Grief and efficiency are not mutually exclusive. that shit is in slow-mo, and she's still back to singing and hip-thrusting within 2 seconds of clockin' that poor girl in the gob.Nothing is as it seems. The eye-rollingly cliche genre tropes are all red-herrings in this one, to fool you into a certain perception of Gunnar that is shockingly—comprehensively—utterly wrong.And then the narrative exploits these things so that the real story is made clear bit by bit with every jarring piece of new data that proves inconsistent with your original assumptions.It's gloriously clever.Demerits for various Jülzian nitpicks: troubling misapprehensions regarding buttfuck biology; the idea you can rip your own hole bloody with a grief-finger; a slightly clumsy transition from snarky summer read to intense psychodrama; an unfortunate tendency for all the main characters but Jon to speak almost entirely the same way, even unto the (admittedly funny and effective) punctuation and youthfully pathetic vocabulary.Commendations for everything else.Recommended.(And as for grief and efficiency: yes, maybe they are. Which I begin to suspect was rather the point.)PS: From someone who's loved an asshole or two in his day: Bravo, Author. Bravo.