Have you ever been locked in a cooler with piles of decomposing humans for so long that you had to shave all the hair off your body in order to get rid of the smell? Joseph Scott Morgan did. Have you ever lit a Marlboro from the ignited gas of a bloated dead man’s belly? Joseph Scott Morgan has. Have you ever wept over a dead dog while not giving a shit about the dead owner laying next him? Morgan did. Were you named after a murder victim? Joseph Scott Morgan was.
This isn’t Hollywood fantasy—it’s the true story of a boy born into the deprivations of a white trash trailer park who as an adult gets further involved in the desperate backdoor sagas of the “new South.” No hot blondes here, just maggots, grief, and the truth about forensics and death investigation.
“Morgan has pumped the old “open a vein and start writing” axiom into a torrential burst of aortic hemorrhaging; instead of the usual razor, he used the Grim Reaper’s own scythe on himself.”
- Paste Magazine
“…it is a great book utilizing traditions in Southern storytelling to appall and amaze. It is contemporary Southern Gothic at it’s best.”
- NOLA Defender