reaper.”—Rowena Hoseason of Murder, Mayhem & More
“Uniquely entertaining and captivating. Levin's prose is playful yet ominous, and the negotiation of this unique spectrum produces some truly great dialog and passages. He takes this story in bold directions that keep the pages turning. Definitely worth checking out!” —Bryce Allen, author of The Spartak Trigger and Idol Threat
“Darkly funny, with literary undertones. Look past the sharp wit and clever turns of phrase to find a novel that speaks to man's purpose in life, escalated by his impending death. When the third act begins to spin out of control, the author clinches it with a clever twist that leaves a very satisfying ending. I'd highly recommend this book to anyone ... except maybe the terminally ill.”—Scott Kelly, author of [sic] and the Keep the Ghost Trilogy
“Greg Levin has done it again with Sick to Death. As in his previous books, Levin weaves dark humor and a human touch into every chapter of this transgressive tale. Highly recommended.”—J.R. Hardenburgh, hard-to-please reader
Suicide should come with a warning label: “Do not try this alone.”
Eli Edelmann never intended on taking over his father's party supply store.
Nor did he ever intend on making a living through mercy killing.
But life doesn't always go according to plan.
Some "killer" lines from THE EXIT MAN:
“I wasn't some monster looking to feast on the weaknesses of salvageable souls. I saw myself as a noble purveyor, a humanist catering to the completely vanquished.”
“I was an equal opportunity executioner.”
“After a year or so of helping people die, I was really starting to reach my full potential.”
“The weekend had been interesting and eventful, but it was time for me to return to my normal life of selling party supplies and lining up suicides.”
“It’s hard enough meeting someone you find beguiling enough to want their contact information. Start nitpicking about a few past indiscretions or a police record and you’ll end up dying sad and alone.”
“A team was forming. And what a pair we were. Collectively we represented multiple consecutive life sentences—me for my illicit side job; her for a single mistake.”
“You get used to offering condolences and shaking hands with family members of the person you helped put in the casket or urn before you.”
“It wasn’t enough sneaking around helping sick people disguise their suicide as natural death. I needed some excitement in my life.”
“She had become an integral part of my life—just not the part with all the death.”
“There’s nothing quite like a perfectly executed suicide to get you feeling right again.”
Praise for THE EXIT MAN
“The sharpest, funniest voice in U.S. literature since Carl Hiaasen. Greg Levin's second novel is a corker.”—If These Books Could Talk
“Imagination-capturing and fresh. I highly recommend reading The Exit Man, but strongly advise: Do not try this at home!” —TNT Reviews
"The Exit Man is black humor at its best. If you like dark humor, buy it now." —D.E. Haggerty, author of Life Discarded and Buried Appearances
“A surprisingly delightful and exciting read. Levin’s deft wrangling of the language lifts the subject matter from macabre to entertaining, from WTF to LOL, from “you’ve got to be kidding me” to “I’m sticking around for the ride.”—Michael Smart, author of the Dead Reckoning, Deadeye, and Deadlight
“Smart dark humor wrapped in an inventive story. Levin handles the topic of assisted suicide with respect while busting conventional thinking with clever humor and quirky characterization. A unique, inventive, and well-written novel.” —Lisa Haneberg, author of the Spy Shop Mysteries
Thank you very much for stopping by. I’m truly humbled by you letting me show you how amazing my books are. Don’t forget to take advantage of the very limited time offer—just 99 cents for each of my three novels! Sorry, I didn’t mean to shout.
DO IT!
(For those of you in the UK, you can take advantage of the book sale by clicking here.)
Oh, and tune in next time, when I (expect to) share some exciting news about my upcoming novel, INTO A CORNER.