I cannot begin to explain how hard this book FUCKED. Pedal punching a hole right through the floor, raise Hell, praise Dale, rock and roll. Violent, visceral, vroom fuckin’ vroom. Every now and then I find a book that makes me want to leap from my chair, sprint out the door, headbutt the nearest tree, laugh maniacally with blood in my teeth, shotgun a beer, rip a ciggie, and speed off into the sunset blasting Black Sabbath. In reality, I calmly turn the pages and quietly murmur, “Wowie mowie,” to myself, in my fluffy slippers, sipping my new probiotic seltzer I found at Aldi. But this book, “Fever House,” made that sparking energy conceivable, phrenetic, tangible, right at the tips of my fingers.

5/5 Rosson? More like “Rocks-on”! I don’t know, it sounded better in my head. This RULED.