Dungeon Crawler Carl (Dungeon Crawler Carl, #1) by Matt Dinniman 
Series: Dungeon Crawler Carl #1
Published by Ace on September 21, 2020
Genres: Fantasy
Pages: 450
Format: eBook
Source: Netgalley
I received this book for free from Netgalley in exchange for an honest review. This does not affect my opinion of the book or the content of my review.
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The apocalypse will be televised! Welcome to the first book in the wildly popular and addictive Dungeon Crawler Carl series by Matt Dinniman—now with bonus material exclusive to this print edition.
You know what’s worse than breaking up with your girlfriend? Being stuck with her prize-winning show cat. And you know what’s worse than that? An alien invasion, the destruction of all man-made structures on Earth, and the systematic exploitation of all the survivors for a sadistic intergalactic game show. That’s what.
Join Coast Guard vet Carl and his ex-girlfriend’s cat, Princess Donut, as they try to survive the end of the world—or just get to the next level—in a video game–like, trap-filled fantasy dungeon. A dungeon that’s actually the set of a reality television show with countless viewers across the galaxy. Exploding goblins. Magical potions. Deadly, drug-dealing llamas. This ain’t your ordinary game show.
Welcome, Crawler. Welcome to the Dungeon. Survival is optional. Keeping the viewers entertained is not.
Includes part one of the exclusive bonus story “Backstage at the Pineapple Cabaret.”
Who knew doomsday could be so much fun? At least for me, sorry Carl.
If you like Dungeons & Dragons, roll-playing games, video games or even simply social media, this series is right up your alley.
I received an email offering review copies of the first three books in this series and an opportunity to request the next three. Although it seemed interesting, six books are a big commitment for an unknown series. Yet, I reached out my grabby hands and I was hooked right away.
In this series, aliens have collected on their claim for the Earth. They made an offer centuries ago to a prior advanced civilization and it was time to collect and strip mine the planet. We should have read the fine print but it was written in hieroglyphics.
But the Borant Corporation only makes so much money from stealing the precious metals from a planet. They make more money with sponsorships and commercializing something called the dungeon crawl. When they take over the planet, they wipe out all those pesky structures, sending any living inhabitants running underground where they have to fight their way through mobs of NPCs to reach lower and lower levels as the stakes rise and rise. As Crawlers gain experience, they can obtain boxes filled with helpful items of magic or enforced armor, etc. to help survive to the next level. A Crawler can go it alone or are encouraged during the tutorial that survival is better if you stick with your group.
On the night of the claiming, Carl had chased his ex-girlfriend’s prize-winning cat, who decided a blizzard was the best time to try life as an outdoor cat, making Carl run into the blizzard in only his boxer shorts, crocs and a jacket. Suddenly, his building (and everything else) collapses into the ground and the only place to run for shelter are into the tunnels which suddenly appear. So their Crawler team now known as The Royal Court of Princess Donut, which consists only of Carl and Princess Donut. Donut, who gobbled up a magic treat, now talks and shoots lasers out her eyes and who has quadruple the level of charm and three times the intelligence as poor Carl.
She is now listed as a crawler instead of a pet which gives her her own drop down menus and gifts. This of course leads to some problems as Donut as a very acquisitive cat and doesn’t worry about reading the information or even the warnings first when she received each magical item, including such things as the tiara she received which makes her royalty but which will also require her to battle to the death (come level 9) since there can only be one remaining Royal member standing. Details, details.
If Carl and Princess Donut can reach the fabled Level 18, they can win the Earth back from the Syndicate. Only problem is that no one has ever made it to Level 15. Can Carl and Princess Donut save us all?
THOUGHTS:
While I don’t play video games or D&D, I certain get the concept of the different (silver/gold/platinum) level gift boxes filled with magical items which help boost health or strength.
I find myself laughing out loud and making loud “yucks” when some of the gross NPCs go squish. This first book takes us through the basics of levels 1 and 2. Carl’s Doomsday Scenario will continue with Level 3, where Carl and Donut will be allowed to select Race and Class options if they want to become more competitive. While not vicious, Carl is a bit unhinged with his ideas of how to keep himself and Donut in the game.
My biggest problem with this series is the fact that I am now committed to seeing how things go. I have a long TBR list which is going to be completely thrown off catching up on this series since I need to know what happens next at the end of each story.
So let me tell you about Donut the cat. Like I said, she’s one of those fluffy flat-faced cats that look like they need to be sitting on the lap of a Bond villain. Bea and I shared a two-bedroom apartment, and one of those rooms was dedicated to the cat if that tell you anything. More specifically, the room was devoted to Donut’s Best-in-Show ribbons, her Best-in-Breed ribbons, and countless trophies and framed photographs of her sitting on a table, looking all fuzzy and pissed off while Bea and a judge stood behind her. Bea probably had fifty of the pictures. She’d won a mess of ribbons and trophies and photographs pretty much every time Beatrice took Donut to an evet. And Bea took that damn cat to a show almost every weekend.
Her whole family was into raising and showing Persian cats. Me, I didn’t really know much about that whole cat show world. I didn’t want to get too involved. Like I said, I don’t do drama.
And let me tell you something about cat people. More specifically, cat show people.
Actually, never mind. Fuck those guys. All that’s important is Bea and Donut were a part of this whole world I didn’t want anything to do with.
I never considered myself a big fan of cats. But, if we’re being truthful here, I liked Donut. That cat did not give two shits about anybody or anything, and I could respect that. If Donut wanted to sit on my lap while I blasted away on PlayStation, then she sat on my damn lap. If I tried to pick her up, she hissed and scratched and jumped right back up there. And then she looked at me with a squinted face that said, What’re you gonna do about it?
I’d been tempted, more than once, to throttle the thing. But I’m not an asshole. Plus, I could respect the little monster’s tenacity. Some of my buddies would give me crap about it, me spending all this time with a fuzzy cat that was probably worth more than I would make in a year, but I enjoyed it. I enjoyed having that ball of fuzz sitting in my lap.
One of Beatrice’s ironclad, this-is-not-negotiable rules was no smoking in the apartment. So after our fight and breakup, I’d made a point of smoking as much as I could. I know, immature. But it was freezing outside. Donut didn’t seem to like the smoke too much, and the smell clung to her hair. So, as a compromise, I would crack the window when I smoked.
So when I woke up at about 2 a.m., having been startled awake by a dream, I decided I needed a smoke. I pulled out my pack, cracked the window, and I lit a cigarette.
Donut, who had been sleeping right next to me on the bed, decided at that every moment that she wanted to–for the first time in her feline life–go outside and explore. She jumped up on my shoulder, and she leaped out the second-story window onto the tree outside my apartment. Just like that. I’d had that window open dozens of times over the past year, and she’d never even given the window a second glance. But tonight, on the coldest night of the year, the furry asshole decided to Lewis and Clark her way out of the apartment.
She scampered down the tree, sniffed at the sidewalk a few times, and then promptly realized it was cold as fuck. Her adventure over as quickly as it began, she rushed back up the tree and stared at me over the five feet from the window to the branch. The adventure all drained out of her, Donut decided not to risk jumping back inside. So instead, she decided to start howling at the top of her lungs.
I spent the next several minutes cursing at the cat, trying to coax her back inside. I opened the window all the way, sending gales of ice-cold air in the previously toasty apartment. The fuzzy black-and-beige-and-white cat just sat there, bitching and howling so much I feared one of my neighbors might wake up and shoot her.
I’d left my boots in the dryer all the way in the building’s basement. I didn’t know where the hell my running shoes were. So, in a momentary decision I would quickly come to regret, I squeezed my feet into a pair of my ex-girlfriend’s crocs, pulled a heavy leather jacket on, and I rushed outside to grab the cat. A part of me kept saying, Screw it. It’s not your cat. Let the fucker freeze.
But, like I said, I’m not that much of asshole. As much as Beatrice deserved it, she loved that damn cat. And poor, stupid Donut wouldn’t stand a chance out here in the cold. Not for long.
Plus, again, the cat was right there, howling like someone was eating her children in front of her.
I rushed down the stairs, and I jumped outside, rushing to the tree that sat between the sidewalk and the building. I immediately regretted not taking the time to put proper clothes on. The cold, windy air sank its claws into my legs and feet.
Donut was right there, sitting on a tree just out of reach, looking between me and the open window into the apartment. She continued to howl. A light popped on in an apartment on the first floor. I groaned. Mrs. Parsons. Grumpy, I-like-to-file-a-complaint Mrs Parsons.
“Donut!” I said. “Come one, you little shit!” I held out my arms.
The cat could jump into my arms. It was something I’d trained her to do. I could shake a bag of cat treats, and she’d jump right up there. I could make a pspspsps sound, and she’d sometimes jump up on my shoulder. I cursed myself for not brining cat treats out with me.
The window one the first-floor apartment slid open. “What in god’s name is going on out here?” Mrs Parsons called, sticking her head out the window. The old woman had her head wrapped in some sort of towel, making her look like a swami. Her beady eyes focused on me. “Carl, is that you?”
“Yes, Mrs Parsons,” I said. “Sorry. My cat got out, and I’m trying to get her in before she freezes to death.”
“It looks like you’re the one who’s going to freeze…”
Mrs. Parsons never finished the sentence.
Slam.
It happened so fast.
The building smashed down to the ground. I watched it happen. The seven-story apartment building was there one moment, and then it was gone. But it hadn’t disappeared. I was looking right at Mrs. Parson when it went down. It was like the building was a massive tin can that had been crushed by a giant cosmic boot. I saw it, and heard it. Wind rushed at me, and it was instantly dark outside. The streetlamp just to my left was gone. The buildings all around me were gone. The cars one the street were gone, too.
Everything was gone except the trees and the bicycles in the bike racks, and Marjory Williams’s moped, which was still booted by parking enforcement.
I looked around, the freezing weather momentarily forgotten. In the dark, overcast night, I could barely see anything. In the distance–a distance I could now see thanks to the lack of buildings–a fire burned.
There was utter, complete silence.
“What the hell?” I said, spinning in circles.
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