Mohawk.

I hate to say anything bad about an author.

About someone who pours himself into his craft, who sweats blood spitting each word out hoping that someone, anyone, will read what they’ve written and hang on each word, and hold it clutched to their bosom, eyes tearing as they stare heavenward thanking the wordsmith gods for their BOOK. The BOOK that’ll see them through the hard times. The BOOK that’ll be the salve for the searing life they’re forced to live through. The BOOK. Can I hear a praise Jesus?

Unfortunately, this ain’t one of them.

In fact, it sucks. And I hate to say that about an author I normally really like.

But this one?

Not so much.

It’s good until the last third or so and then just explodes, going in directions that leave you wondering- was it Russo laziness or editor slashiness?

Either way, doesn’t matter too much.

Sucks.