BLOWGUN    A psychological murder thriller by William J.H. Anderson Click to read it free.  

Feedback is appreciated. What parts are not depraved enough?

Write:BillAnderson@premier-magazines.com ©2007-2008 William J.H. Anderson

It's open season on child molesters. Warning. Do not read this murder novel. It's a page-vise.With each flip of the page, just when you think itcan't get any worse... the screw tightens...

Here is a very insightful "with one-eye-closed" view into a haunted American tragedy from a lady friend born & bred in Sweden who is a first-rate high school English teacher in Falkenburg, Sweden. She is currently translating her latestbook entitled My Spiritual Life into English for the American market. I cannot thank her enough, her achingly good looks exceeded only by her kindness. Click her image to see her on the cover of Cosmopolitan--what a pretty lady with a capital "L.

I'm sitting here, reading this by my modest birch wood fire in Sweden on a midwinter's eve, imagining this book would probably be banned here... the way the author uses his it can't get any worse technique instills a truly sickening feeling of almost perverse apprehension. You want to turn away and not read, but you have already titillated the base curiosity in each and every one that will read this, so it’s mesmerizing and the reader is compelled to go on. Perhaps the most perverse aspect of this stomach-churning story is that parts of it are actually funny! Added to that almost impossible combo are all the hidden inside jokes embedded within almost every paragraph. Knowing this going in, I was able to spot, say, only about half of them. Playing this "spot the joke game" was great fun. The description below barely skims the surface. Warning. This book is not for the faint of heart.

Here is a brief description of this unspeakably angst-ridden book--or just jump right into the cesspool of human nature by clicking the Adobe Logo here and read it free. It is perfectly typeset in galley format i.e. exactly as you would see it in the store.

By the way, if your current book is not selling, let our printing plant put you in business with your own Premier Savings Coupon Magazine in your city anywhere in the US. There is no franchise fee because we are a printing plant. Too simple. You own it. We print it. Click our direct mail magazine cover to the left featuring Dominos Pizza.

Blowgun--almost impossible to describe... Without delay, the fuse is lit in this distressing story when a young girl is molested. The ensuing blast implodes the lives of the girl’s young entrepreneurial father, John Pemberton and Candy McDonald, tall, almost six feet, blond, excessively wholesome and nice, the prettiest farm girl angel ever created from the dreadful dust of a carnal, horror-ridden Iowan cornfKatarina PerssonKatarina PerssonKatarina PerssonKatarina PerssonKatarina PerssonKatarina Perssonprem77@premier-magazines.comield or any other dirt on this Earth.

On sentencing day for his daughter’s molester, John Pemberton sees to it that this case turns into the trial of at least two centuries. To help this poor, incapacitated soul, a stranger, "Blue Collar Bob," packs his barbaric butcher’s bag and sets off on his one man, covert, retaliation ride with his impossibly long list of the damned, always inexorably hunting, exterminating, using his inexplicable, unparalleled methods, consequently giving all a free ticket to Counter-Earth. You’ll see.

Meanwhile, John Pemberton's new, infallible, fluid-based inner scales watches knowing this identical, negative-Earth, in its opposite, collinear orbit behind the Sun was the true location of hell off Earth. He now knew all the moment his cunning scales of retribution were implanted in his psyche, a reward for his heroic action in court that astounding day. But Bob did all the work.

As if following some depraved, demonic witch’s recipe to the letter, this book’s main ingredient is the premeditated, ruthless, escalation of foreboding and shock, as each successive scene incestuously breeds with its mother, repugnantly trashing the reader’s sense of morality, as forbidden abominations become reality.

So, true to form, pure, underprivileged Candy McDonald’s journey is even more sadistically dreadful than John Pemberton’s as her amnesic, wounded little farm girl’s soul from Iowa slowly awakens, sickened by unspeakable night terrors that become so agonizingly frequent and horrifying she embarks on a naive Earthly journey of discovery and a parallel journey of descent from heaven to an abyss deeper than hell itself as her virtue and faith in man are agonizingly scoured away, with excruciatingly slowness, skin layer by skin layer right down to her flawless, tall skeleton by humanity's Brillo Pad.

This book is hell-bound to make the reader beg, screaming, “Don’t open it Candy!” or “Open it. Run!” because we know every dreadful detail of her sweet, bitch-sweat-soaked nightmares are nauseatingly true. It’s all so simple if one understands the perfectly normal standards of her childhood at the farm in Cornhole, Iowa. It’s just common sense. Of course Candy can’t remember, not even the screaming part, after Diddy rigged nine huge tractor batteries together and clamped the jumper cables to her temples at puberty. He had to. That bastard, Dr. Patel, over in Gooseshoot, had refused to give her ECTs. Well, he did beat the fuck out him. See?

In this sweet, dreadful, peculiarly mournful tale of indecent innocence, flowing femininely with sweet, snatch-scented bitch-sweat eat up with delicious, dreamy degeneracy, ingenious vengeance and sumptuous, sadistic humiliation, the serial assassinations committed herein with bizarre, yet benevolent clarity of consciousness are so pristine, they drip, drooling, drenched, oozing pure putrid puss in their ingenuity, that they are a blessed break from the mind-blowing nightmarish incestuous cesspool horrors of this... "story?" No. A new puce-colored, jaundiced genre has been perversely puked forth. And then other stuff that is really bad happens. Don't read it.

Perhaps most disturbing of all, following its titillating toxic recipe of intensification, this "thing," this book adds a perverted third dimension—it’s funny.

What? Funny? Yes, the reader will find himself shamefully laughing out loud as repugnant facts about the lower, cesspool strata of human nature are said out loud. They are only funny because we know these buried truths, but have never brought them into consciousness, and so by definition, they have never been uttered until now.

So now you know this book’s it-can’t-get-any-worse-than-this method. Each turn of the page will tear that failed theory to shreds. It is so wantonly, purposefully corrupt, the reader is hereby given fair warning about the “inside joke” in hopes that it will make this book even barely readable as the horrors multiply exponentially.

As called for in the recipe, the screw tightening never ends, even at the end, so when the final, merciless bell tolls, it tolls for you, never letting you off the trapdoor on the gallows. Does good really triumph over evil? This book shamelessly perverts even the answer to that—the supreme philosophical question of the ages.

Have nice trip.

Click to read blowgun free