PREMISE: When a nameless, struggling actor in 1970’s New York gets the call that an enigmatic director wants him for an art film set in the Amazon, he flies to South America, no questions asked. He quickly realizes he’s made a mistake when it becomes clear that he’s replacing another actor who quit after seeing the script—a script the director now claims doesn’t exist. The movie is over budget. The production team seems headed for a breakdown. The air is so wet that the celluloid film disintegrates.

But what the actor doesn’t realize is that the greatest threat might be the town itself, and the mysterious shadow economy that powers this remote jungle outpost. Entrepreneurial Americans, international drug traffickers, and M-19 guerrillas are all fighting for South America’s future—and the groups aren’t as distinct as one might think. The actor thought this would be a role that would change his life. Now he’s worried he won’t survive it.

Best book name ever? Maybe not, but it’s certainly up there. I like to think that Kea Wilson originally had an extra word at the end of the title but decided to drop it last minute. We Eat Our Own Biscuits? Pets? Faeces? Assholes? There’s a novel in each one of those. I imagine We Eat Our Own Biscuits is an historical drama written by Hilary Mantel. We Eat Our Own Pets is obviously a Stephen King novel; he’s got that whole pet thing sewn up. We Eat Our Own Faeces is probably a Gwyneth Paltrow self-help book. And We Eat Our Own Assholes by Ivana Sukyuov, the Russian contortionist gymnast turned porn star.

Anyway, back to the book with no fifth word in the title. It’s fantastic. I get a real joy discovering books like this. An author I’ve not heard of, an intriguing premise, a rivetingly addictive read. There was something really fresh and unique about this book that I’m not a good enough writer to explain so you’ll just have to take my word for it.