Have you ever puked and laughed hysterically at the same time while running away from a writhing orgy of giant lampreys who all had the face of Ed Meese?
Me neither.
But I have read Eric LaRocca and that's very close to the same thing.
Eric LaRocca has risen up as a new prince of carnage. A red prince. A valedictorian of the vomitorium. An author who fills you with awful obscenities until you are about to burst, and then plunges his fingers down your gullet making you regurgitate. Just so he can feed you more obscenities.
What a delightful show.
And we are his starving babies, begging for the chewed up, gory chunks he's brought to the nest to spit into our mouths.
Eric's latest book is called "At Dark, I Become Loathsome". And yes, I continue to love these hyperbolic giallo-ish titles. Indeed My Heart is a Glass Prison That Horror Shall Never Escape.
This latest offering is one of LaRocca's most straight-forward works and also one of his most diabolical.
It is about a mourning widower trying to compartmentalise their guilt, repressed sexuality and destructive instincts through a paid practice of helping other people face their own mortality. A sort of coming out ritual where the (willing) participant is buried alive and reborn. But this ritual is itself, a simulation for the main character's true desires. Of burying one's old identity and becoming the monster they long to be. The main character is having a complete breakdown born out of a combination of crisis and self-loathing, where acting out a ritual of harming others is a crippled parody of their own emotions.
And soon, they'll want more.
They'll want to go all the way.
And oh boy. Oh Jiminy Christmas. Oh Toledo Ohio. When Eric LaRocca wants to go all the way, you know things are going to get STICKY.
This character arc (which is actually more like a belly-flop into a meat-grinder full of destroyed puppies) is occasionally interrupted by miniature storytelling outbursts that are best described as internet oversharing on a Chernobyl level.
And I've seen Reddit.
I call these smaller stories 'interruptions', and they are, but they are also not, as they are a reflection of the main character's own desires digging their way out of the grave of his subconscious.
This is no simple trauma dump, this is a super-volcanic explosion that comes from massive repression building to an eruption that blankets the sky and reigns ash and misery.
Only in this case, it's not ash. It's viscera and other sweet juices of the human sort.
(Remember to wash your keyboards afterwards kids).
For people who found past Eric LaRocca novels too gruesome, this book will finally convince them that Eric is on the path of respectable representation and healthy discussions. Especially in regards to horrific violations of the human anatomy, brain-eating, testicular destruction and sexual fetishization of tumours and cancer. Y'know. At last.
Something for everybody. Polite clap. Flowers tossed at the stage.
In seriousness, Eric LaRocca is a fiend. Not just for his sense of gore or horror, but for his sense of humour. That's what makes all this work so much worse, the snickering, giddy playfulness of it all. A puck-ish glee that shows a complete resistance towards morality. Not just discarding it, but wiping one's ass with it. Reacting to the very idea of it, the same way the common outraged internet analyst would react to being forced to eat live capybara babies.
Eric isn't here to just gross you out, he's here to have a good time, grossing you out. And that's a significantly more diabolical (and respectable) creative act.
Now sometimes (like in this novel) I don't quite sync with LaRocca's more poetic attempts at prose. Although when he's good, like in his short story "This Skin Was Once Mine", he's quite formidable. But I always appreciate his attempts to mix and experiment with different styles of storytelling and how he's constantly trying to push his stylistic boundaries. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it doesn't. Que sera sera.
But I never, ever feel safe when I read one of his books.
I like that in horror.
You don't need to build tension when your work carries a constant sense of threat. For Eric it is all or nothing. Every single time. LaRocca approaches every slice of fiction with the intent of a screaming necrotic infection. The work doesn't just want to shock or gross-out readers, it wants to invade them. It wants to poison them. It wants to inflame and break them down. It wants the audience to relate to the grotesque oddities so that it can create a medium through which it can spread to us.
This book wants to connect to readers and then let its cruelty run through them like an electrical current. Kinda like the end result of Gremlins 2. Where the audience are laughing and singing and celebrating as we're reduced to mewing, popping, puddles of puke.
But beyond all that shock and tremble, Eric LaRocca's work consistently bristles with a keen sense of legitimacy.
His brutality is steeped in truth.
Often the most terrible acts imaginable are born from a desire for personal freedom. The wish to transcend. Not just our situations or our lot in life, but this mess of our feelings. This disaster of human civility. The 'normal world' as we so love to call it, hurts so many. To become repellent in the face of it, is a pure desire. It is the universal appeal of the monster.
Clive Barker had that right. And so does Eric LaRocca.
Everybody is feral. Everybody is terrifying. Monsters are just honest about it.
There's a joy to that. And a beauty you'll never find in a mirror.
The idea of becoming unburdened.
Becoming loathsome.
8/10
Thank you to Eric for providing me with an electronic ARC of this book!