Ding dong, now Dick is dead.
Imagine a novel written in the style of Vice magazine. That’s Kill Dick: every sentence strains to shock with its edginess or searing, cooler-than-you cultural critique. It drops the names of fashion brands and hot young L.A. artists—Jill Mulleady, Tala Madani—that you’re expected to recognize, or else this book is not for you. It swings from dad-joke one-liners (“Society was curing homeliness if not homelessness”) to teen-boy humor (“Her pussy probably tasted like Diet Coke”).