"What?" I say. Psychotic break, remember?
And I say, "More insanity."
"You're sitting in your underwear talking to yourself. You really think MORE madness is the way to go here?"
"And more gods."
"Moho just ate the cat and Pele's setting fire to the furniture. Again. I think we're good on that front."
"No, you're not listening. I mean GODS. Nasty, brutal, rip your mind and soul to shreds type gods. The wailing and gnashing. The mad piping of Yog-Sothoth. Shit like that."
"Dude, you're fucked up."
Be that as it may, I stand by that. And now my prayers have been answered. In the gibbering, half-mad form of John Hornor Jacobs with his novel SOUTHERN GODS which just got picked up by Night Shade Books.
Recent World War II veteran Bull Ingram is working as muscle for a Memphis mob boss when a local DJ hires him to find Ramblin' John Hastur, a mysterious blues man whose dark, driving music - broadcast at ever-shifting frequencies by a phantom radio station - is said to make living men insane and dead men rise.If you don't pee yourself in spastic excitement at the need to read this book RIGHT THE FUCK NOW then I just don't know you, anymore.
Disturbed and enraged by the bootleg recording the DJ plays for him, Ingram follows Hastur's trail into the strange, uncivilized backwoods of Arkansas, where he hears rumors the musician has sold his soul to the Devil.
But as Ingram closes in on Hastur and those who have crossed his path, he'll learn there are forces much more malevolent than the Devil and reckonings more painful than Hell...
Congrats, John. Can't wait to read the book.