Mister B. Gone

by Clive Barker Narrated by Doug Bradley

Overview

“Think of a darker, more aggressive version of C.S. Lewis' The Screwtape Letters. . . . Filled with wicked mischief and dark dares.” - Kansas City Star

From Clive Barker, the great master of horror and the macabre, comes a brilliant and truly unsettling tour de force of the supernatural-a terrifying work that escorts the reader on an intimate and revelatory journey to uncover the shocking truth of the battle between Good and Evil.

“Burn this book!”

So warns Jakerbok, the spellbinding narrator of this fabulously original “memoir,” a tale of good and evil deliberately “lost” for nearly six hundred years. Jakerbok is no ordinary soul; he is a minion of hell with a terrifying plan to cast the world into darkness and despair-a plan thwarted by a young apprentice of Johannes Gutenberg who buried the one and only copy of this damnable manuscript that his master printed in 1438.

Compelling and direct, Jakerbok shares the secrets of his life, going back centuries to recall the events that shaped his childhood, including the traumas he suffered at the hands of his parents, super demons themselves. He explains how he rose from “minor” to “major” demon status, and gleefully reveals his nefarious plot to “invade” the minds and hearts of unwitting humans everywhere thanks to the ingenious Gutenberg and his invention. “Burn this book!” he advises throughout-a taunt, a warning, and a command that will actually unleash the evil with which he has hidden in every word and every page, infusing the very ink and paper upon which they are printed.

Inventive and irresistible, Mister B. Good reaffirms Clive Barker is one of our most brilliant and original voices, an artist with a keen insight into mysteries deep within the human heart.

Editorial Reviews

The Mister B. of the title is Jakabob Botch, a demon whose ghastly past could make even the most merciless sociopath whimper in sympathy. Born in the deepest regions of hell, the spawn of an abusive drunkard and his whorish wife, Jakabob escapes to the world above after suffering fiendish torture. Once topside, he lands conveniently in 15th-century Mainz, the home of printing inventor Johannes Gutenberg. However, Mister B. isn't interested in merely observing history; like any other self-respecting diabolical being, he's just searching for a new demonic angle. A ghoulishly good fright fest.

Bill Sheehan

Like the traditional bildungsroman, Mister B. Gone is, in the end, the story of an education. Jakabok's education culminates in a secret room where angels and demons hold clandestine—and intensely pragmatic—negotiations that he was never intended to witness and that lead to his imprisonment in the pages of this book. As he watches the "endless fish-market bartering" for the future of the printed word, he comes to understand the paltry commercial nature of the grand struggle between evil and good. In the process, he creates a vivid portrait of the embryonic forces that will ultimately shape the world. It's a satisfying conclusion to a subtle, surprising book. Within the modest canvas of Mister B. Gone, Barker, who rarely does anything predictable, confounds expectations once again, giving us one of the most resonant, provocative novels of his career.
—The Washington Post

Publishers Weekly

With a bone-chilling opening consisting of a gloomy score and a very angry Doug Bradley (Hellraiser's Pinhead himself), Barker's latest horror effort is brilliantly realized in this masterful reading. Bradley is inherently creepy as the narrator, one Jakabok Botch, or Mister B., detailing his demonic life in this journal, which he implores you not to read right from the start. His rich Liverpool accent adds to the insidiousness of Jakabok, who implores the reader to release him from the confines of the diary as it seems he is actually stuck in the very ink that fills the pages. Bradley's performance is so powerful and compelling, it's nearly impossible not to listen all the way through the first time around. Bradley speaks directly to the listener, creating a very uncomfortable atmosphere ripe for plenty of good scares. Bradley's tone and demeanor creates constant tension throughout, with random bursts of anger and rage sure to make hearts skip a beat in a thrillingly fun experience. Simultaneous release with the Harper hardcover (Reviews, Sept. 24). (Nov.)

Copyright 2007Reed Business Information

School Library Journal

Adult/High School -Inside this beautifully designed book lies the incredibly gruesome memoir of a 14th-century demon. As the story begins, Jakobok's father has an abusive temper and his mother doesna't listen. But that's the least of his problems as he is soon fished from Hell by some demon-hunting priests from the above world. Despite their best efforts, he manages to escape again and again, hooking up with a partner in crime and leaving death, blood, and limbs in his wake. As the book nears its end, Johannes Gutenberg makes an appearance and the story goes off the rails a bit. Barker's demon narrator addresses readers frequently, and though it would be tough to call him sympathetic, teens will relate to him. There are grand pronouncements about the nature of evil, and the evil of even the supposed moral arbiters, as well as the use of the printing press to disseminate both good and evil. Teens who devour the "Saw" movies will probably appreciate this well-written, if slightly messy, horror novel.-Jamie Watson, Harford County Public Library, MD

Copyright 2008 Reed Business Information.

Kirkus Reviews

Any narrative that begins "Burn this book" definitely merits attention-unfortunately, readers would be much better off were they to heed this advice. The novel starts in Hell, so there's literally nowhere to go but up. The demon Jakabok Botch, also the narrator, introduces us to his sadistic and dysfunctional family. Botch wants to ingratiate himself with his mother by inventing "the first mechanical disemboweler." Shortly thereafter he is horribly disfigured in (go figure) a fire and winds up with no nose and no lips. Soon Botch and his father, Pappy Gatmuss, succumb to the temptation of steak and beer, but this turns out to be bait from the Upper (i.e. our) World. Although they're both hauled up in a net through the nine circles of Hell, only Botch makes it up alive. To disguise his demonhood, he wears clothes that cover his devilish aberration, two tails. In the Upper World he links up with Quitoon, an elder demon who's even more adept at evil than Botch. For 38 years they travel around the countryside, doing (as we would expect) repulsive things like burning people (Quitoon's specialty) and taking baths in the blood of infants. Eventually they meet Johannes Gutenberg, of printing-press fame, and his wife Hannah, who turns out to be an angel and hence an arch-enemy of Botch and his homoerotic friend. An overfed and puffed-up archbishop is also revealed to be on the side of the devil. During an apocalyptic battle between Hannah and the archbishop, Botch inadvertently puts his finger (claw?) on the problem: "Everyone continued to watch them as they carved up Humankind's future . . . the whole thing, for all its Great Significance and so on and so forth, was actually beginning to boreme." Exactly. An affected and pathetic narrative-nothing would be lost by confining it to the ninth circle of Hell.

From the Publisher

Mr. Barker is much more than a genre writer, and his extravagantly unconventional inventions are ingenious refractions of our common quest to experience and understand the mysterious world around us and the mysteries within ourselves.” — New York Times Book Review

“Think of a darker, more aggressive version of C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters. . . . Filled with wicked mischief and dark dares.” — Kansas City Star

“A swift, spare novel that reminds us, once again, of the discipline and focus Barker can bring to shorter forms. . . . A subtle, surprising book. . . . Barker, who rarely does anything predictable, confounds expectations once again, giving us one of the most resonant, provocative novels of his career.” — Washington Post

“It’s about time for something nastier from the man Stephen King once called ‘the future of horror literature.’ . . . Filled with tongue-in-cheek depravity. . . . If you know what you’re getting into, Mister B. Gone is great fun.” — Rocky Mountain News

“A clever book. . . . Succeeds admirably. Because Barker remembers that everyone loves a measure of fright in their stories.” — Globe and Mail (Toronto)

New York Times Book Review

Mr. Barker is much more than a genre writer, and his extravagantly unconventional inventions are ingenious refractions of our common quest to experience and understand the mysterious world around us and the mysteries within ourselves.

Washington Post

A swift, spare novel that reminds us, once again, of the discipline and focus Barker can bring to shorter forms. . . . A subtle, surprising book. . . . Barker, who rarely does anything predictable, confounds expectations once again, giving us one of the most resonant, provocative novels of his career.

Globe and Mail (Toronto)

A clever book. . . . Succeeds admirably. Because Barker remembers that everyone loves a measure of fright in their stories.

Rocky Mountain News

It’s about time for something nastier from the man Stephen King once called ‘the future of horror literature.’ . . . Filled with tongue-in-cheek depravity. . . . If you know what you’re getting into, Mister B. Gone is great fun.

Kansas City Star

Think of a darker, more aggressive version of C.S. Lewis’ The Screwtape Letters. . . . Filled with wicked mischief and dark dares.

Washington Post

A swift, spare novel that reminds us, once again, of the discipline and focus Barker can bring to shorter forms. . . . A subtle, surprising book. . . . Barker, who rarely does anything predictable, confounds expectations once again, giving us one of the most resonant, provocative novels of his career.

JUN/JUL 08 - AudioFile

Better known as Pinhead from the HELLRAISER films, Doug Bradley shines as the narrator of Clive Barker’s new novel. Jakabok, a medieval demon plucked from Hell by a team of church-sanctioned bounty hunters, witnesses the atrocities done by men to men in the name of God, partakes in some of those atrocities himself, and ends up in 1438 Germany, on Johannes Gutenberg’s doorstep. Pleading with the listener from the first line to “burn this book,” Bradley takes to the narrative with alarming ease, embodying the wit, sarcasm, and utter loneliness of the demon’s first-person account. With his acerbic tone, British accent, and excellent comedic timing, Bradley captures both the creepy charm with which this long silent demon tells his story and the deep resentment that runs in his sulfur-filled veins. Not for the faint of heart. A.H.A. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2008, Portland, Maine

Product Details

BN ID:	2940170411689
Publisher:	HarperCollins
Publication date:	10/30/2007
Edition description:	Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

Mister B. Gone

Chapter One

Burn this book.

Go on. Quickly, while there's still time. Burn it. Don't look at another word. Did you hear me? Not. One. More. Word.

Why are you waiting? It's not that difficult. Just stop reading and burn the book. It's for your own good, believe me. No, I can't explain why. We don't have time for explanations. Every syllable that you let your eyes wander over gets you into more and more trouble. And when I say trouble, I mean things so terrifying your sanity won't hold once you see them, feel them. You'll go mad. Become a living blank, all that you ever were wiped away, because you wouldn't do one simple thing. Burn this book.

It doesn't matter if you spent your last dollar buying it. No, and it doesn't matter if it was a gift from somebody you love. Believe me, friend, you should set fire to this book right now, or you'll regret the consequences.

Go on. What are you waiting for? You don't have a light? Ask somebody. Beg them. It's a matter of light and death Believe me! Will you please believe me? A little runt of a book like this isn't worth risking madness and eternal damnation over. Well, is it? No, of course not. So burn it. Now! Don't let your eyes travel any further. Just stop here.

Oh God! You're still reading? What is it? You think this is some silly little joke I'm playing? Trust me, it isn't. I know, I know, you're thinking it's just a book filled with words, like any other book. And what are words? Black marks on white paper. How much harm could there be in something so simple? If I had ten hundred years to answer that question I would barely scratch thesurface of the monstrous deeds the words in this book could be used to instigate and inflame. But we don't have ten hundred years. We don't even have ten hours, ten minutes. You're just going to have to trust me. Here, I'll make it as simple as possible for you:

This book will do you harm beyond description unless you do as I'm asking you to. You can do it. Just stop reading...

Now.

What's the problem? Why are you still reading? Is it because you don't know who I am, or what? I suppose I can hardly blame you. If I had picked up a book and found somebody inside it, talking at me the way I'm talking at you, I'd probably be a little wary too.

What can I say that'll make you believe me? I've never been one of those golden-tongued types. You know, the ones who always have the perfect words for every situation. I used to listen to them when I was just a little demon and—

Hell and Demonation! I let that slip without meaning to. About me being a demon, I mean. Oh well, it's done. You were bound to figure it out for yourself sooner or later.

Yeah, I'm a demon. My full name is Jakabok Botch. I used to know what that meant, but I've forgotten. I used to. I've been a prisoner of these pages, trapped in the words you're reading right now and left in darkness most of the time, while the book sat somewhere through the passage of many centuries in a pile of books nobody ever opened. All the while I'd think about how happy, how grateful, I'd be when somebody finally opened the book. This is my memoir, you see. Or, if you will, my confessional. A portrait of Jakabok Botch.

I don't mean portrait literally. There aren't any pictures in these pages. Which is probably a good thing, because I'm not a pretty sight to look at. At least I wasn't the last time I looked.

And that was a long, long time ago. When I was young and afraid. Of what, you ask? Of my father, Pappy Gatmuss. He worked at the furnaces in Hell and when he got home from the night shift he would have such a temper me and my sister, Charyat, would hide from him. She was a year and two months younger than me, and for some reason if my father caught her he would beat and beat her and not be satisfied until she was sobbing and snotty and begging him to stop. So I started to watch for him. About the time he'd beheading home, I'd climb up the drainpipe onto the roof out of our house and watch for him. I knew his walk [or his stagger, if he'd been drinking] the moment he turned the corner of our street. That gave me time to climb back down the pipe, find Charyat, and the two of us could find a safe place where we'd go until he'd done what he always did when he, drunk or sober, came home. He'd beat our mother. Sometimes with his bare hands, but as he got older with one of the tools from his workbag, which he always brought home with him. She wouldn't ever scream or cry, which only made him angrier.

I asked her once very quietly why she never made any noise when my father hit her. She looked up at me. She was on her knees at the time trying to get the toilet unclogged and the stink was terrible; the little room full of ecstatic flies. She said: "I would never give him the satisfaction of knowing he had hurt me."

Thirteen words. That was all she had to say on the subject.

But she poured into those words so much hatred and rage that it was a wonder that the walls didn't crack and bring the house down on our heads. But something worse happened. My father heard.

How he sniffed out what we were saying I do not know to this day. I suspect he had buzzing tell-tales amongst the flies. I don't remember much of what he did to us, except for his pushing my head into the unclogged toilet—that I do remember. His face is also inscribed on my memory.

Mister B. Gone. Copyright © by Clive Barker. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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