In the 80s, there was a sense that anything could happen. It was a time when characters like Mad Max and Freddy Kreuger roamed the earth. No one could say what a book or a movie was going to turn into – or how if everyone would turn out safe. Because the standards were different, the stories tended to grab onto people and hold onto them. When you immersed yourself in one of these stories, it took over your entire life. There was nothing outside of it, nothing to distract you. It was just you and the story, and you were happy to lose yourself in it, an hour, two hours, three hours at a time.
Perhaps more than any other place in America, Route 66 captured the heart and soul of this line of thinking. Out there on the open road, where the horizon seemed to stretch on into infinity, this type of story made sense. The idea that biker gangs were roaming the world seemed obvious, and anything they need, from the capers they pulled to the trouble they got into, it all seemed believable too. You could lose yourself out there, of course – or find yourself, if that was what you ventured out there to do.
This is the basic premise of A Massacre on Route 66 – a book just as gripping and exciting as any of the best stories that the 1980s produced.