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So, I see you've picked up Hot Soapy Water, a bubble bath that's not for kids. It's okay, no need to look over your shoulder, I'm not there, I've never been there. Well, you've taken the first step. I suppose the question is, are you really going to do that old cliché and judge? "Hot Soapy Water, someone's fetish with bath time?" Nope. I haven't diluted the contents of this book with fragrant bath bombs, candles and Barry White playing in the background. It's mustard gas in the eyeballs, salt on an open wound. It's utter modern-day carnage. Stories within stories, short poems. War, death, destruction, a chef's journey, addiction, hedonism, mental health, trauma, the cold dark blanket of suicide, bravery, courage, bewilderment and some funny shit. It's a book you will not put down if you are brave enough to start. Why? Because I'm the voice in your head telling you this. My name is Auguste Knuckles, and you will ask yourself a question when the last page is turned: 'how am I alive? Am I alive or has an alien written this nuclear bomb narrative fired into a volcano?'
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