The Long Last Call by John Skipp

". . . the acme of splatterpunk . . ."

Hank is hurting, not just from burning the picture of the woman he has loved and lost while driving drunk, but from the images plaguing his brain. But Hank has a plan; all he needs is the place. Then he sees Sweet Thangs, a strip bar in the middle of nowhere.

Eddie runs Sweet Thangs, the strip bar that fuels his two favorite habits: cocaine and women. Eddie inherited the place from his father, a preacher, and quickly turned it from a house for the worship of God into a house for the worship of money and flesh. His older sister, Mom, handles the strippers and the books, finding a little bit of order in the usual chaos.

It’s a slow night, less than an hour until closing. The regulars are in their usual spot with crumpled one dollar bills in their hands. The strippers are going through the motions, winding down for the night, unhappy with their meager tips and anxious to go home until a talk, dark, and very handsome stranger walks in carrying a briefcase as slick and expensive as his tailored suit. The girls see a rich, buff hunk. Eddie sees an easy mark. The regulars see nothing but free booze. Hank sees death and flames lighting up the darkness. The night is just beginning.

Splatterpunk master, John Skipp, offers up more than gore and eldritch mayhem in The Long Last Call. Long descriptive passages create a tired and jaded world that reeks of spilled booze, complex lives, and basic instincts. All give way in a strobe-like effect, alternately lighting up and briefly hiding rapid-fire action as Skipp takes the reader on a hell ride through a living tableau of the best and worst of human emotions. In the end, it is all about good and evil and finding them both where you least expect them. The Long Last Call is the acme of splatterpunk. Skipp has definitely not lost his sweaty, bloody touch.

Reviewer: J. M. Cornwell