The Informers.

The Informers begins where Less Than Zero ends. Los Angeles. Early 1980's. Nightclubs. Drugs. Beautiful blond people watching music videos on the Betamax. Nobody's really sure who they're dating, who their friends are, why they're at certain places at certain times. Life is a numb wash of existence, dots on a map. Some cocaine here, a little heroin there, some tanning on the beach, meaningless, boring sex, etc.

But that's only the beginning. If Less Than Zero simply scratches at the surface of Los Angeles, The Informers peels away the entire skin, showing us the lifeblood underneath. Fear, murder, bodies drained of their blood, missing limbs, ripped jugulars. Vampires.

Bret Easton Ellis tells this new Los Angeles tale in thirteen chunks, with thirteen different narrators. Each a different story, a different part of Los Angeles, a brief trip to Tokyo, to Malibu, a drive down Wilshire. But it all feels like a carefully woven tapestry, with the same characters making appearances again and again. He makes huge sprawling L.A. feel claustrophobic, terrifying. Disappear Here.

I cannot begin to describe my new and now undying love for Mr. Ellis. A huge, throbbing man-boner is what he gives me. Every single piece of his writing so far has been pitch-perfect. And I'm only halfway through his catalog, which makes me terribly excited.

"Adjust my dreams for me, Roger," I whisper. "Adjust my dreams for me."