Lone star

Carrie O'Grady on DBC Pierre's sparkling debut, Vernon God Little
Vernon God Little by DBC Pierre
Buy Vernon God Little at Amazon.co.uk Public domain

Vernon God Little
by DBC Pierre
278pp, Faber, £12.99

These days no one really buys into the cartoonish stereotype of the American grain belt as a laid-back, friendly cowpoke's paradise. And yet what people suppose to be the "dark side" of Texas - church-burnings, Ewingesque oil tycoons - is equally silly and theatrical. The true darkness in the Lone Star state is found at the edge of the smallest, filthiest towns, where poverty and greed ensure that life ain't ever gonna be fair.

But enough of all that miserable stuff. Vernon God Little , a startling and excellent debut, is billed as a comedy: "A 21st-century comedy in the presence of death". And doggone it, is it funny. The dialogue, in pure Texanese, jumps off the page, especially when the ladies are talking (as they often do) about food:

"Have you fed him?" "I think Vaine bought ribs." "Vaine Gurie? She's supposed to be on the Pritikin diet - Barry'll have a 'truck'!" "Good-night, she damn near 'lives' at Bar-B-Chew Barn!"

The "ladies" having this discussion live in Martirio, "the barbecue sauce capital of Texas", and one of them is Doris, mother of Vernon, our hero. Vaine Gurie, meanwhile, has just arrested Vernon. But Vernon is less than thrilled at her offer of ribs: "Deep fucken trouble keeps my euphoria at bay."

Deep trouble is right, for this is not the sort of black comedy that flips into light relief every six pages. Death is present in every scene. It is there in Vaine's office, eating ribs with the sheriff, for Vernon is suspected of being an accessory to a devastating mass murder: the gunning down of 16 high-school kids, still in their Nikes. But Vernon is innocent: "Everyone knows Jesus is to blame." Jesus? No, not the one you're thinking of: Jesus Navarro, a Mexican boy wearing silk panties under his jeans, was the one holding the gun.

That mini-twist is typical of DBC Pierre. Born in Australia and raised in Mexico, he has a fiendish sense of humour, never turning down an opportunity to wrongfoot us. Vernon God Little is a treacherous book, always shifting under your feet. Like the best satires, it makes you feel faintly guilty for laughing, which intensifies the pleasure of reading. It also keeps you hooked: you can never quite be sure whether Vernon is lying to his readers as well as to the police, his mother and nearly everyone else he meets.

Vernon himself is a brilliant comic creation: hapless, unlucky, cynical, often tragic. A modern Holden Caulfield, he is just clever enough to lie himself into a corner and just dumb enough to sit there and swear once he's stuck. "I heard the voice of Jesus last night. If at first you don't succeed, he said, get wasted off your fucken ass."

It's good advice, because although Vernon believes he is acting for the best, the absurdities of an unjust world are stacked against him. As he tries to flee to Mexico, dreaming of a beach hut just like in the movies, more bodies appear and the Bar-B-Chew Barn - almost a character in its own right - sets up a local Swat team to hunt him down. (Private enterprise, in the form of the Barn and an exploitative TV reporter, comes in for a fair few swipes in Vernon God Little.) He is betrayed and martyred. And all his mother can do is eat the Barn's Chik'n'Mix and pray for a side-by-side fridge (special edition, almond shade).

The ending of Vernon God Little is too good to reveal. By the time you reach it, you are likely to be in a vulnerable state, dazed by the powerful Texas twang that vibrates through the dialogue and struck dumb by Vernon's fierce longing to escape Martirio. It's a measure of Pierre's skill and cunning that, having lulled you into his world, he boots you out of it with an explosive and extravagantly satisfying finale. And it's a measure of his sly, sleazy humour that the final, clinching image is that of the cover of Time magazine, featuring, literally, crap.