Sometimes you ask for a sign. What happens when you get one?

Mike hasn’t been feeling well since his last murder spree. Too many things went wrong that night by the lake. Worst of all, the slugs didn’t get their fill. Between the haunting yet beautiful visage of his last victim and the slug’s slow but relentless pursuit, he finds himself divided against his own bloody desires. He’s had enough of the suffering. Is Mike ready to plunge the knife again, or will he take the plunge himself?

In one world, “Killer” Mike Fontaine is the lead singer/rhythm guitarist for an infamous post-hardcore punk band, Killer Mike and the Blood Slugs. In another, darker world, he is a serial killer. For every record that the band releases in their world, the real Killer Mike will take a life in his own.

Is this the last of those records?

“Reading this felt like getting curb stomped by a Philosophy major wearing corpse paint. 0/10 would recommend.”

– J. M. Gokey, Author of The Hatebug

“I used to like this series. That is, until Smith decided to write a book that is better at putting me to sleep than one too many margaritas.”

- Angel Ramone, Author of Frogs and LCD Laced Margaritas

“The author insisted this literary grotesque be released despite my most grievous warnings. You should [read] it. Despite my most grievous warnings.”

– Rob Tannahill, Author of Prince Junkie

“Too much philosophical bullshit. Where was the mayhem and metal?”

- James Oliver, Author of Genital Rot

Liner Notes: Even though the last time hadn’t gone as well as Mike would have hoped, he had gotten a decent little boost off the kills. Not long after, he proved himself at his job, where he had been able to talk clients into making investments, even from his role as a client service representative. During his first weeks, the managers discouraged all new CSRs from upselling customers who had called in with complaints. Their job was to calm the customer down and leave all sales to the agents. He had been with the company over a year now, so he started doing it anyway…and with a rate of success that some bigger wigs found quite impressive. In November of ‘92, one of the higher-ups invited him to a retreat at a fancy hotel way out on the edge of Barrenview. He had not wanted to go. Felt like he shouldn’t. The town was more than an hour away, out in the boonies somewhere. Besides, he hated gatherings. However, when he objected, the suit who had invited him said, “I know you want to skip the retreat. You want to go to the ‘big turkey dinner’ with your family. Who doesn’t? Do you think the winners are with their families on Thanksgiving? No, winners make war plans while others celebrate and get fat.” Mike, rather than listening, had been fantasizing about digging the guy’s eyes out with the knife in his pocket. The Thanksgiving comment threw him for such a loop that he had almost laughed out loud at the idea of going to the ‘big turkey dinner’ with his family. The point was clear, though. This retreat was some kind of loyalty test. Despite his loathing and vague apprehension, he went. That was when all of the trouble started. 

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