What they watched wasn't real life but bigger, more dramatic, more passionate. Air-conditioned, with bright pastel decor, deep-comfort seats, soft drinks and popcorn in the foyer, the place was custom-built to package illusion. The people submerged themselves int he main feature till the final credits rolled and they filtered out into the real world.
Except for a few who never did leave. Women who, alone in the washroom or on the quiet soft-carpeted stairways, came face to face with reality and died. Were dragged, their throats torn out, through the ventilation ducts and into the secret raftered space where lived the man who loved only dead women. Who came down, wet-lipped and hugely powerful, time after time, shuddering in his need to kill.
The Terror. That was what the Chief of Detectives Herroro Fiddleman called him. And wanted. Wanted more than anything else in his working life.
Now...this book is beyond mental. Written by someone who must have killed his mother. It doesn't really make any tangible sense and the writing is appalling...
He put his hand around her neck to feel the soft thing. He stroked it up and down like a giant penis and trembled
...but badly fascinating.
I would call this the spiritual relation of EAT THEM ALIVE. It's really, truly that bad/brilliant. Chuck Norris starred in the film of the same name - I really fail to see how it was ever adapted, and now I'll have to buy a copy of the film!