George C. Chesbro (1940–2008)

mongo the dwarf is back and still packs a mean kick. This time there are no supernatural or paranormal elements, just international intrigue set in Iran, which was very timely back in 76,77 when this was published and remains so today. Entertaining.

I read this when it first came out, then promptly forgot author and title. For decades it has haunted me, half-formed vestigal images of a dwarf detective, gorilla communicating through chest-slung speak-and-spell, and the fantastic final chapter featuring all humanities woes set to a triumphant 17hr screening of Wagner's Ring Cycle. It was actually through Goodreads that I finally tracked down the title which had left such indelible yet hazy impression, and I was filled with nostalgia when show more Amazon was able to ship me a worn paperback copy.

On re-read, I can't say that this is exactly a work of high fiction, yet you have to give Chesbro credit for creating a memorable protagonist in Mongo: ex-circus dwarf, current criminology professor, he spins his karate black-belt into action by hiring out as a P.I. specializing in the occult. Um, yeah :-)

The whole thing would be utterly ludicrous, except for two things: one, the over-the-top film noir first-person narrative, which reads like Garrison Keillor's "Guy Noir" on crack. Second, Mongo himself, who I finally recognized as -- wait for it -- George R.R. Martin's Tyrion cast in a parallel, yet equally cold and uncaring universe.

That's right, if you're a fan of Martin's infamous Imp, the Bastard of Lannister, give Mongo a try and see if he can't tide you over until the next SOAIF chapter (due, we all know, whenever Martin damn well feels like it :-) Besides, Gollum the freaked-out gorilla totally owns Crichton's lamoid Amy de la Congo. show less

Somehow, this story of a dwarf detective investigating sensory deprivation, faith healing and witch covens manages to be not too far out there or strange. Chesbro's matter of fact first person narrative gives the whole thing a noir fee

"Thermonuclear war may destroy human life--indeed, all life--over the planet, but not necessarily so. In fact, the solutions to the equations indicate that the outside parameters for our existence may be as much as three or four hundred years. But no more. The means by which we destroy ourselves cannot be predicted mathematically--and are, in any case, irrelevant. It is of no value to look around for the catastrophe that will come; in an evolutionary sense, we are the catastrophe, a unique show more species of self-aware, intelligent creatures that are, as an entire species, quite insane. We are, as the Triage Parabola makes quite Clear, simply an evolutionary dead end. Nature, as is well-known from even the most casual observation, is unforgiving and implacable in erasing her mistakes. On an evolutionary scale, we rose with lightning speed; we shall disappear with lightning speed. In four hundred years, or maybe only four hundred months or days or hours or seconds, there will not be a single human being left on the face of the earth. In four thousand years--a snap of the fingers in evolutionary time--there will probably not even be a trace left of our existence."

Ironically, this passage is from Chesbro's rather unusual detective novel. The hero is a dwarf of unusual intelligence, with a doctorate in criminology and experience as a flying trapeze artist in the circus. He and his brother, a New York City policeman, investigate the death of their nephew and discover a worldwide environmental plot. It is impossible to say more without giving away the story. A good, fast, fun read. By the way, this is a classic example of a cover having absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with the contents, unfortunately? show less