Reviewed by Evangeline Jennings
The End, My Friend
Picture Paris Hilton face down in her pool as Palm Springs burns around her. Smiling? Then you’ll probably enjoy The End, My Friend. If you can get past the title.
Are you still reading SM Stirling’s Emberverse series, but wish he’d give you more bad ass lesbians and way less chivalry, folk music, and paranormal shit? Do you enjoy TV’s Revolution but wish they’d just stop already with the stupid Nanite Science? The End, My Friend is for you. If you can get past the godawful title.
Those kids who used to play on your street are now in your house and bedroom. Stealing your shit and planning on raping your pregnant wife. America is over. Mexico invades. Southern California is a War Zone.
Tony and Evo – a Scandanavian girl’s name apparently – escape in their gas-guzzling Land Rover Discovery and – surprisingly given their choice of car – make it past the edge of their own subdivision.
Think of every clichéd idea you might possibly put into a story like this and chances are they’re here.
Biker gangs? Check.
Hippy sanctuary? Check.
Mass prison breaks that turn gangs into armies? Double check.
Religious commune that’s less cuddly that it appears? Lawdy, yes.
Cult leader who thinks with his dick and wants to be the King of Northern California? But of course.
Gratuitous titty bar scene?
And on and on and on until T and E reach their safe haven and find themselves building a micro-community of their own.
Not that I’m complaining. Despite the occasional technical flaws – so much exposition – and paper thin plot, The End, My Friend has drive, verve, and power. A survivalist road trip that blends Zombieland with Mad Max and pours the results into an ugly mold shaped by the way we’re managing the world we live in today. Highly recommended.