Thug, Two Tales in Poésie Noire, by David Jonathan Jones
https://www.amazon.co.uk/THUG-Two-Tales-Po%C3%A9sie-Noire/dp/1733597964/ref=sr_1_4?keywords=Jonathan+Jones&qid=1563987582&s=gateway&sr=8-4 I was ready when the parcel fell through the door. It came with a bullet-hole in the wrapper. I opened it. The hole was on the front cover, just below and to the right of the head of a shadow. The shadow that mostly fills the rain-glossed pavement of the darkened street. Stalking prey in the urban night, the shadow looks down... The background is the bleak existentialism of New York cop noir, with its jazz, its hard liquor and harder drugs, its seedy clubs where the opportunity for deadly violence is ever-present. So elegantly. With so much fucking style. The car, radio Night voices and soft bebop, A blood requiem And this world is invaded by an ancient goddess and her cult of sacred murder. Skin, luminous dark, Axe like nothing of this world, Those still, ancient eyes. Like nothing I'd seen, Exotic beyond foreign, ...