Originally published as Wicked Sick nearly a decade ago, The Legend Of Fast Eddie is a “nail biting joyride through the treacherous world of organized crime.”
Author Anthony “Smiley” Murillo wrote the story in prison. He is serving a life sentence. “For those unfamiliar with Fast Eddie, his meteoric rise from obscure thug to internet cult hero and cause celebre: this story is based upon a series of events that took place in Southern California during the summer of 2003. Since then mass rumor, speculation, and conjecture fueled by the so-called ‘blogger’ movement … transformed Fast Eddie.”
Murillo believes the hype is closer to the truth.
Fast Eddie’s name shot up the blogosphere alongside popular web-logs during the Iraq Invasion. Embedded reporters were restricted from covering the war too freely. Meanwhile Iraqi citizens and members of the Coalition Forces were typing away, adding to a growing body of instant news.
It inspired amateur journalism in some weird places. Including Southern California.
All that contribution has built up a mysterious urban legend that Murillo narrates through fast paced action. It’s reminiscent of silver-screen gangster-porn, like Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels or Smokin’ Aces. You can just imagine a gang of Red Bull guzzling teenagers typing up shit as they wander through a lonely Saturday night.
But Murillo’s narrative is gutsy enough to make you wonder.
A routine carjacking turns into the “come-up” of a lifetime when a young cholo from East L.A. accidentally intercepts a large heroin shipment. Outlaw groups, including the notorious Mexican Mafia are hot on his trail, finding him all too easily.
Murillo’s cocktail includes one part hermaphrodite assassin, two parts “down-ass” barrio carjackers, garnished with a gal-pal playing all the angles, and deeper hints of an impostor who convincingly wields a Tech 9 machine pistol.
It tempts you to ask the bartender for another.
As a bloody free-for-all ensues, some events are captured on video and posted online by a sadistic assassin dispatched by the dope’s true owner. Hundreds of snuff flick enthusiasts watch in real time as the deadly cast of characters fight to come out on top. Hairy-ass bikers bullied by a twisted Latino drug lord, round out cameos of hotshots and misfires that keep the bullets flying page after page.
Oh, and you can’t forget that rat in a bird cage chewing on a man’s penis.
One character makes the whole thing worth it: Che/Chela. The hermaphrodite assassin has enough on-page charisma to hold up un-protesting traffic, while artistically producing another Columbian Necktie. The secret of the book, however, isn’t Che’s concealed breasts; it’s Che’s antics posing under an online pseudonym.
Firefly 7. With that the plot comes together appealingly.
Anthony Murillo may have revamped an urban legend, but he knows how to tell a story. The vein bulging street-drama is bruised with believable touches. Murillo explains how he does this, “I live by core-gangster ethics despite life imprisonment and an acquired disdain for ‘Mob’ politics. I live and die by my writing, just as I live and die by the blade.” He adds, “If something I’ve written is genuinely offensive, then I welcome a piece of steel between my fifth and sixth ribs.”
It comes off extreme, but Murillo gets a pass. Few authors today are cranking out books inside a maximum security prison. Thus few can say who his writing may offend. But it will likely please them instead.
As things ratchet into higher tension, the urban-style epic comes into focus. The real theme isn’t about greed, it’s about paranoia. Before the time bomb otherwise known as Edward Snowden, the boogey man inhabiting our technological nightmare, web-blogs occupied plenty of creepy “what ifs.” Now confirmed, we all know that where imagination fails us, the men-in-black are more than capable. Or at least that’s the world Fast Eddie lives in.
Flipping through the channels reveals parallels, like USA’s Mr. Robot. Perhaps Fast Eddie’s world isn’t so far-fetched after all. The Legend Of Fast Eddie brims with relatable concerns within even more alien sub-cultures. It is an interesting take on life, through the lens of street life, and a cell. The book ends in an el-grande explosion. But that’s not what deposits within us a new sense of what urban literature can be.
Murillo’s personal story does that.