The Disassembled Man by Nate Flexer

Nate Flexer’s The Disassembled Man is one strictly for the purists, the basement crazies, the inmates that are so fucked up that they don’t even know they’re in the asylum - much less able to run the fucking thing. The story of a nasty fucker who only gets more pit-bull-snarling-fucking mean as the story progresses, this shit ain’t for the casual crime fans. No sir, dear readers, The Disassembled Man is for the folks who want their pulp served rare, as in still pumping steaming hot fucking blood.

So yeah, you could say I dug the holy fuck out of Nate Flexer’s debut.

Our narrator is Frankie Avicious, the dude in charge of cutting the throats of the cows as they come down the disassembly line at “Sunshine Foods.” You’d think he’d have caught a better job at the fucking place, seeing how his father-in-law owns the joint, but that’s just the story of Frankie’s life. His old man is dead, his ma’s in prison for making him that way, and his wife is a dumpy waste of space whose father wants jack shit to do with her, hence why they live in shitty shack in the shittiest town in Arizona.

The only joy in Frankie’s life - other than slamming booze until he pukes - is watching Scarlett Acres shake her ass on stage. His life is one sad cycle of killing cow after cow, drinking beer after beer, and dropping buck after buck on the stage, until a watch salesman shows up at his front door at a curious hour, whispering nefarious ideas in his ear. Soon enough, Frankie’s got a nasty plan and a basement full of bodies.

What makes The Disassembled Man stand out is just how fucking ugly and skuzzy the whole affair is. I mean, there is absolutely zero fucking glamour to be found in Frankie’s life or crimes. Fuck, even Frankie would admit that Scarlett is no fucking prize in the looks or personality department. It’s like killing old man Dietrichson for someone who looks like Linda Hunt instead of Barbara Stanwyck. Yes sir, this shit takes it up to eleven, dear readers.

But what makes it all hum is Frankie’s hilarious voice. The guy tells his story with more funny, disgusting metaphors and similes than Joe R. Lansdale, for fuck’s sake. Plus, Avicious is so gleefully nihilistic and self-destructive you can’t help but follow along with him, even after he does unspeakable acts you wouldn’t accept from even your most badass and beloved antiheroes. But then again, there’s no mistaking a code-less piece of shit psychopath like Avicious for Stark’s Parker, that’s for fucking sure.


So if you think you have the stones and the stomach for Nate Flexer’s The Disassembled Man, pick that shit up toot-fucking-sweet. If you like your pulp to kick you in the balls and shit on your face, then consider this foaming-at-the-mouth beast a fucking gift, dear reader. There’s hard-boiled and then there’s stomping on the egg as the cute little chick’s beak starts to peek through, and you best believe The Disassembled Man leans toward the fucking latter.