You’d think a book about a serial killer, Las Vegas and a severed head would be pretty cool. And exciting. And even possibly kind of fun.
… but it isn’t.
No, it’s an endless parade of Anita proving that she’s the tuffest, coolest manly man who ever existed, having creepy sexual tension with a woman-killing psychopath, and getting official approval by an archangel for NO FUCKING REASON. And, of course, picking up a few new boytoys, because she can’t visit the women’s room without picking up new boytoys.