A professional killer kills a lot of people while looking for love, of a sort.
What can I say? I wasn't laughing out loud all the time, as I'd been promised, but the piling up of unwanted corpses near the beginning of the story is genuinely comic.
I wasn't shocked by the casual attitude to violence. I was watching spaghetti Westerns in the sixties. And Get Carter. And The Killers, with Lee Marvin (highly recommended).
I wasn't impressed by the attempt at depth by reproducing the imaginary dialogues our psychopath hero has with his dead mother and the odd victim.
Interesting idea that the ideal woman for him is one who is so ill or injured that she needs constant selfless care. Is Mr King a Catholic?
He's no Jane Austen or Irvine Welsh, but I've already reserved The Bank Robber's Diaries from the library.
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