The Manuscript by Michael Stephen Fuchs

The Manuscript holds the meaning of life. Discovered by English explorer Sir Richard Burton during an 1869 visit to the remote jungles of South America, the Manuscript has since been placed in an almost entirely inaccessible corner of the Internet. A corner inhabited by gun-toting nerds, vacuous villains, and secret societies. There it awaits discovery by a nerd with enough courage and know-how to unravel its mysteries. It’s a script filled with conspiracy, intrigue, and action. Unfortunately, that’s also what this novel reads like: a script. And a poor one at that.

The main nerd on a mission to find the Manuscript is a computer nerd named Miles Darken. He has a gun. He also has a friend, an ex-girlfriend. She’s a philosophy nerd. She doesn’t have a gun, but that’s okay because Miles has enough of a gun for both of them. Miles meets another girl. She’s a computer nerd and she has a gun. More computer nerds turn up. They have guns too. They all combine to track down yet another computer nerd. He’s a drug dealer, and he has the Manuscript … and some guns.

And on it goes: Other people with guns turn up. They’re not nerds, but they want the Manuscript. Lots of shooting occurs. People die, but no nerds are injured. Toss in more people, more guns, more shooting. The characters discover that all the people with guns who aren’t nerds are naturally working for some shadowy secret society that wants the meaning of life for itself. More shooting occurs. Lots of people die. A nerd is finally injured. But that’s okay because the nerds now have the meaning of life and a bunch of cash to boot. The end.

For a book that dares to ask the big questions, it is disturbing how it fails to answer the small ones. Especially since the smaller questions are often a result of the author’s own plot contrivances. Characters are introduced without context or sense. The secret society remains as secret as ever, and its motivation for full scale slaughter and mayhem in pursuit of the manuscript is largely ignored. Except, that is, for some vague theorizing that, like all incredibly rich and powerful faceless entities, it is probably selfish and just wants to keep it for itself.

While we cannot fault the author for not actually revealing the meaning of life, one can certainly fault him for barely addressing the issue. It becomes a mere plot contrivance, an excuse for more pointless action and violence. The nearest the book comes to a revelation regarding that ultimate question is that even if you know the answer, having lots of money will still be very useful and that people who also know the answer will apparently be filled with a smug sense of self-satisfaction. While Douglas Adams would surely approve, these facts are not presented with that author’s comical style. It is just another opportunity missed, the work as a whole lacking a sense of humour … or sense of anything much at all.

The result isn’t enough for a decent movie, let alone a book. The script substitutes gimmicks for character and action for plot. While such devices might be forgivable in a more celluloid friendly format the result is dismal in print. Throw in a little pop-philosophy, a gratuitous sex scene, and the ghost of Richard Burton, and you’re left with the perfect ingredients for next year’s big box office flop.

What starts out as a promising concept with a few clever ideas quickly devolves in to the equivalent of a bad action movie, an adolescent fantasy from the Mountain Dew-infused brain of a gun-toting computer nerd. Conspiracies abound, stock characters are added at random, and little is ever resolved. In the meantime, the body count grows and the only question the reader is left pondering is why he should care.

RATING 3 / 10