Take a look at that cover. When it comes to tone, Jackpot is definitely a book you can judge by its cover. There’s not a lot of subtlety in that illustration, and there’s none in the book’s pages. This is sledgehammer fiction, coming at you swift and hard and with murderous intent. If you’re weak of heart – or weak of stomach – this ain’t the ride for you.
Jackpot (out now from Sinister Grin Press) is the story of Booker, a burgeoning serial killer with big plans and, when he hits the lottery, a big bankroll to make those plans reality. Two hundred million dollars, to be exact. His method of picking the winning numbers is but the first of many egregious acts Booker commits in the course of this short novel, and the thought of a guy like him with unlimited funds is a chilling one, indeed.
Like me, you’ve probably seen enough news stories about the downfall of lottery winners to know what kind of vultures a big windfall attracts, and even a twisted individual like Booker isn’t immune. In short order he’s intercepted by Frank, a lottery-chasing lawyer who’s willing to do anything for his percentage of the payday, and the Rollins family, a backwoods clan whose mother figure, Winona, stakes her own twisted claim on Booker’s prize. But Booker is determined, and with his brand-new tricked out murder van in operation, and the blueprints for a dream house (complete with functional dungeon) already in hand, he’s not going to be easy to take down.
Look, Jackpot is not going to win any awards for its thoughtful prose or resonant characterization. The four authors (Shane McKenzie, Adam Cesare, David Bernstein and Kristopher Rufty) are not coming to whisper dreadful things in your ear; they are coming to shout obscenities in your face until you cry uncle. They come armed with blow torches, scalpels, super glue, hungry dogs and chains, and absolutely nothing is taboo.
This may not be your kind of horror. It’s not typically mine – I usually prefer something creepier, quieter, with short bursts of shock thrown in for seasoning. This is the literary cousin of something like The Texas Chain Saw Massacre, one long note of horror building to an overwhelming crescendo. And while this style might not be my first choice in horror (I prefer Halloween to Chain Saw), I can recognize when it’s done well. If you’re into the wet stuff, you owe it to yourself to pick this one up.