Jim Thompson The Killer Inside Me doesn’t read like a book from 1952. It’s a gritty, inhumane tale of Lou Ford. Small town deputy sheriff, and cold blooded killer. Most in town figure he’s a little slow on the uptake, but what they fail to see is the rising, brilliant fury that lays beneath his blank facade. What I’m talking about is what he alludes to as “the sickness.” The sickness within that brings out a horrid beast in Ford. Jim Thompson is a keen supplier of horrid beasts, and stone cold killers. Consistently the majority of his work is more twisted, demented, and deceitful than any other writer. His short, terse sentences bring out a raging savagery in the bulk of his catalog. Here’s a odd little tale about when I was reading The Killer Inside Me. I was pulling jury duty, and took the book along to read during the waning hours of complete and utter boredom. When placing my personal items in a tub for the x-ray machine, one of the officers saw the book. He commented, “you’re gonna have nightmares tonight.” I just nodded, took my book, and walked on. My strong fondness for Thompson’s work concerns some. Luckily, my only “sickness” comes from eating six month out-of-date Thousand Island dressing. Take my advice, always check expiration dates. Always. |
