In the novel LESS THAN HERO written by S.G. Browne, the beginning gets you hooked right away! It is one of those novels that make you think "Can this really happen?" or "What if...?" A lot happens in this book but I never got lost and found that I was able to read it in just two days. I couldn't put it down. S.G. Browne has a creative mind to come up with such an incredible story line as this.
It starts out with Lloyd, the main character explaining how he became a volunteer for clinical trials on different types of drugs. If you could call him it, he is basically a professional guinea pig. He makes friends with some other professional guinea pigs and they soon find that their side effects from their use of different drugs give them some pretty weird powers. One of them can makes others vomit, another can give you a rash, and many more side effects that I do not want to give away. Some are pretty unexpected. Lloyd himself seems to have the power to put others to sleep. These six friends decide that they will use their new founded gifts to be superheroes. They go around New York as your regular Joe to fight crime but things do not turn out the way they expect. There are always consequences with these great powers and they soon find out what each one will cost them.
I love LESS THAN HERO and it ended in such a way that I wonder if S. G. Browne will make it a series. This novel has so many points that it covers. A story about helping others, figuring out in life what really matters, and at the same time it is written to really entertain us which it gets bravo points for doing! LESS THAN HERO by S.G. Browne is one novel that will keep you amused through to the very end.
With the razor-sharp satire that earned him rave reviews
for
Big Egos and Lucky Bastard, among others,
S.G.
Browne delivers another irresistible read, about an
unlikely
band of heroes who use their medical complications to
gain
fame, confront villains, and bring their own unique brand
of
justice to New York City.
Lloyd Prescott is a
professional guinea pig. After nearly a year on
unemployment, Lloyd discovered he could make money
volunteering for Phase One pharmaceutical drug clinical
trials, where drugs are tested for safety by giving them
to
subjects and studying the side effects. Every month,
Lloyd
meets up with a group of other guinea pigs to share
information on their clinical trials, but soon they learn
theyβre getting a lot more than they bargained forβ¦
Convulsions. Memory loss. Hallucinations. Drowsiness.
Vomiting. Sudden weight gain. These and other side
effects
affect them allβbut rather than simply suffer the
consequences, the guinea pigs find theyβre able to
project
these side effects onto others. And once they realize
this,
thereβs no end to the ruckus theyβll cause using their
powers for goodβ¦or ill.
In a winning combination
of
pitch-perfect humor and biting social commentary, S.G.
Browne proves with Less than Hero that he is still
βone of Americaβs very best writersβ (Jonathan Maberry).
EXCERPT
From the New York Post, page 3:
MIDTOWN HALLUCINATIONS HAVE POLICE SEEING DOUBLE
Doug Drury and Kim Woody were enjoying a wonderful day
exploring Manhattan when the California couple decided to
grab some lunch at the Carnegie Deli. Thatβs when their
afternoon took a turn for the bizarre.
βThis guy sitting at a table near the window jumped out
of his chair and started yelling for everyone to hide,β
Doug Drury said. βHe claimed there were flying sharks
circling above us; then he dove under our table and
grabbed on to my legs like they were a life preserver and
he didnβt know how to swim.β
The man in question, identified as Brad Thompson from
Manhattan, continued to rant and rave about sharks and
other invisible creatures before he was eventually
subdued by police and taken into custody.
βI donβt know what happened to him,β Robert Solis said. A
longtime employee at Carnegie Deli, Solis said heβs seen
it all. βBut Iβve never seen anything like this. He
totally flipped out. It was like he was on a bad acid
trip or something.β
While the afternoon theatrics had everyone at the
Carnegie Deli buzzing, it wasnβt the only unusual
incident in the neighborhood. Ten minutes later, the
patrons and employees at the Starbucks on West Fifty-
Second were treated to a surreal striptease show.
According to witnesses, a dark-haired woman who was
standing in line waiting to place her order suddenly
shouted out, βOh my God!β and started taking off her
clothes. David Kasama of Sacramento, California, had a
front row seat.
βShe kept shouting, βHelp! Help! Iβm on fire!β as she
pulled off her clothes,β Kasama said. βThen she ran over
and grabbed a pitcher of water and dumped it over her
head. It was pretty hot, if you know what I mean.β
After dousing herself with water, the woman told everyone
in Starbucks they were all melting like wax candles
before she ran out the door.
Debra Dunbar was found twenty-five minutes later in the
Pulitzer Fountain at Fifth Avenue and West Fifty-Eighth.
She was taken to New York Presbyterian Hospital for
evaluation.
Chapter 1
Iβm sitting on a chair in an examination room with a
disposable thermometer in my mouth and a blood pressure
cuff around my upper left arm. On the walls around me are
posters of vascular systems and reproductive organs.
Fluorescent lights wash away any shadows. A clock ticks
away the afternoon. Outside the closed door, someone asks
for a breath mint.
My lips have gone numb.
This has never happened to me before. Usually I donβt get
anything more than cotton-mouthed, drowsy, or light-
headed. Occasionally I develop rashes or feel like I have
food poisoning. More often than not, Iβll get a headache.
Nothing major. Weβre not talking migraine and vomiting.
That would be serious. What I get is pretty typical,
nothing 400 milligrams of ibuprofen wonβt fix.
But numbness in my lips? Thatβs definitely a first.
The medical technician sitting across from me removes the
thermometer and the cuff, then records my temperature and
my blood pressure on a chart attached to a clipboard.
The technician is male. Mid-thirties. Prematurely gray.
He has a zit coming in on his chin. His breath smells
like nachos.
βHow are you feeling today?β he asks.
βGood,β I say, though my lips feel like theyβre made of
rubber.
βAny problems with your vision?β he asks, looking down at
his clipboard.
I shake my head and say no.
βCognitive functions?β
No.
βSpeech?β
No.
βNumbness or tingling in any of your extremities?β
Technically my lips arenβt my extremities, but I tell him
just in case and he writes it down in his notes.
βHave you experienced any nausea or flu-like symptoms?β
he asks.
No.
βMemory loss?β
No.
βHallucinations? Seizures? Rashes?β
Sometimes just hearing the word rash makes me want to
itch, but I answer in the negative three more times.
βAny bloating or rapid weight gain?β he asks.
No.
βAre you feeling dizzy or light-headed?β
Most of the time, the questions are the same.
Nausea. Headaches. Dizziness.
Frequently theyβll throw in night sweats or loss of
appetite, with an occasional sinus inflammation and the
odd sexual-performance question. But Iβve never been
asked about an irregular heartbeat. Or renal failure.
βNo,β I tell him. βNo dizziness.β
The tech takes a few more minutes to run through the rest
of his questions. By the time he sends me off for my
blood and urine tests, my lips have returned to normal.
In another room, a phlebotomist wraps an elastic
tourniquet around my arm and sterilizes the soft flesh
just inside my left elbow.
The phlebotomist is female. Early forties. Blonde with
frosted tips. Sheβs had Botox injections around her eyes.
Her breath smells like peppermint.
Iβm not a big fan of needles. Even after more than five
years, I still have to look away. So I take a deep breath
and stare at the wall as she draws half a dozen blood
samples into evacuated tubes. Normally before drawing
samples, sheβs supposed to ask a list of questions and
record my answers on a form:
Am I on anticoagulation therapy?
Do I have a history of fits?
Do I have any bleeding disorders?
Have I fasted?
Instead, she asks me the questions while taking the
samples, except for the one about fasting. This test
doesnβt require me to fast. Iβm not a big fan of fasting.
Iβm not Bahaβi or Buddhist, and Iβve never spent forty
days and nights on a mountain with God, so abstaining
from food and drink has never been my strong suit.
After the phlebotomist draws my blood, she hands me a
sterile plastic specimen container and points me to the
bathroom.
βTry to catch the urine in midstream,β she says. βIt
makes for a cleaner sample.β
I nod as if this is something Iβve never heard before. As
if this is my first time.
Urine samples are standard procedure. While Iβm not
always asked to give blood, I almost always have to leave
a sample of my urine. Iβve heard some guys have a hard
time peeing on command into a cup. Iβve never had a
problem, so I provide a midstream catch, deposit the
specimen container in the cabinet, grab my backpack, and
head to the waiting roomβnot a waiting room in Brooklyn
with soft cushioned seats and diffused lighting and
copies of Rolling Stone and National Geographic, but a
waiting room in Queens with hard plastic stacking chairs
and fluorescent overhead lights and copies of Us and
People.
Randy stands at the front desk, hitting on the
receptionist.
The receptionist is female. Late twenties. Jet-black
hair. Sheβs wearing too much foundation. Her breath
smells like cloves.
βCardio is my nirvana.β Randy clasps his hands behind his
head and flexes his biceps. βI run every day. I love
working up a good sweat.β
Randy is a six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound walking
erection. In the three years Iβve known him, Iβve never
seen him pass on the chance to chat up a woman.
βI hear sweatβs a big turn-on for women,β I say.
βLloyd, my man!β Randy gives me a bro shake followed by a
pound hug, even though weβve seen each other almost every
day for the past week.
Randy may not be subtle, but he wears his affability,
like his muscles, for everyone to see.
βWhereβs Vic and Isaac?β I ask, looking around the
otherwise empty waiting room.
βTotally Eagles,β Randy says.
Randy likes to make esoteric references to song and album
titles by classic rock bands, leaving out the titles and
figuring everyone knows what heβs talking about.
βAlready gone,β he says, with a wink to the receptionist.
βThank you for coming in, Mr. Prescott.β She ignores
Randy and hands me some discharge literature and an
envelope with my name on it. βWeβll see you for your
follow-up on Tuesday.β
βWhat about me?β Randy asks. βIβm free Friday night.β
βIβm sorry, Mr. Ballard. I donβt date patients or
clients. Plus I have a boyfriend.β
βWhat if I wasnβt a patient or a client?β Randy asks.
βIβd still have a boyfriend.β
βQue sera, sera.β Randy shrugs and turns to me, his face
lighting up with a smile as big as Long Island. βHey,
wanna grab some grub?β
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