REVIEW: Bloodsucking Fiends: A Love Story by Christopher Moore

Dear Mr. Moore,

bsfiends1.jpgGod I love this book. I think this is about the third or fourth time I’ve read it and it just gets better each time. OK, I could spend an hour coming up with a plot description but since some kind soul has already done so for the back cover, I’ll be lazy as hell (something I excel at) and use it.

Jody never asked to become a vampire. But when she wakes up under an alley Dumpster with a badly burned arm, an aching neck, superhuman strength, and a distinctly Nosferatuan thirst, she realizes the decision has been made for her.
Making the transition from the nine-to-five grind to an eternity of nocturnal prowlings is going to take some doing, however, and that’s where C. Thomas Flood fits in. A would-be Kerouac from Incontinence, Indiana, Tommy (to his friends) is biding his time night-clerking and frozen-turkey bowling in a San Francisco Safeway. But all that changes when a beautiful undead redhead walks through the door … and proceeds to rock Tommy’s life — and afterlife — in ways he never imagined possible.

Jody doesn’t have a clue how to be a vampire and has to muddle her way through ancient vampire lore and practical application. Tommy just knows she’s going to break his heart but in the meantime, they have great sex during the day while he runs the night crew (collectively known as “the Animals”) who throw stock and bowl frozen Butterball turkeys at the grocery store by night. But Jody, Tommy and the Animals haven’t heard the last of the ancient vampire who created Jody just to enjoy watching her struggling to cope with her new identity. There’s going to be a showdown in San Francisco and only one vampire can win.

As mentioned in the AAR review, this book is funny enough that you have to be careful in public. People tend to look at you funny if you start laughing hysterically while reading, something I found to be true when I read it while waiting for my car’s break job to be finished. Oh well, screw ’em. I had fun. A-



0 comments on “REVIEW: Bloodsucking Fiends: A Love Story by Christopher Moore

  1. oh, Jayne, this is up there on my Top Five Favorite Re-Reads Evah. Thanks for reviewing it.

    Have you read “You Suck”? It’s not as good as this one, but it’s… quite poignant and a little sad.

  2. I LOVED this book, and when I saw “You Suck” at the bookstore I was so excited. I agree that it wasn’t as good as the first one, but it was still worth reading at least once. The ending is a little sad, but it leaves the story open for another possible sequel (at least I think so). Thanks for reviewing this book!

  3. I love, love, love Chris Moore. BF was my first book of his I read, and I was hooked. Hysterically funny, insanely addictive. Haven’t read the sequel, YOU SUCK, but it’s at the top of my TBR list.

    All hail Chris Moore!

  4. I buy every Moore book new so I already had “You Suck” in my “basket” at Fictionwise before I realized it’s a sequel. I’m still looking forward to reading it because even a lesser Chris Moore book has still got to be hilarious.

  5. Oh yay – sounds like a great rec.
    Oh nay – I can’t find a digital release.

    So I’m sitting here pondering the pros and cons of a visit to a bricks-and-mortar bookstore. And I have this wonderful image of your car on its break job – it rises up on the rear tires – flings the doors open and stretches – spins on the left tire – oh yeah!

  6. LOL, my Honda is a good little car. I’ll give her an extra pat and tell her to behave herself in public and try to avoid car wheelies and tire dancing.

    Well, until you manage to get your hands on a print copy, here’s an excerpt to whet your whistle, so to speak:

    There are no official rules for the sport of turkey bowling. Turkey bowling is not recognized by the NCAA or the Olympic Com­mittee. There are no professional tournaments sponsored by the Poultry Farmers of America, and footwear companies do not manufacture turkey bowling shoes. Even the world’s best turkey bowlers have not appeared on a Wheaties box or the “Tonight” show. In fact, until ESPN became desperate to fill in the late-night time slots between professional lawn darts and reruns of Australian-rules football, turkey bowling was a completely clan­destine sport, relegated to the dark athletic basement of mailbox baseball and cow tipping. Despite this lack of official recogni­tion, the fine and noble tradition of “skidding the buzzard” is practiced nightly by supermarket night crews all over the nation.

    Clint was the official pinsetter for the Animals. Since there was always wagering, Clint’s religion forbade his playing, but his par­ticipation, in some part, was required to ensure that he would not squeal to the management. He set ten-quart bottles of Ivory liquid in a triangle pattern at the end of the produce aisle. The meat case would act as a backstop.
    The rest of the crew, having chosen their birds from the freezer case, were lined up at the far end of the aisle.
    “You’re up, Tom,” Simon said. “Let’s see what you got.”
    Tommy stepped forward and weighed the frozen turkey in his right hand-felt its frigid power singing against skin.
    Strangely, the theme from Chariots of Fire began playing in his head.
    He squinted and picked his target, then took his steps and sent the bird sliding down the aisle. A collective gasp rose from the crew as the fourteen-pound, self-basting, fresh-frozen projectile of wholesome savory goodness plowed into the soap bottles like a freight train into a chorus line of drunken grandmothers.
    “Strike!” Clint shouted.
    Simon winced.
    Troy Lee said, “Nobody’s that good. Nobody.”
    “Luck,” Simon said.
    Tommy suppressed a smile and stepped back from the line.
    “Who’s up?”
    Simon stepped up and stared down the aisle, watching Clint set up the pins. A nervous tick jittered under his left eye.
    Strangely, the theme from The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly began playing in his head.
    The turkey was heavy in his hand. He could almost feel the giblets pulsing with tension — the Butterball version of the Tell-Tale Heart. He strode to the line, swinging the turkey back in a wide arc, then forward with an explosive yell. The turkey rocketed, airborne, three quarters of the way down the aisle before touching down and slamming through the soap bottles and into the base of the meat case, smashing metal and severing wires in a shower of sparks and smoke.
    The store lights flickered and went out. The huge compressors that ran the store’s refrigeration wound down like dying airlin­ers. The smell of ozone and burned insulation filled the air. A moment of dark silence — the Animals stood motionless, sweat­ing, as if waiting for the deadly sound of an approaching U-boat. Battery back-up modules switched on safety lights at the end of each aisle. The crew looked from Simon, who stood at the line with his mouth hanging open, to the turkey, sticking, blackened and burned, in the side of the meat case like an unexploded ar­tillery shell.
    They checked their watches: exactly six hours and forty-eight minutes to exact repairs and stock the shelves before the man­ager came in to open the store.
    “Break time!” Tommy announced.

  7. For those who love food and cars:

    The air was heavy from smells of pressed humanity, soy sauce, sesame oil, licorice, and car exhaust — always car exhaust. Tommy walked up Grant and crossed Broadway into North Beach, where the crush of people thinned out and the smells changed to a miasma of baking bread, garlic, oregano, and more exhaust. No matter where he went in the City, there was an odoriferous mix of food and vehicles, like the alchemic concoctions of some mad gourmet mechanic: Kung Pao Saab Turbo, Buick Skylark Carbonara, Sweet-and-Sour Metro Bus, Honda Bologense with Burning Clutch Sauce.

  8. Here’s another weird one:

    “Tommy,” she said sternly, “I want you to climb to the top of the tower and jump off.”
    He looked up. “Are you out of your mind?”
    She threw her arms around hi, kissed him, and said, “Oh, I’m so glad I didn’t turn you into a vegetable.”
    “I’ll give you a time.”

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