Confessions of a Traumatized Reader
Book Review: Butcher and Blackbird by Brynne Weaver
I read the disclaimer. I saw the warning. And, like any responsible reader with a slightly unhinged curiosity, I chose to ignore it. It was giving “viewer discretion advised,” and honestly? That only made it sound more enticing.
Well. Good lord. I should’ve listened.
This book is… a lot. Like, LOT lot. Like, what-on-earth-did-I-just-read lot. And yes, I’m using all-caps and dramatic punctuation because that’s where we are now emotionally.
But first. I was on a group text where we were talking about what books to read. One friend shared I am listening to Butcher and Blackbird and I responded with Oh, I just started that book. To which she said I just nearly crashed my car listening to a certain chapter. Well, I was in the early stages of the book and had no idea, why she would almost crash her car. Whelp, now I do!
I wasn’t even sure how to write a review for this thing. I tend to keep things relatively clean—bit of a literary goodie-two-shoes. I’ve read about serial killers. I’ve watched the documentaries. I’ve even binged Dexter. But never, I repeat never, have I read a book so thoroughly disturbing that my brain started chanting, “Please, just read something about butterflies. Or babies. Or literally anything that doesn’t involve flesh wounds and handcuffs.”
And yet—I kept reading. All the way to the end. Only to find out it’s a trilogy. A TRILOGY.
Let’s break it down:
Graphic. Gruesome. Grotesque. All with a capital, blood-soaked G.
And guess what? It’s a love story. Buckle up, buttercups, your about to get a review…
Imagine Dexter meets… well, another Dexter, toss in some accidental cannibalism, wildly inappropriate flirting, and a twisted, morally questionable murder competition. The premise? Two rival serial killers, both with a warped sense of justice, engage in a once-a-year contest: who can take out the worst serial killer with no moral compass. Winner gets the bragging rights. Also, apparently, the feels?
Do I like either of them? No. Should I? Also no. They’re serial killers. If I started rooting for them, I’d be concerned about my own moral compass.
The tone is dark comedy at its pitch-black finest. It’s all there—gory kills, graphic sex scenes that make 50 Shades of Grey look like a lullaby, and banter so sharp it could cut glass (and probably has). I blushed. I cringed. I side-eyed my Kindle. And yet, I didn’t stop.
So, did I enjoy it?
…I don’t know. I think I need therapy before I can answer that.
Was I compelled to read it to the bitter, blood-splattered end? Absolutely.
Will I read the sequel? Probably. Quietly. With the blinds drawn. Possibly under a pseudonym.
Wine Pairing: Petite Sirah
For Butcher and Blackbird, we need a wine that matches the book’s unhinged energy—something dark, intense, and a little seductive. Enter: Petite Sirah.
This wine is not here to make friends. It’s deep, inky, and so full-bodied it practically growls when you pour it. Expect flavors like blackberry jam, black pepper, smoked meat, and maybe a faint whisper of “make good choices.” Which you won’t. Because you’re reading this book.
Pair it with a locked door, low lighting, and a strong sense of what-have-I-gotten-myself-into. Sip cautiously.
