In the crowded greenroom of a porn-movie production, hundreds of men mill around in their boxers, awaiting their turn with the legendary Cassie Wright. An aging adult film star, Cassie Wright intends to cap her career by breaking the world record for serial fornication by having sex with 600 men on camera—one of whom may want to kill her. Told from the perspectives of Mr. 72, Mr. 137, Mr. 600, and Sheila, the talent wrangler who must keep it all under control, Snuff is a dark, wild, and lethally funny novel that brings the presence of pornography in contemporary life into the realm of literary fiction. “Humorous, unsettling and ultimately thought-provoking.... Snuff is an erotic dream. It builds and builds, delivering new heights of bliss with each new revelation.” — Rocky Mountain News “Often biting, often hilarious, often awful, but always compelling.... Palahniuk has crafted a world of sex devoid of titillation, where human suffering is shelved for a few moments when the cameras begin to roll.” — Los Angeles Times “An absurd dark comedy about damaged people.... [Palahniuk's] descriptive skills, his love of language and his weird humor are in top form.” — The Seattle Times “Chuck and porn. Porn and Chuck—the two go together like fists and brass knuckles, moth and flame: a fatalistic coupling that happens to be, also, a perfect match.”— The Washington Post “Spare and effective.... Snuff is not only a comment on the utter unsexiness of the porn industry; it also manages to imply that any culture that produces such an unappealing industry must also be awash in unsexy, mechanical and pointless copulation.”— Minneapolis Star-Tribune Chuck Palahniuk’s eight previous novels are the bestselling Rant , Haunted , Lullaby , Diary , Choke —which was made into a 2008 film by director Clark Gregg, starring Sam Rockwell and Anjelica Huston — Survivor , Invisible Monsters , and Fight Club , which was made into a film by director David Fincher. He is also the author of the nonfiction profile of Portland, Oregon, Fugitives and Refugees , published as part of the Crown Journeys series, and the nonfiction collection Stranger Than Fiction . He lives in the Pacific Northwest.www.chuckpalahniuk.net 1 Mr. 600 One dude stood all afternoon at the buffet wearing just his boxers, licking the orange dust off barbecued potato chips. Next to him, a dude was scooping into the onion dip and licking the dip off the chip. The same soggy chip, scoop after scoop. Dudes have a million ways of peeing on what they claim as just their own. For craft services, we're talking two folding tables piled with open bags of store–brand corn chips and canned sodas. Dudes getting called back to do their bit—the wrangler announces their numbers, and these performers stroll back for their money shot still chewing a mouthful of caramel corn, their fingers burning with garlic salt and sticky with the frosting from maple bars. Some one–shot dudes, they're just here to say they were. Us veterans, we're here for the face time and to do Cassie a favor. Help her one more dick toward that world record. To witness history. On the buffet, they got laid out Tupperwares full of condoms next to Tupperwares of mini-pretzels. Fun-sized candy bars. Honey-roasted peanuts. On the floor, plastic wrappers from candy bars and condoms, bit and chewed open. The same hands scooping M&M's as reaching into the fly and elastic waistband of boxers to stroke their half-hard dicks. Candy-colored fingers. Tangy ranch-flavored erections. Peanut breath. Root-beer breath. Barbecued-potato-chip breath getting panted into Cassie's face. Tweakers scratching their arms bright red. High-school virgins wanting to lose it on camera. This one kid, Mr. 72, is looking to get deflowered and into history in the same shot. Skinny dudes keeping their T-shirts on, shirts older than some other performers here, sent out for the launch of Sex with the City a lifetime ago. Fan-club shirts from back when Cassie was starring in Lust Horizons . T-shirts older than Mr. 72, silk-screened before he was born. Loud dudes talk on cell phones, talking stock options and ground-floor opportunities at the same time they pinch and milk their foreskins. All the performers, the wrangler Magic Marker–ed their biceps with a number between one and six hundred. Their haircuts, a monument to gel and patience. Tans and fogs of cologne. The room full of metal folding chairs. To set the mood, dog-eared skin magazines. The talent wrangler is some babe, Sheila, with a clipboard, yelling for number 16, number 31, and number 211 to follow her up the stairway to the set. Dudes wearing tennis shoes. Top-Siders. Bikini briefs. Wingtips with navy-blue calf-high socks held up with those old-time garters. Beach flip-flops still coated with sand, every step gritty with it. That old joke: The way to get a babe to act in a blue movie is you offer her a million dollars. The way to get a dude is you just have to as