Scene follows scene until one realizes that all of the scenes are rendered more or less uniformly. The torrent of words spilling from Cohen's brain gives his father's mysterious disappearance the same weight as his pal's buying speed, or what's happening in the porn video on TV.
Cohen wonders about an old girlfriend, takes a shower and then kidnaps, strips and murders two college girls in the desert. No event is more significant than any other. To someone who cannot feel, all of life is a passing parade of visual images.
Cohen's is the awareness of someone constantly watching TV, where shampoo makes your hair shine longer and bombers waste a factory in Sudan.
Cohen gives us a glimpse of the other side, that of the life-long outlaw, whose actions differ from ours, but whose thoughts and feelings may not. Cohen is a self-actualized loser, America's shadow.
"Meet Jay Marvin, the first great crime writer of the 21st Century." —Edward Bunker, author of Dog Eat Dog and Little Boy Blue
"Jay Marvin dips his pen into warm blood and shattered bone and paints his unflinching view of how it is out there. An honest voice in an age of whining, emotionless hacks. He's a friend and a valuable creative spirit." —Tom Russell, poet and song writer
"One hell of a writer or the hell of a writer? Both. Jay can take you along on breathless rides on the wings of his very peculiar, black and sad songs: hold on and let the rhythm of his prose take you to the very center of his world. Where the anguish of life and death meets with the aesthetical joy only a true author can produce." —Vittorio Curtoni, Italian science fiction writer, author of Dove Staiamo Volando and La Sindrome Lunare
"Jay Marvin's words have sand in their teeth and dead neon in their eyes. He knows us; he knows our scarred underbelly. There are no maps for the places in this book-bring a large suitcase and keep your eyes wide open. It's a hell of a ride." —Bill Schields, author of Rosey the Baby Killer and Other Stories and Human Schrapnel
Marvin writes like a maniac. He hears things that many of us miss. He puts those things on paper where they are exceedingly strange and evocative. His work is never short of stun gun sharp." —Frederick Barthelme, Publisher of The Mississippi Review and author of the book Bob the Gambler
Hard driving all night cactus and sand smell of unleaded gasoline topped off under long rows of bright fluorescent light driving moths and earwigs mad in the desert night I drive on hungry for the stars white hot candies in a licorice sky you could reach out and scoop them up crumpled pack of smokes on the dashboard white bursts of static and country music guitar brown clashing and fighting the sounds of L.A., sea green surf tunes sets of headlights side by side planets rolling towards me red lights like hot pokers retreating into luminous black ink lead foot it deeper into the flat night road signs yell split pea soup in loud greens and cheap lodging twenty five miles up the road giant hot dogs thick shakes made from dates and figs in fat yellows won't you have some now I have no pushing me onward making my brain jump and flip like a pair of black jumper cables hooked to my fucking head the car grinding metal against metal my head grinding cell against cell bone against bone my throat and nose coated in brown tar I take a hit from a bottle of shit brand whiskey to try and take the fucking attendant my hands shaking trying to top off the toxic arc probing and crashing into the side of the car trying to connect with the opening for the fuel piloted by shaky hands gripping tight racked by tremors like hot sparks drops of gas spilling on the slick oiled pavement then as if he were a blind man finding the stepping off point from a curb the gun finds its way into the opening hands white knuckled pulling up on the nozzle's trigger filling the tank I sign one of the many stolen credit cards boosted from a B&E off Sunset Boulevard there's always ten or twelve seconds when you think the computer is going to rat you out and there's no way you'll do time for it so then things get ugly and you're not in the mood for the shit and thank God it didn't happen because the car you're in is hot.