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Buster ?Rant? Casey just may be the most efficient serial killer of our time. A high school rebel, Rant Casey escapes from his small town home for the big city where he becomes the leader of an urban demolition derby called Party Crashing. Rant Casey will die a spectacular highway death, after which his friends gather the testimony needed to build an oral history of his short, violent life. With hilarity, horror, and blazing insight, Rant is a mind-bending vision of the future, as only Chuck Palahniuk could ever ...
Buster “Rant” Casey just may be the most efficient serial killer of our time. A high school rebel, Rant Casey escapes from his small town home for the big city where he becomes the leader of an urban demolition derby called Party Crashing. Rant Casey will die a spectacular highway death, after which his friends gather the testimony needed to build an oral history of his short, violent life. With hilarity, horror, and blazing insight, Rant is a mind-bending vision of the future, as only Chuck Palahniuk could ever imagine.
“Brilliant. . . extremely fun. . . . With his love of contemporary fairytales that are gritty and dirty rather than pretty, Palahniuk is the likeliest inheritor of Vonnegut's place in American writing.”
—San Francisco Chronicle
“Mr. Palahniuk doesn't write for tourists. He writes for hard-core devotees drawn to the wild, angry imagination on display and the taboo-busting humor.”
—The New York Times
“Unpredictably hilarious. . . . The writing is vivid, raw, and mordantly knowing.”
“Truly unique. He writes at the edge of crazy, and you can feel his desperate urge to get at the truth of things.”
—The Seattle Times
“Twisted? Come on, it's Palahniuk. Impossible to put down? Same answer.”
“It's a rare novel that's as funny and as brain-bending as this one. Buckle up.”
—The Philadelphia Inquirer
“A white-knuckled what-if, Rant is the author's most idiosyncratic work to date.”
—The Fort Worth Star-Telegram
“A strong dose of gore and sinewy prose.”
—Time Out New York
“So funny that your facial muscles soon tire.”
Buster Casey, destined to live fast, die young and murder as many people as he can, is the rotten seed at the core of Palahniuk's comically nasty eighth novel (after Haunted; Lullaby; Diary; etc.). Set in a future where urbanites are segregated by strict curfews into Daytimers and Nighttimers, the narrative unfolds as an oral history comprising contradictory accounts from people who knew Buster. These include childhood friends horrified by the boy's macabre behavior (getting snakes, scorpions and spiders to bite him and induce instant erections; repeatedly infecting himself with rabies), policemen and doctors who had dealings with the rabies "superspreader"; and Party Crashers, thrill-seeking Nighttimers who turn city streets into demolition derby arenas. After liberally infecting his hometown peers with rabies, Buster hits the big city and takes up with the Party Crashers. A series of deaths lead to a police investigation of Buster (long-since known as "Rant"—the sound children make while vomiting) that peaks just as Buster apparently commits suicide in a blaze of car-crash glory. This dark religious parable (there's even a resurrection) from the master of grotesque excess may not attract new readers, but it will delight old ones. (May)Copyright 2007 Reed Business Information
Wallace Boyer (Car Salesman): Like most people, I didn’t meet and talk to Rant Casey until after he was dead. That’s how it works for most celebrities: After they croak, their circle of close friends just explodes. A dead celebrity can’t walk down the street without meeting a million best buddies he never met in real life.
Dying was the best career move Jeff Dahmer and John Wayne Gacy ever made. After Gaetan Dugas was dead, the number of sex partners saying they’d fucked him, it went through the roof.
The way Rant Casey used to say it: Folks build a reputation by attacking you while you’re alive—or praising you after you ain’t.
For me, I was sitting on an airplane, and some hillbilly sits down next to me. His skin, it’s the same as any car wreck you can’t not stare at—dented with tooth marks, pitted and puckered, the skin on the back of his hands looks one godawful mess.
The flight attendant, she asks this hillbilly what’s it he wants to drink. The stewardess asks him to, please, reach my drink to me: scotch with rocks. But when I see those monster fingers wrapped around the plastic cup, his chewed–up knuckles, I could never touch my lips to the rim.
With the epidemic, a person can’t be too careful. At the airport, right beyond the metal detector we had to walk through, a fever monitor like they first used to control the spread of SARS. Most people, the government says, have no idea they're infected. Somebody can feel fine, but if that monitor beeps that your temperature's too high, you’ll disappear into quarantine. Maybe for the rest of your life. No trial, nothing.
To be safe, I only fold down my tray table and take the cup. I watch the scotch turn pale and watery. The ice melt and disappear.
Anybody makes a livelihood selling cars will tell you: Repetition is the mother of all skills. You build the gross at your dealership by building rapport.
Anywhere you find yourself, you can build your skills. A good trick to remember a name is you look the person in the eyes long enough to register their color: green or brown or blue. You call that a Pattern Interrupt: It stops you forgetting the way you always would.
This cowboy stranger, his eyes look bright green. Antifreeze green.
That whole connecting flight between Peco Junction and the city, we shared an armrest, me at the window, him on the aisle. Don’t shoot the messenger, but dried shit keeps flaking off his cowboy boots. Those long sideburns maybe scored him pussy in high school, but they’re gray from his temple to his jawbone now. Not to mention those hands.
To practice building rapport, I ask him what he paid for his ticket. If you can’t determine the customer needs, identify the hot buttons, of some stranger rubbing arms with you on an airplane, you’ll never talk anybody into taking “mental ownership” of a Nissan, much less a Cadillac.
For landing somebody in a car, another trick is: Every car on your lot, you program the number–one radio–station button to gospel music. The number–two button, set to rock and roll. The number–three, to jazz. If your prospect looks like a demander–commander type, the minute you unlock the car you set the radio to come on with the news or a politics talk station. A sandal wearer, you hit the National Public Radio button. When they turn the key, the radio tells them what they want to hear. Every car on the lot, I have the number–five button set to that techno–raver garbage in case some kid who does Party Crashing comes around.
The green color of the hillbilly’s eyes, the shit on his boots, salesmen call those “mental pegs.” Questions that have one answer, those are “closed questions.” Questions to get a customer talking, those are “open questions.”
For example: “How much did your plane ticket set you back?” That’s a closed question.
And, sipping from his own cup of whiskey, the man swallows. Staring straight ahead, he says, “Fifty dollars.”
A good example of an open question would be: “How do you live with those scary chewed–up hands?”
I ask him: For one way?
“Round–trip,” he says, and his pitted and puckered hand tips whiskey into his face. “Called a ‘bereavement fare,’ ” the hillbilly says.
Me looking at him, me half twisted in my seat to face him, my breathing slowed to match the rise and fall of his cowboy shirt, the technique’s called: Active Listening. The stranger clears his throat, and I wait a little and clear my throat, copying him; that’s what a good salesman means by “pacing” a customer.
My feet, crossed at the ankle, right foot over the left, same as his, I say: Impossible. Not even standby tickets go that cheap. I ask: How’d he get such a deal?
Drinking his whiskey, neat, he says, “First, what you have to do is escape from inside a locked insane asylum.” Then, he says, you have to hitchhike cross–country, wearing nothing but plastic booties and a paper getup that won’t stay shut in back. You need to arrive about a heartbeat too late to keep a repeat child–molester from raping your wife. And your mother. Spawned out of that rape, you have to raise up a son who collects a wagonful of folks’ old, thrown–out teeth. After high school, your wacko kid got’s to run off. Join some cult that lives only by night. Wreck his car, a half a hundred times, and hook up with some kind–of, sort–of, not–really prostitute.
Along the way, your kid got’s to spark a plague that’ll kill thousands of people, enough folks so that it leads to martial law and threatens to topple world leaders. And, lastly, your boy got’s to die in a big, flaming, fiery inferno, watched by everybody in the world with a television set.
He says, “Simple as that.”
The man says, “Then, when you go to collect his body for his funeral,” and tips whiskey into his mouth, “the airline gives you a special bargain price on your ticket.”
Fifty bucks, round–trip. He looks at my scotch sitting on the tray table in front of me. Warm. Any ice, gone. And he says, “You going to drink that?”
I tell him: Go ahead.
This is how fast your life can turn around.
How the future you have tomorrow won’t be the same future you had yesterday.
My dilemma is: Do I ask for his autograph? Slowing my breath, pacing my chest to his, I ask: Is he related to that guy…Rant Casey? “Werewolf Casey”—the worst Patient Zero in the history of disease? The “superspreader” who’s infected half the country? America’s “Kissing Killer”? Rant “Mad Dog” Casey?
“Buster,” the man says, his monster hand reaching to take my scotch. He says, “My boy’s given name was Buster Landru Casey. Not Rant. Not Buddy. Buster.”
Already, my eyes are soaking up every puckered scar on his fingers. Every wrinkle and gray hair. My nose, recording his smell of whiskey and cow shit. My elbow, recording the rub of his flannel shirtsleeve. Already, I’ll be bragging about this stranger for the rest of my life. Holding tight to every moment of him, squirreling away his every word and gesture, I say: You’re…
“Chester,” he says. “Name’s Chester Casey.”
Sitting right next to me. Chester Casey, the father of Rant Casey: America’s walking, talking Biological Weapon of Mass Destruction.
Andy Warhol was wrong. In the future, people won’t be famous for fifteen minutes. No, in the future, everyone will sit next to someone famous for at least fifteen minutes. Typhoid Mary or Ted Bundy or Sharon Tate. History is nothing except monsters or victims. Or witnesses.
So what do I say? I say: I’m sorry. I say, “Tough break about your kid dying.”
Out of sympathy, I shake my head…
And a few inhales later, Chet Casey shakes his head, and in that gesture I’m not sure who’s really pacing who. Which of us sat which way first. If maybe this shitkicker is studying me. Copying me. Finding my hot buttons and building rapport. Maybe selling me something, this living legend Chet Casey, he winks. Never breathing more than fifteen inhales any minute. He tosses back the scotch. “Any way you look at it,” he says, and elbows me in the ribs, “it’s still a damn sweet deal on an airplane ticket.”
From the Field Notes of Green Taylor Simms (Historian): The hound dog is to Middleton what the cow is to the streets of Calcutta or New Delhi. In the middle of every dirt road sleeps some kind of mongrel coonhound, panting in the sun, its dripping tongue hanging out. A kind of fur–covered speed bump with no collar or tags. Powdered with a fine dust of clay blown off the plowed fields.
To arrive at Middleton requires four solid days of driving, which is the longest period of time I have ever experienced inside an automobile without colliding with another vehicle. I found that to be the most depressing aspect of my pilgrimages.
Neddy Nelson (Party Crasher): Can you explain how in 1968 the amateur paleontologist William Meister in Antelope Spring, Utah, split a block of shale while searching for trilobite fossils, but instead discovered the fossilized five–hundred–million–year–old footprint of a human shoe? And how did another fossilized shoe print, found in Nevada in 1922, occur in rock from the Triassic era?
Echo Lawrence (Party Crasher): Driving to Middleton, rolling across all that fucking country in the middle of the night, Shot Dunyun punched buttons, scanning the radio for traffic reports. To hear any action we’d be missing out on. Morning or evening drive–time bulletins from oceans away. Gridlock and traffic backups where it's still yesterday. Fatal pile–ups and jackknives on expressways where it’s already tomorrow.
It’s fucking weird, hearing somebody’s died tomorrow. Like you could still call that commuter man, right now, in Moscow, and say: “Stay home!”
From DRVR Radio Graphic Traffic: Expect a gapers’ delay if you're eastbound on the Meadows Bypass through the Richmond area. Slow down and stretch your neck for a good long look at a two–car fatal accident in the left-most lane. The front vehicle is a sea–green 1974 Plymouth Road Runner with a four–barrel carb–equipped 440–cubic–inch, cast–iron–block V8. Original ice–white interior. The coupe’s driver was a scorching twenty–four–year old female, blonde–slash–green with a textbook fracture–slash–dislocation of her spine at the atlantooccipital joint and complete transection of the spinal cord. Fancy words for whiplash so bad it snaps your neck.
The rear car was a bitchin’ two–door hardtop New Yorker Brougham St. Regis, cream color, with the optional deluxe chrome package and fixed rear quarter–windows. A sweet ride. As you rubberneck past, please note the driver was a twenty–six–year–old male with a nothing–special transverse fracture of the sternum, bilateral rib fractures, and his lungs impaled by the fractured ribs, all due to impact with his steering wheel. Plus, the boys in the meat wagon tell me, severe internal exsanguination.
So—buckle up and slow down. Reporting for Graphic Traffic, this is Tina Something…
Echo Lawrence: We broke curfew and the government quarantine, and we drove across these stretches of nothing. Me, riding shotgun. Shot Dunyun, driving. Neddy Nelson was in the backseat, reading some book and telling us how Jack the Ripper never died—he traveled back in time to slaughter his mom, to make himself immortal—and now he's the U.S. President or the Pope. Maybe some crackpot theory proving how UFOs are really human tourists visiting us from the distant future.
Shot Dunyun (Party Crasher): I guess we drove to Middleton to see all the places Rant had talked about and meet what he called “his people.” His parents, Irene and Chester. The best friend, Bodie Carlyle, he went to school with. All the dipshit farm families, the Perrys and Tommys and Elliots, he used to go on and on talking about. Most of Party Crashing was just us driving in cars, talking.
Such a cast of yokels. Our goal was to flesh out the stories Rant had told. How weird is that? Me and Echo Lawrence, with Neddy in the backseat of that Cadillac Eldorado of his. The car that Rant had bought for Neddy.
Yeah, and we went to put flowers and stuff on Rant’s grave.
Echo Lawrence: Punching the radio, Shot says, “You know we’re missing a good Soccer Mom Night …”
“Not tonight,” says Neddy. “Check your calendar. Tonight was a Student Driver Night.”
Shot Dunyun: Up ahead, a sliver of light outlines the horizon. The sliver swells to a bulge of white light, a half–circle, then a full circle. A full moon. Tonight we’re missing a great Honeymoon Night.
Echo Lawrence: We told each other stories instead of playing music. The stories Rant had told, about his growing up. The stories about Rant, we had to piece them together out of details we each had to dig up from the basement of the basement of the basement of our brains. Everyone pitching in some memory of Rant, we drove along, pooling our stories.
Shot Dunyun: The local Middleton sheriff stopped us, and we told him the truth: We were making a pilgrimage to see where Rant Casey had been born.
A night like this with everybody in town asleep, the little Rant Casey would be ham–radioing. Wearing his headphones. As a kid, a night like this, Rant used to turn the dial, looking for traffic reports from Los Angeles and New York. Listening to traffic jams and tie–ups in London. Slowdowns in Atlanta. Three–car pile–ups in Paris, reported in French. Learning Spanish in terms of neumatico desinflado and punto muerto. Flat tires and gridlock in Madrid. Imbottigliamento, for gridlock in Rome. Het roosterslot, gridlock in Amsterdam. Saturation, gridlock in Paris. The whole invisible world of the traffic sphere.
Echo Lawrence: Come on. Driving around any hillbilly burg between midnight and sunrise, you take your chances. The police don’t have much to do but blare their siren at you. The Middleton sheriff held our driver’s licenses in the beam of his flashlight while he lectured us about the city. How Rant Casey had been killed by moving to the city. City people were all murderers. Meaning us.
This sheriff was boosting some kind of Texas Ranger affect, plugged into and looping some John Wayne brain chemistry. Boost a drill sergeant through a hanging judge, then boost that through a Doberman pinscher, and you’d get this sheriff. His shoulders stayed pinned back, square. His thumbs hooked behind his belt buckle. And he rocked forward and back on the heels of his cowboy boots.
Shot asked, “Has anybody been by to murder Rant’s mom yet?”
This sheriff wore a brown shirt with a brass star pinned to one chest pocket, a pen and a folded pair of sunglasses tucked in the pocket, and the shirt tucked into blue jeans. Engraved on the star, it said “Officer Bacon Carlyle.”
Come on. Talk about the worst question Shot could ask.
Neddy Nelson: You tell me, how in 1844 did the physicist Sir David Brewster discover a metal nail fully embedded in a block of Devonian sandstone more than three hundred million years old?
Posted May 27, 2007
Other reviewers say that if you like Palahniuk you will love this book. I could not disagree more. This book is just a recycled 'Fight Club'. Let's review. We are shaped by our families, culture and the media. If we do not understand that then we are leading someone else's life. If we do see through that veil we can follow our own true path within our society. Or we can Chuck the whole thing and realise we are just clever animals. We can take the idea that life is 'nasty, brutish and short' to its extreme conclusion. Your garden variety rebel distills life to sex and drugs and rock and roll. Your true rebel distills life to sex and destruction and rant and rage. The trap is that for every authentic anti-hero, like Tyler Durden or Rant Casey, there is a pathetic cast of wannabes ironically trying to live someone else's life. This book would have been OK if 'Fight Club' had not been written first. Chuck Palahniuk rages against the tame homogenized life so many of us live. I think that puts a greater burden on him not to recycle his earlier successes.
5 out of 7 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted February 27, 2011
I love Palahniuk's books. I give them to everyone after reading.
I wanted to throw this one in the garbage after reading.
It is as interesting as all the rest of the books until the last few pages. It's as if Chuck was simply tired of writing the story and finished it at 9am before a 10am deadline.
2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted June 9, 2008
This book was a big disappointment. I am a huge fan of Chuck and this was totally not what I expected from him. It's very repetitive and all the important information about the main character is in the first few pages. Nothing new about him is discovered throughout the rest of the book. If you're into bad books, be my guest but if you're looking for a good read or am a fan of Chuck's, please spare yourself the disappointment and wasting money.
2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted February 5, 2013
This book is an exceptional read. All of these very bad reviews must have been because they did not understand the work, or they just want a simple narrative that gives you a generic story. And this book is not even close to being Fight Club. It requires much more thinking, and is much more complex than Fight Club. This is a book that gets better every time you read it as well. I'm beginning to think some people that read this book has no clue what it is about!
1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 13, 2010
Posted May 14, 2007
Rant is one of Chuck's worst books. I am glad I got it from the libary and did not buy it. I am a fan of Chucks, but this books was not well written (errors all over the place) and had no plot. Every voice is the book was the same. Everyone was a redneck 'who could not talk' even the the people he claimed had PHD's. There's however are a few funny parts, but like his other books, they are really just sick and stupid. More sick than stupid. Thing is, Chucks fan's for the most part will love anything he writes. If it has his name of it, it must be gold they think. This book however is not gold. His other books are much better, but who I am kidding, no one cares about his material anymore. I will give him lots of credit for being true to his fans, but at some point, he has to come up with something new. Plus, lets face the facts, reading 'the dude' who wrote the book for the movie fight club seems cool. And without 'fight club' the movie, not the book, I would not care about Chuck and neither would you.
1 out of 3 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 27, 2014
This book is an exceptional read. All of these very bad reviews must have been because they did not understand the work, or they just want a simple narrative that gives you a generic story.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted July 15, 2014
This book reads like a documentary and that just adds to the fun and occasional humor of it all.
The story really picks up when Palanhniuk sprinkles in some subtle Sci-fi, which came a bit late in the book, but it was welcomed.
I loved the world Chuck built through the perspectives of the characters in Rant Casey's life.
Posted March 4, 2014
Look people, sure, roleplaying helps grammer sometimes, it's not what it is about. Roleplaying is about having fun and being yourself. Or at least that what it used to be about. Let's say that you want to get a bunch of attention but in real life you are really shy. This is your ticket out of being shy in your whole life and you can be the energetic attention getter. And hen i made the post, "roleplaying isn't what it used to be" I was wanting people to actually think. What did I get? Some a$$holes that were like "you're right, now im going to make a stupid grammer schools for noobs" I wasn't wanting that at all. I mean all they did was put yes you are right, and then put a bunch of $hit after that. I know that I just sound like that person that is just really cranky about nothing, but this is something. I feel like all you grammeraphobes just think that you are doing the right thing, but your not. All you are doing is not wanting people to be ho thwy actually are. If they are por n driven freaks (Im just using this as an example) then just let them, it'll probably wear off eventually. NowWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 4, 2014
Posted October 26, 2013
The greatest read in my lifetime. I have been waoting to get into a book this good for a long time, and years later I'm still lost looking, I love rant with a passion, this is my favorite book of all timeWas this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted October 25, 2013
Posted October 24, 2013
She nodded and hummed happily. "Hey Hask..." she smiled playfully d flirtingly fluttered her eyelashes. "Has anyone ever told you that you look amazngly handsome when you're think hard about something?"Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted August 23, 2013
Posted June 18, 2013
Posted November 29, 2012
Posted August 15, 2012
Posted November 3, 2011
It has been quite awhile since I last picked up a Palahniuk book. This was an engrossing, interesting, fascinating read. I am glad that CP abandoned the repetitive archetype he had been relying on to fuel earlier work.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted October 16, 2011
One of my favorite Palahniuk books! Palahniuk always a has good twist in his books, but this one has been my favorite so far. The style is a lot of with everyone who knew "Rant" telling their own story of the interaction and the meaning the got from. Interweaving these stories together in the an Oral Biography just make the read so much more fun and different from anything I've read lately. Good for diehard Palahniuk fans or someone giving him their first try.
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Posted August 18, 2011
Ranks on up there with fight club and choke (two of my favorites). It's cool to finally have one of the great social commentators/satirists finally create a society of his own. Starts a little slow with a couple what are they talking moments (boosted peaks, party crashing). But picks up the pace. If you can try an get the audio, it's read by full cast and adds a lot more personality to characters.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.