A new edition was released on e-book only, November 27, 2020. It adds a new story, introduction, and story notes to this previously self-published collection of linked short stories, written sporadically since 2001. It is just in time for the holidays, with an absolute must-read Christmas story.

The White Street Society is a nineteenth century men's club based in New York City, whose members ostensibly investigate supernatural occurrences. In truth, only one member, Augustus Mortimer, does the investigating (or more usually instigating) while the others support his ego, although the stories' narrator, William, plays the hapless sidekick in some adventures. I love this type of social group as a story frame, ever since the first such I read as a teenager, Stephen King's "The Breathing Method" in [b:Different Seasons|39662|Different Seasons|Stephen King|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1329662611l/39662._SY75_.jpg|2248680] and "The Man Who Would Not Shake Hands" in [b:Skeleton Crew|13440|Skeleton Crew|Stephen King|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1271861632l/13440._SY75_.jpg|1814]. The latest similar example in my own reading history is the Cannibal Club, a real-life 19th century british dinner club for social misfit aristocrats, fictionalized in [a:Mark Hodder|3222611|Mark Hodder|https://images.gr-assets.com/authors/1387553739p2/3222611.jpg]'s excellent steampunk Burton & Swinburne series; although the Cannibals were not a storytelling group, they demonstrate this type of gathering's typical drunkenness and classism.

While the Society's purpose is to investigate supernatural threats, the author's purpose is to highlight the abject racism expressed by venerated figures of the 19th century.

Our whitewashed history presented these Great (white) Men in carefully edited versions that preserved their nobility but elided their attitudes toward child labor, racial difference, inflicting violence. . . . It's an uncomfortable fact that angels and evils often resided in the same nineteenth century skin. . . . Let's not pretend that Lincoln didn't personally order carnage on a scale that would horrify most modern minds, that Roosevelt wasn't an unapologetic imperialist, and that Anthony didn't advocate views about the humanity of Black men.
The White Street Sociey stories are my tiny attempt to inject the violence, stupidity, and general horror of that era back into genre fiction.

Hoo boy, did Hendrix ever succeed at this! These are hilarious stories, packed with ridiculously extreme casual racism and other prejudice from utterly oblivious characters, Augustus Mortimer chief among them. It is so over the top that the author's explanation in the introduction is unnecessary, but since it is there, even Kai can understand that these stories use the characters' racism to illuminate the horror of these attitudes.

The story notes at the end provide excellent brief history lessons, and there is no harm in reading them before the stories themselves. Reading them first can make the stories even more enjoyable, I think.

The stories start strong and get even better as the writing-order collection progresses. The first story lampoons early American attitudes towards the Irish. The next is founded in African colonialization and Sudanese history in particular; the story notes are especially helpful here. Then, it's on to early Chinatown in New York. Second-to-last is the shining gem of them all: "The Christmas Spirits," featuring carollers, orphans, Germans, and of course, Krampus. Let's just say that Augustus Mortimer is not a fan of the season:

"That is what this time of year represents, when the city's patron saint, The dread Saint Nicholas, hies hither in his monstrous carriage drawn by ferocious reindeer: the shitting, screaming Hell beasts of Lapland. The Dutch hiss his name as Sinterklaas, and the thought of his obese form slithering into my home like a murderer in the night, stuffing my socks with foul and rotten oranges, saliva-coated nuts torn from the claws of rabid squirrels, and his own rotten piss fills me with terror, as it should you!"

This was the most uproarious and bloody Christmas story I have ever read, and I have the original [b:Lobo Paramilitary Christmas Special #1|28319347|Lobo Paramilitary Christmas Special #1|Keith Giffen|https://i.gr-assets.com/images/S/compressed.photo.goodreads.com/books/1450993247l/28319347._SY75_.jpg|41631561] AND have seen Silent Night, Deadly Night one through four. It is the best example of how goofy, crazy, and over-the-top Hendrix can get when unleashed. His humour thankfully goes way beyond the boundaries of good taste, such as when a lovely young german woman comes calling at the door to the White Street Society:

"First, allow me to bid you guten evening." She gave a charming curtsey. "I am named Greta von Hitler und vhy are you holding ein pistol?"
"Oh, pardon me!" I cried, stuffing it into my waistcoat. "What a charming name you have!"
"Ya, it is from mein fadder," she blushed. "It means 'vun who lives in der hut.'"
"That is quite handsome," I said.

I mean, WHO DOES THAT?

The last story, an alternate history tale involving President Lincoln with many choice comments about politics, is good but a mild letdown after the Christmas one.

The final benefit of this collection is vocabulary enhancement, with some choice terms that will tax your dictionary: Gallathumpians, taz, and belsnickeler are just the beginning.