The name was enough for me. I think it sparked memories of an amazing movie called Suicide Kings. At any rate the back cover of this one proved to be incredible. A secret society comprised of men in London who want to kill themselves, but lack the courage to do so. The President of this club is a mainstay. He charges a fee for entrance. He shuffles. He deals. If you get the ace of clubs you kill whoever gets the ace of spades. Sounds great right. Well the concept is.
The problem here was that a noble minded Prince Florizel along with his manservant, Colonel Geraldine, take it upon themselves to disband the society. After dressing in disguise and making a habit of visiting the dregs of London, the Suicide Club finds the bottom of their capacity to endure what they've discovered.
Written as a series of three short stories, this whole work reeks of poorly written Sherlock Holmes. Forgettable characters, forgettable crimes, forgettable resolution. I simply expected more from the man who gave us Treasure Island. But you know what? Perhaps I'm the problem. Maybe there's something wrong with me because all I desired was to see the organization live and watch desparate characters sweat out their opportunites for death. Sicko.
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