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NEL 1986 (UK) ISBN: 0 345 36185 7 |
Ace 1988 (US) ISBN: 044186290x |
| Funtopia review: | Mort (geddit?) Vickers is a CORPorate Security Executive (i.e., a company hitman) in a near-future America wherein the Corporations have usurped most of the functions of Government and are a law unto themselves. We first meet him on a return Shuttle flight from an orbiting space station, where he has just eliminated a potential troublemaker. On arrival, Vickers learns that his own Corporate employer has "lost" an entire underground nuclear command facility to a megalomanic executive, who is on the point of sealing the bunker against the outside world and running it as his own personal domain. Through a number of violent subterfuges, Vickers is inveigled into the bunker with the mission: get it back and kill those responsible. Excellently bleak and savage, the first of a series of ‘80s/’90s "realist" works which claw America’s decadent corporate inhumanity. |
| Other reviews: | |
| Author's comment | See Mick Farren's Collected Works. The US title change to "Vickers" was apparently at the behest of the US publishers, who felt "CORP*S*E" to be "too Stephen King" |
| Availability | "Vickers"
fairly easily available from online booksellers, "CORP*S*E"
less so but copies turn up at UK dealers occasionally.
Find
Corpse on BookFinder.com |
| Excerpt (by permission) |
The fact that he was still fuming when he closed the door of the suite behind
him and started down the corridor was alnost certainly what made him
careless. The blast of pressure noise took him off from the knees. He clutched groggily for the wall. Hands grabbed him. They were going through his pockets. They had his keys. They also found his gun. His vision was blurry. He swung out with both fists and feet but he was roughly slammed back against the wall. The sonic blast had left him weak as a kitten. He was bundled back to the door of his suite. The door was unlocked and he was pushed inside. It turned out that there was only one of them. She was, however, enormous, without a doubt some steroid beef job in an orange sweatsuit. Her hair was greased back, she had a five o'clock shadow and there was thick hair on her massive arms. The blast of pressure noise was starting to wear off. Vickers tried to struggle to his feet. She slapped him open-handed and he was sent staggering. Had she been an athlete or was she just a leftover from the muscle craze? The noise generator was in her pocket. She was pointing his own gun at him. She juggled it from hand to hand as she pulled the plugs from her ears. She was laughing at him. 'So how does it feel to be on the receiving end?' Vickers shook his head. He couldn't speak. He finally managed to get to his feet. The woman slowly walked around him. 'You sure don't look like no sixty-five grand.' Even a steroid beef could hunt bounty. Vickers was disgusted with himself for being caught so easily. He blustered without conviction. 'I don't know what you're talking about. If it's money you want. . .' 'You can cut the crap. I've checked you out. You're a Contec corpse called Mort Vickers and you're worth sixty-five thou - dead.' 'My name is Joseph Pope, and if it's money you want . . .' 'Save your breath, Vickers, you're going to die.' Vickers shrugged. 'Why don't you get it over with, then?' The woman shook her head. 'Oh, no, nothing as easy as that. Strip.' She wasn't only steroid beef. She was also a sadist. What were steroids supposed to do to the personality? 'Strip?' 'I said strip. What's the matter with you? Shy or something? I want to see more of what they're paying sixty-five grand for.' 'And what will you do if I don't? Shoot me?' The woman grinned. 'I could hurt you plenty without using this gun. Nothing you could do to stop me.' Vickers didn't bother to resist any more. As he took off Joseph Pope's daytime suit, the huge woman lowered herself into a chair as though expecting a show. 'You're a sorry specimen.' Her voice was an approximation of a bullfrog. 'At least I'm natural.' For one so big she was amazingly fast. He hardly saw the punch coming before his head exploded. 'Wipe that stupid expression off your face and get down on your hands and knees.' How weird was this going to get? The woman mountain settled herself back in the chair. 'You don't look much like the big bad killer.' Vickers didn't say anything. He stared resolutely at the pile of the carpet. He didn't want to show that he was sick with fear. This, however, didn't satisfy the woman. 'Hey! I'm talking to you. Look at me while I'm talking to you or I'll break your kidneys.' Vickers looked up. She was clearly getting her kicks from watching him grovel. He didn't want to guess what might be next on the menu. She started to answer the question he was hoping to avoid. 'This is going to take a long time. I've got plans for you.' Vickers wondered what would happen if he simply began screaming. He didn't really want to find out. Then the steroid woman stopped his train of thought dead on the tracks. 'You got any booze?' Vickers was so stunned that he almost said no. He caught himself in the nick of time. 'Yes ... there's some vodka. It's ... in the refrigerator.' He could feel sweat running down the inside of his arms. Her bloated, meaty cheeks dimpled nastily. She gestured with the 9mm. Vickers got to his feet. He walked slowly to the fridge, doing his best to look totally humiliated. He opened the fridge. The woman's chair creaked. Was she getting up, coming up behind him? He didn't want to look back. The Yasha was on the top shelf. He put his hand on it. The black plastic grip was cold to his touch. The fingers of his right hand curled around it. With his thumb he moved the control to full auto. Red LEDs came to life. His left hand folded around the barrel. 'What's keeping you?' Vickers turned, firing. The Yesha blared its highspeed snake hiss. His teeth were bared and he was snarling. He savoured the instant of complete atavism and then he became coldly practical. The steroid woman had been blown across the room. She was a mess. There was blood on three walls. |