You'd think a book about a serial killer, Las Vegas and a severed head would be pretty cool. And exciting. And even possibly kind of fun.

... but it isn't.


No, it's an endless parade of Anita proving that she's the tuffest, coolest manly man who ever existed, having creepy sexual tension with a woman-killing psychopath, and getting official approval by an archangel for NO FUCKING REASON. And, of course, picking up a few new boytoys, because she can't visit the women's room without picking up new boytoys.

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