Wretch: or, The Unbecoming of Porcelain Khaw

LaRocca arrives with Victorian self-announcement: three Bram Stoker nods, a Splatterpunk win, and a factory line of grief-soaked body horror. The checklist is intact: grief, queer self-loathing, chat rooms as abyss, a named figure offering one last meeting with the dead, fees nonrefundable. Simeon Link, widowed by cancer, detonates his life and finds The Wretches, a club chasing faces of the dead in visual noise, then Porcelain Khaw, dealer in final encounters. LaRocca has worked this vein since "Things Have Gotten Worse Since We Last Spoke"; admirers call it focus, it reads like a subscription. “Wretch” shows more restraint, swapping shocks for atmosphere. Its best idea, reverse haunting, gives real bite. Still, it overruns its length, turns verbose, and fumbles the end. Simeon repels, Khaw is a mood, the forum sections both sharp and indulgent. Grief here is something you’re made to swallow twice. ❤️🇮🇱

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