In David Brandt’s Jacob’s Bully, justice doesn’t wear a badge—it wears a butcher’s apron and hides behind mirrored sunglasses. Daniel, the enigmatic figure at the heart of the novel’s most haunting moments, is neither a traditional hero nor an unambiguous villain. He’s a man with a past, a blade, and a code. But the question that echoes long after the last chapter isn’t about what he does—it’s whether what he does is right.
This is a novel that offers no comfort. Jacob’s Bully is a raw, unfiltered thriller where a bullied teen nearly loses his life, not just from the fists of his tormentors but from the failures of every adult who should have intervened. And it’s Daniel, a quiet food vendor with a surgically precise sense of justice, who ultimately steps into the moral void. But is he a monster with a cause—or a savior with blood on his hands?
Daniel is a man shaped by violence. His behavior is calculated, detached, and often chilling. He doesn’t lash out in rage. He watches. He waits. He decides. When Jacob is left broken in a ditch—impaled and nearly dead—Daniel becomes the only adult to act decisively. And yet, his hesitation before returning to help Jacob reveals the murky waters he swims in. His choice to leave, even momentarily, isn’t born of cowardice. It’s a cold evaluation of risk. That pause alone is enough to ask: what kind of man thinks like that?
Brandt masterfully paints Daniel not as a caricature of evil or righteousness but as a deeply damaged person with his own moral compass. He is not driven by empathy in the traditional sense; he’s driven by a need to correct wrongs in ways that make sense to him—even if the law doesn’t agree. When Daniel confronts Jacob’s tormentors, his calm demeanor and veiled threats are far more terrifying than open violence. He doesn’t just want to punish. He wants them to know why. That’s where the monster—and the morality—collide.
In today’s culture, anti-heroes are everywhere. From Dexter to Batman, we’ve been conditioned to accept that good ends might justify dark means. But Jacob’s Bully complicates that narrative by anchoring it in something disturbingly real. The bullying is brutal. The failures of adults are infuriating. The violence, when it comes, feels earned—but never celebratory. It’s Daniel’s restraint that makes his actions even more unnerving. He doesn’t kill for thrill. He acts when he believes the world has failed.
Can monsters have morals? Jacob’s Bully doesn’t answer the question—it dares you to wrestle with it. Daniel’s brand of justice is surgical and solitary. He isn’t looking for glory. He’s not saving the world. He’s doing what he believes must be done because no one else will. And in doing so, he forces readers to confront an uncomfortable truth: sometimes, the system doesn’t work. And sometimes, those outside it are the only ones willing to get their hands dirty.
But that doesn’t make it right.
That’s the brilliance of Brandt’s writing. He doesn’t let the reader off the hook. We are complicit in our desire to see Jacob avenged. We feel satisfaction when Daniel stares down the bullies. We breathe easier knowing someone stepped in. But we’re left to wonder—what did it cost?
Jacob’s Bully is more than a thriller. It’s a psychological autopsy of morality under pressure. Through Daniel, Brandt constructs a character who is both protector and predator. A man who does what others won’t—and makes us question if we’re glad he did.
So, can monsters have morals?
Maybe the better question is: if they do… are we ready to live with what that means?