Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Grungy, Filthy, Bloody Sex

Seven Wagons West by Jon Sharpe

Apparently this book is called Seven Ways to Die in the UK. That's the most meaningful thing one could get out of this book. That, and a new batch of liners for a birdcage.

I'll warn you up front that this review is loaded with spoilers. SPOILERS! in case you were talking and not paying attention. I justify giving the ending away by reasoning that a vaguely intelligent reader would see it coming well before the halfway mark.

Skye Fargo, in his first Trailsman adventure, is hired to lead a wagon train of born-againers to a supposed silver mine from which they'll build a New Jerusalem. The party includes the Preacher and his strong-willed wife, a mousy guy with a new insatiable bride, a tight-tight-tight young schoolteacher with delusions of independence, and a few more people including a couple kids. Based on my experience with 70s era series-fiction I wasn't surprised that Fargo banged the two wives throughout the book.

After all this waggoning and fucking is done the train reaches its destination, is betrayed by one from within, and then is caught up in an Indian attack.

One by one everyone is killed, the Preacher is killed believing God will protect him as he approaches the Indians, his wife is killed long, slow and loudly via the literary equivalent of "offstage", even the two kids are killed.

So, imagine you're a Trailblazer, you've just had everyone you've lived with the past few weeks killed around you, there's only one slim chance in Hell of getting your ass out of there. You can't even think of getting any revenge on the Indians, escape, if at all possible, is the only option. You manage to get yourself and the sole-survivor (who, imagine that, is the schoolteacher) out through that one-in-a-million portal of escape...if you're Skye Fargo, and you're still covered in the blood of others, and you're still hearing the battle cry of the mauraders, you strip down and get laid. Kinda like what Tammy and I might do if we're ever broadsided by an SUV and ejected from our fiery wreck on the freeway.

I guess I don't fault Skye Fargo for getting it where he can. Custis Long does and I quite liked the first Longarm book. Mack Bolan occasionally does (though he tends to do a better job keeping priorities straight.) I guess if a gun were held to my head I'd rather have unbelievable sex in an adventure book ("unbelievable" meaning "full of shit" and not "amazing") than to be reading Anais Nin or Erica Jong and having a gunfight complete with rocket launchers.

There will be more Mack Bolan and Custis Long reviews but I think I've had my fill of Skye Fargo.

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