Moony Adams knows seventeen ways to kill a man. Or thinks he does.

The trust fund heir can't tell if his expensive childhood training was preparation for intelligence work or just the paranoid extravagance of wealth. After his sister kills herself rather than join the family mining business, he exiles himself to Sod Hill, a golf-themed budget apartment complex in suburban Denver, and tries to become nobody.

Privilege doesn't wash off.

There's a landlord who might be an informant, a satanist in tech support, and a Romanian theater owner with money laundering schemes. And across the hall, a neighbor who has stared into the underside of a stainless steel cook pot until the creator of the universe stared back.

The God Pot is told in vignettes by a narrator who believes itself to be omniscient. It sits between The Crying of Lot 49 and The Big Lebowski, with the deadpan delivery of Nathanael West and the plain American strangeness of Winesburg, Ohio.

"Webber channels more than a bit of Pynchon in creating Moony's absurdist suburban nightmare." — Kirkus Reviews

A wry novel about inheritance, delusion, and the American myth that you can be anyone as long as you commit to the bit.

Everyone at Sod Hill is pretending to be someone. Moony is the only one who was trained for such pretending.