What happens when you combine Moliere’s The Misanthrope, Huysum’s Against the Grain, Dostoevsky’s bureaucratic nightmares, and a whole heap of junk stored in the mind of a wayward writer hell bent on divine literary creativity?
You get this bad mama-jumbo of a stream of conscious novella about a man who’s superb at a job that only requires five minutes of work an eight-hour day, sees doppelgängers who do not look like him everywhere, and fails to look after a turtle.
The jewel-encrusted turtle is the only one he can have a joke with.
Let’s face it, we know he’s gonna blow something up, time to guess what?
