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The anonymous narrator of The Serial Killers Club is just that—anonymous—until he finds himself under attack by the infamous serial killer known as Grandson of Barney. But instead of becoming just another number, the narrator fights back and kills his would-be killer. Later, while flipping through the dead man’s wallet, he comes across a clipping from the local lonely-hearts page of the paper, inviting grandson to some sort of party, hosted by Errol Flynn. Intrigued, he replies to the message (after he dumps the body, of course). And the next thing he knows, he’s flying to Chicago, where he becomes a part of The Serial Killers Club, a group of killers who gather regularly to share stories—and to make sure that no two people end up choosing the same victim. The members go by movie-star names, and our narrator then becomes known as Douglas Fairbanks, Jr.
For the first time in his life, Dougie belongs somewhere. He has friends. The Club is his life. So when members of The Club start questioning his “Killer’s Block” excuse, he does what he needs to do in order to keep his friends: he kills those who question his membership. And things go quite smoothly for Dougie—until he meets Agent Wade, an FBI agent who claims to know what Dougie’s been up to. But instead of making an arrest, Wade moves into Dougie’s apartment and gives him two months to finish what he’s started. If he doesn’t kill off the club in two months, Wade will make sure that Dougie gets the chair. But if he can do it, he’ll go free.
So Dougie sets out to kill the people whom he once called his friends—though they never really liked him anyway. One by one, the members of The Club disappear. The membership numbers dwindle. And the remaining killers start to get a little paranoid (as if they weren’t crazy enough to begin with).
Perhaps I’ve got a sick sense of humor, but I found The Serial Killers Club to be hilarious—in the deepest, darkest of ways. The concept, while pretty demented, really is brilliant. And Povey writes with just the right amount of irony—just obvious enough to make you laugh; just subtle enough to make you wonder if you’re really supposed to be laughing. But don’t worry. It’s okay to laugh.
Of course, this book isn’t for everyone. If you can’t see the subtle humor in a regular meeting of serial killers, formed when the two original members met while trying to kill the same victim—then it’s safe to say that you should stay away. It’s not for the weak-of-stomach or the mainstream-of-humor. But if you’re just a little bit off, like I am… if you have no problem seeing the humor in movies like Army of Darkness or Shaun of the Dead… Then The Serial Killers Club is a must-read.
