The Damnation Game by Clive Barker (English) Paperback Book

Description: The Damnation Game by Clive Barker Now with a brand new Introduction by the author, Barker invites readers into a nightworld where decomposing corpse-assassins stalk their prey. Marty Strauss, the bodyguard to a famous industrialist, discovers that someone is coming to collect the soul of his employer as payment for an ancient debt. Reissue. FORMAT Paperback LANGUAGE English CONDITION Brand New Publisher Description THE NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER"ONE OF THE BEST HORROR NOVELS IN A VERY LONG TIME...do not miss it!"—USA TodayThere are things worse than death. There are games so seductively evil, so wondrously vile, no gambler can resist. Amid the shadow-scarred rubble of World War II, Joseph Whitehead dared to challenge the dark champion of lifes ultimate game. Now a millionaire, locked in a terror-shrouded fortress of his own design, Joseph Whitehead has hell to pay. And no soul is safe from this ravaging fear, the resurrected fury, the unspeakable desire of... THE DAMNATION GAME Author Biography Born in Liverpool in 1952, Clive Barker has written and produced a number of plays, including The History of the Devil and Frankenstein in Love, which are as diverse in style and subject as the fiction he has written since. His volumes of short fiction, Books of Blood, earned him immediate praise from horror fans and literary critics alike. He won both the British and World Fantasy awards, and was nominated for the coveted Booker Prize, Britains highest literary award. His bestselling novels include The Damnation Game, Imajica, Coldheart Canyon, The Thief of Always, The Great and Secret Show, Everville, the Abarat series, and The Scarlet Gospels. He is also the creator of the now-classic Hellraiser films as well as Nightbreed and Lord of Illusions. Review Praise for The Damnation Game"A deliciously scary tale...Barkers brilliantly literary work has raised horror to a level of excellence it has rarely reached before."—Whitley Streiber"Original and memorable...engrossing...disturbing...Horror mavens who enjoy violence and harrowing imagery will find plenty of both here. But there is more to The Damnation Game than gore. This story of a supernaturally powerful man who can resurrect the dead probes the many varieties of corruption."—Publishers Weekly"Remarkably powerful...Barker has created a truly legendary monster. In pure descriptive power there is no one writing horror fiction now who can match him."—The Washington Post"Wonderful, moving and apocalyptic. Death and damnation hang at the end of every chapter. Barker makes us squirm."—Seattle Post-Intelligencer"Will fry your eyes off! Keep the lights on."—Larry King"A masterly novel...a thrill a minute."—Chicago Sun-Times"A tour de force of gruesome supernatural horror...startling, hard-hitting, graphic...brilliantly executed."—Fantasy Review"A horrifying thriller."—The Wall Street Journal"A gripping tale of hideous evil."—New York Daily News"A writer of stunning imagination...With his artists eye for detail, Barker instills a mythic quality into his vision of hell."—The Atlanta Journal & Constitution"The most literate and disturbing horror novel I have ever read. This is the place that nightmares are spawned—read it at your own peril, but read it you must!"—Imagine"A powerful, thrilling novel that provokes the imagination and raises the blood pressure."—The Orlando Sentinel"Frightening...Scalpel-clean prose and wild inventiveness."—Kirkus Reviews"Powerful...original...Barkers horror is elegant enough that one can admire it as a kind of hellish choreography, with the characters all dancing to his phantasmagorical tune."—New York Newsday Review Quote Praise for The Damnation Game "A deliciously scary tale...Barkers brilliantly literary work has raised horror to a level of excellence it has rarely reached before."--Whitley Streiber "Original and memorable...engrossing...disturbing...Horror mavens who enjoy violence and harrowing imagery will find plenty of both here. But there is more to The Damnation Game than gore. This story of a supernaturally powerful man who can resurrect the dead probes the many varieties of corruption."-- Publishers Weekly "Remarkably powerful...Barker has created a truly legendary monster. In pure descriptive power there is no one writing horror fiction now who can match him." --The Washington Post "Wonderful, moving and apocalyptic. Death and damnation hang at the end of every chapter. Barker makes us squirm."-- Seattle Post-Intelligencer "Will fry your eyes off! Keep the lights on."--Larry King "A masterly novel...a thrill a minute."-- Chicago Sun-Times "A tour de force of gruesome supernatural horror...startling, hard-hitting, graphic...brilliantly executed."-- Fantasy Review "A horrifying thriller."-- The Wall Street Journal "A gripping tale of hideous evil."-- New York Daily News "A writer of stunning imagination...With his artists eye for detail, Barker instills a mythic quality into his vision of hell."-- The Atlanta Journal & Constitution " The most literate and disturbing horror novel I have ever read. This is the place that nightmares are spawned--read it at your own peril, but read it you must!"-- Imagine "A powerful, thrilling novel that provokes the imagination and raises the blood pressure."-- The Orlando Sentinel "Frightening...Scalpel-clean prose and wild inventiveness."-- Kirkus Reviews "Powerful...original...Barkers horror is elegant enough that one can admire it as a kind of hellish choreography, with the characters all dancing to his phantasmagorical tune."-- New York Newsday Excerpt from Book 1 The air was electric the day the thief crossed the city, certain that tonight, after so many weeks of frustration, he would finally locate the card-player. It was not an easy journey. Eighty-five percent of Warsaw had been leveled, either by the months of mortar bombardment that had preceded the Russian liberation of the city, or by the program of demolition the Nazis had undertaken before their retreat. Several sectors were virtually impassable by vehicle. Mountains of rubble-still nurturing the dead like bulbs ready to sprout as the spring weather warmed-clogged the streets. Even in the more accessible districts the once-elegant faades swooned dangerously, their foundations growling. But after almost three months of plying his trade here, the thief had become used to navigating this urban wilderness. Indeed, he took pleasure in its desolate splendor: its perspectives tinged lilac by the dust that still settled from the stratosphere, its squares and parkways so unnaturally silent; the sense he had, trespassing here, that this was what the end of the world would be like. By day there were even a few landmarks remaining-forlorn signposts that would be dismantled in time-by which the traveler could chart his route. The gas works beside the Poniatowski Bridge was still recognizable, as was the zoo on the other side of the river; the clock-tower of Central Station showed its head, though the clock had long since disappeared; these and a handful of other pockmarked tributes to Warsaws civic beauty survived, their trembling presence poignant, even to the thief. This wasnt his home. He had no home, nor had for a decade. He was a nomad and a scavenger, and for a short space Warsaw offered sufficient pickings to keep him here. Soon, when hed recovered energies depleted in his recent wanderings, it would be time to move on. But while the first signs of spring murmured in the air he lingered here, enjoying the freedom of the city. There were hazards certainly, but then where were there not for a man of his profession? And the war years had polished his powers of self-preservation to such brilliance that little intimidated him. He was safer here than the true citizens of Warsaw, the few bewildered survivors of the holocaust who were gradually beginning to filter back into the city, looking for lost homes, lost faces. They scrabbled in the wreckage or stood on street corners listening to the dirge of the river, and waited for the Russians to round them up in the name of Karl Marx. New barricades were being established every day. The military were slowly but systematically reclaiming some order from the confusion, dividing and subdividing the city as they would, in time, the entire country. The curfews and the checkpoints did little to hobble the thief, however. In the lining of his well-cut coat he kept identification papers of every kind-some forged, most stolen-one of which would be suitable for whatever situation arose. What they lacked in credibility he made up for with repartee and cigarettes, both of which he possessed in abundance. They were all a man needed-in that city, in that year-to feel like the lord of creation. And such creation! No need here for either appetite or curiosity to go unsatisfied. The profoundest secrets of body and spirit were available to anyone with the itch to see. Games were made of them. Only the previous week the thief had heard tell of a young man who played the ancient game of cups and ball (now you see it, now you dont) but substituted, with insanitys wit, three buckets and a babys head. That was the least of it; the infant was dead, and the dead dont suffer. There were, however, other pastimes available for hire in the city, delights that used the living as their raw material. For those with the craving and the price of entry, a traffic in human flesh had begun. The occupying army, no longer distracted by battle, had discovered sex again, and there was profit in it. Half a loaf of bread could purchase one of the refugee girls-many so young they scarcely had breasts to knead-to be used and re-used in the covering darkness, their complaints unheard or silenced by a bayonet when they lost their charm. Such casual homicide was overlooked in a city where tens of thousands had died. For a few weeks-between one regime and the next-anything was possible: no act found culpable, no depravity taboo. A boys brothel had been opened in the Zoliborz District. Here, in an underground salon hung with salvaged paintings, one could choose from chicks of six or seven up, all fetchingly slimmed by malnutrition and tight as any connoisseur could wish. It was very popular with the officer class, but too expensive, the thief had heard it muttered, for the noncommissioned ranks. Lenins tenets of equal choice for all did not stretch, it seemed, to pederasty. Sport, of a kind, was more cheaply available. Dogfights were a particularly popular attraction that season. Homeless curs, returning to the city to pick at the meat of their masters, were trapped, fed to fighting strength and then pitted against each other to the death. It was an appalling spectacle, but a love of betting took the thief to the fights again and again. Hed made a tidy profit one night by putting his money on a runty but cunning terrier whod bested a dog three times its size by chewing off its opponents testicles. And if, after a time, your taste for dogs or boys or women palled, there were more esoteric entertainments available. In a crude amphitheater dug from the debris of the Bastion of Holy Mary the thief had seen an anonymous actor singlehandedly perform Goethes Faust, Parts One and Two. Though the thiefs German was far from perfect, the performance had made a lasting impression. The story was familiar enough for him to follow the action-the pact with Mephisto, the debates, the conjuring tricks, and then, as the promised damnation approached, despair and terrors. Much of the argument was indecipherable, but the actors possession by his twin roles-one moment Tempter, the next Tempted-was so impressive the thief left with his belly churning. Two days later he had gone back to see the play again, or at least to speak to the actor. But there were to be no encores. The performers enthusiasm for Goethe had been interpreted as pro-Nazi propaganda; the thief found him hanging, joy decayed, from a telegraph pole. He was naked. His bare feet had been eaten at and his eyes taken out by birds; his torso was riddled with bullet holes. The sight pacified the thief. He saw it as proof that the confused feelings the actor had aroused were iniquitous; if this was the state to which his art had brought him the man had clearly been a scoundrel and a sham. His mouth gaped, but the birds had taken his tongue as well as his eyes. No loss. Besides, there were far more rewarding diversions. The women the thief could take or leave, and the boys were not to his taste, but the gambling he loved, and always had. So it was back to the dogfights to chance his fortunes on a mongrel. If not there, then to some barrack-room dice game, or-in desperation-betting with a bored sentry on the speed of a passing cloud. The method and the circumstance scarcely concerned him: he cared only to gamble. Since his adolescence it had been his one true vice; it was the indulgence he had become a thief to fund. Before the war hed played in casinos across Europe; chemin de fer was his game, though he was not averse to roulette. Now he looked back at those years through the veil war had drawn across them, and remembered the contests as he remembered dreams on waking: as something irretrievable, and slipping further away with every breath. That sense of loss changed, however, when he heard about the card-player-Mamoulian, they called him-who, it was said, never lost a game, and who came and went in this deceitful city like a creature who was not, perhaps, even real. But then, after Mamoulian, everything changed. 2 So much was rumor; and so much of that rumor not even rooted in truth. Simply lies told by bored soldiers. The military mind, the thief had discovered, was capable of inventions more baroque than a poets, and more lethal. So when he heard tell of a master cardsharp who appeared out of nowhere, and challenged every would-be gambler to a game and unfailingly won, he suspected the story to be just that: a story. But something about the way this apocryphal tale lingered confounded expectation. It didnt fade away to be replaced by some yet more ludicrous romance. It appeared repeatedly-in the conversation of the men at the dogfights; in gossip, in graffiti. What was more, though the names changed the salient facts were the same from one account to the next. The thief began to suspect there was truth in the story after all. Perhaps there was a brilliant gambler operating somewhere in the city. Not perfectly invulnerable, of course; no one was that. But the man, if he existed, was certainly something special. Talk of him was always conducted with a caution that was like reverence; soldiers who claimed to have seen him play spoke of his elegance, his almost hypnotic calm. When they talked of Mamoulian they were peasants speaking of nobility, and the thief-never one to concede the superiority of any man-added a zeal to unseat this king to his reasons for seeking the card-player out. But beyond the general picture he garnered from the grapevine, there were few specifics. He knew that he would have to find and interrogate a man who had actually faced this paragon acro Details ISBN0425188930 Author Clive Barker Short Title DAMNATION GAME Language English ISBN-10 0425188930 ISBN-13 9780425188934 Media Book DEWEY 823.914 Year 2002 Residence Los Angeles, CA, US Birth 1952 DOI 10.1604/9780425188934 Place of Publication New York, NY Country of Publication United States AU Release Date 2002-11-05 NZ Release Date 2002-11-05 US Release Date 2002-11-05 UK Release Date 2002-11-05 Pages 448 Publisher Penguin Putnam Inc Format Paperback Publication Date 2002-11-05 Imprint Penguin USA Replaces 9780425127933 Audience General We've got this At The Nile, if you're looking for it, we've got it. With fast shipping, low prices, friendly service and well over a million items - you're bound to find what you want, at a price you'll love! TheNile_Item_ID:7412405;

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