Bradley Smith’s latest experiment is premised on a deceptively simple question. These days, I’m told that Nazi gas chambers are passé, and that works like this, and this, and this, for all their meticulously phrased rational-empirical pretense, can be safely ignored or dismissed as the predictable fits of polished crankery one has to expect from misguided or ill-motivated brokers of such insidiously captious sophistry. Clearly, and despite every marrow-chilling detail I learned and believed as a child, there must be something flawed or even immoral about Bradley’s stake in such old business. Mustn’t there? Surely, it would be gauche to take the bait. Better to leave the dirty work to these guys, who remind us that Bradley, the poor old fart, can’t even spell.
With due regret, I am compelled to note that the The Hoover Hog’s publishing imprint, Nine-Banded Books, has rather foolishly released Bradley Smith’s novel, The Man Who Saw His Own Liver, which may be purchased by bad people and poor spellers through Atomic Books, Quimby’s, Germ Books, and Amazon. Mae culpa.