By Andrew H. Vachss
From a author whose novels were acclaimed for his or her unflinching exploration of evil comes a super choice of brief stories—some by no means sooner than published—that distill dread backpedal to its essence—and inject it directly into the reader's again mind. Andrew Vachss may need scissored his characters from ultra-modern headlines: a stalker prowling round an nameless high-rise; a serial killer whose transgressions replicate a youth of hideous abuse; an inner-city gunman who's keen to take out a blockful of sufferers so that it will win a second of acceptance.Tautly written and endowed with murderous ironic spin, Born undesirable plunges us into the hell that lies simply open air our bed room home windows.
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Extra info for Born bad: stories
Seven pages. The lab boys went over it with an electron microscope. Typed on a computer, probably that laptop he carries around. It was printed out on a laser printer. Generic paper, standard number ten business envelope. Untraceable. " the black man said. " the redhead asked. "Tucson, Arizona. Four days ago," the blond answered. "Central Post Office. " On the screen, the letter stood out in bold contrast to the darkened room. Justified margins, single–spaced with the paragraphs indented. "He's always so neat, so precise," the woman said.
I went to the funeral. The therapists said I shouldn't feel guilty because I hadn't been home. It wasn't my fault. I asked if the killer had sex with her after he hit her. I live in the apartment now. The woman in 16-F just came in. I could just barely see her in the living room. She walked into the bedroom. She never raises the blinds in any room except the living room. Even there, she only keeps them open a little bit. I can never see much. In the bedroom, the window is open. Just a slit. I saw a flash of white.
I say okay. We go downstairs to the garage. The Alfa's sitting there, top down. Beautiful day outside. "Then the maniac asks me if he can drive. Fat chance, I say to him. But he says he's clean as new money, hasn't taken a hit in days. Holds out his hands. Steady as rocks. "Look, I say to him. You're a dope fiend. How'm I going to let you drive? "Then he really gets on my case. How we came up together, how we're like brothers and all. Why don't I trust him? You know…. "Anyway, I figure, what the fuck, what harm can it do?