Alright, let's get into this. If you’re looking for a book that’s basically the literary equivalent of rubbernecking a car crash – where you really want to look away but just can’t – this is the one. We're talking two serial killers, blood, guts, and... poetic prose? Yeah, you heard me. Somehow, amidst the gruesome body count and cannibalistic vibes, the writing is gorgeous. Like, disturbingly beautiful. You’ll be asking yourself, “Am I actually rooting for these guys right now? Is something wrong with me?” (Spoiler alert: the answer might be yes, but who cares?)

Poppy Z. Brite is an absolute master of language, painting horrifying scenes with the kind of eloquence that almost makes you forget you’re reading about necrophiles. And don’t even get me started on how this book weaves in the trauma of the AIDS crisis of the 80s and 90s. It’s not just shock and gore for the sake of it – there’s depth here. The way Brite handles the intersection of love, sex, death, and fear during this time is raw, brutal, and will leave you staring into the void when you finish.

But let me be real with you – this book is not for the faint of heart. Seriously, if you’re squeamish, do yourself a favor and check out the trigger warnings. All of them. And while we’re at it, expect very few female characters in the mix – this is a story centering around gay men in New Orleans, with lives that collide in violently messy ways. The plot? Yeah, I won’t spoil it, but let’s just say that every twist and turn drags you deeper into the muck.

This book? It’s gonna sit on my shelf forever. Because no matter how sick and twisted it gets, it’s the kind of story that sticks with you. If you’re up for a challenging read that will make you feel both horrified and weirdly in awe, then dive in. Just... maybe keep some mind bleach handy.