There should be a special pulp mag issued just for William Harrison novels; call it Paranoid Warrior Fables, and let the cover show a well-carmined Richard Burton with grenades slung over his chest, crossed bandoliers, a mortar firing at his feet, a Sten-gun blasting in one hand, a pistol in the other, a knife in his belt, and a blazing flamethrower lodged in his crotch. His eyes are a frenzy of bloodlust, and there are piles of corpses and exploding blacks everywhere. As in Harrison's Roller Ball Murder, his heroes here are masters of slaughter, the personal kind where you really get your hands wet and break bones with a backhanded slap. Leo Rucker, a speechifying Welsh mercenary (and maniac), sells the services of his private army to any African leader with money. His motto: "". . . let there never be any rules, nothing too bloody and horrible. Go mad and get creative with madness. . . ."" He takes up with an intellectual slut named Val who likes to do it under the jungle moon with great cats hissing in her ears. When Texan Harry, just as kill-crazy as Leo, takes Val away from him, Leo hires Harry, and the comrades go forth to shoot up the Third World. The climax is a supreme orgasm of flying brains, bone, and gristle. Fabulous barbarism, necks cracked lovingly.