Some years ago I got onto a train heading into the CBD and I found an abandoned book.
It was a cheap paperback with a pulp sci-fi cover and yellowing pages.
It looked lonely and wistful.
I had half an hour to kill so I started reading it.
I don't remember the title.
I don't remember the author.
I do remember that the hero of the piece was a brash, mouthy spaceman who was experiencing technical difficulties with his super awesome spaceship and who had to stop on the nearest planet.
Which had been colonised by Nazis.
Of course.
The Space Nazi dialogue had been compiled by watching a catalogue of the worst war movies ever made.
The mouthy spaceman's dialogue seemed to be a loving homage to Ash of the Evil Dead movies as written by a fourteen year old boy.
And it was terrible.
I know it was terrible.
It must have been because I put it back down when I left the train.
Partly for someone else to find and partly because it was so terrible I didn't really want to read the rest.
I'm certain that the plot was awful and that I could predict with almost 100% accuracy that mouthy spaceman would somehow manage to blow up or decimate Planet Nazi and abscond with one of their blondest women, probably one not overburdened with intelligence.
I'm SURE it was tripe.
And yet I've just spent the last two hours googling the damn book because all these years later I STILL want to know how it ended.
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