The Beasts of Valhalla, by George C. Chesbro, Grafton 1986, 414pp.
A friend sent me Mr. Chesbro's obituary, and a bizarre series of mystery-thrillers featuring a dwarf detective named Mongo seemed appealing. But I did not like this book. The plot is very James Bond: Mongo starts following the mad scientists, gets caught and tortured, but with no lasting effects, and then gets away. Repeat the cycle until all the megalomaniacs, and many ancillary characters, are dead.
This would be fine it the series were very funny, but I only liked one line: "What does religious ecstasy smell like?" "Turnips." The absurd plot (devolving into a reptile) did not create much suspense, there are no women, and I disliked the incessant violence.
No more of these for me.