I’ve an image of a hirsute idiot-savant drooling down his chin and laughing as he watches his imaginary pals act out his fantasies in his minds-eye whilst his clumsy, hair-covered fingers work a chunky crayon describing their humiliation.
Och, they keep him happy enough, this hairy, sausage-fingered, piss-panted genius. His guardians throw him regular snacks (could do with cutting back on the burgers) and lavish praise on him for each dirty new jewel he unleashes.
The follow-up to the refreshingly-irreverent Paul Cart is a Dead Man is another magic bullet from the prolific Rain-Man Bracha.
A normal writer, with a fully-functioning set of senses would stick with what worked in the first Dead Man book. He’d reuse the wonderfully creative and engaging characters who propelled us through the dirty satire of Bracha’s dystopian New Britain and we’d be happy to play wingman on the trip.
Rather than stick to the plan, Bracha throws the least likeable character from the first book, Ben Turner, front and centre, accompanied by his wonderful new creation, Nat Sweeney.
Ben Turner not only continues the excitement and inventiveness of Paul Carter but builds on, and surpasses its predecessor.
The pace is relentless and the plot marvellously, tightly-chaotic.
Yes, Bracha is kept in a small room, walls covered in Kim Kardashian and Bungle from Rainbow wallpaper splashed with the products of his self-abuse, but he’s happy, well-fed and by God he’s been busy.