Cassie Wright is at the end of her career as a porn star, and as a grand finale, she’ll break the industry record for consecutive sex acts. Six hundred men are expecting her to die in the process.

This is the premise of Chuck Palahniuk’s newest novel, released Tuesday.

Readers might be unable to reconcile the title, Snuff, with the story’s opening on the set of a relatively legitimate pornography movie. Snuff film is illegal, because it portrays the real death of a human being.

Narrator number one quickly points out that none of the characters meant to make a snuff film.

Thereafter ensues the story of the fateful day when Cassie shoots for infamy as the only woman to have performed sex acts on-camera with 600 men in a row, as seen from the eyes of four different people.

Mr. 600, Branch Bacardi, the washed-up, aging male name in porn, is coming to revamp his career with what he can only hope will be something as significant as the on-screen demise of the Marilyn Monroe of the genre.

Mr. 72, long lost son of the naked goddess, has come to have an audience with his famous mother. If she dies at the film’s end, not only will he stand to gain from huge life insurance policies, but he’ll also immediately inherit millions of dollars in revenue from the legendary legacy she’s leaving behind.

Mr. 137 has come to convince viewers — and himself — that he’s not a homosexual. The starlet’s impending death couldn’t hurt his chances at straight notoriety.

The other 597 naked men are in the green room, each of them numbered with indelible ink ranging from newcomers to burnouts and hoping to revive dying careers with appearances in the out-with-a-bang feature.

Then there’s Sheila: the bitter personal assistant with questionable motives.

The four paths intersect in the middle of the confusion and mayhem connected with large-group sex, cameras and the coyly exposed secrets behind every performer and associate.

Palahniuk, of Fight Club fame, brings to the field of crime-of-passion fiction not one, but four unique voices. The gritty subject matter implies the waterfall of sexual synonyms characteristic of the book. Page 69, for example, contains four masturbation euphemisms, a long sex toy reference and one instance of the “F” word.

Also notable are the rows of sexy silhouettes that line the endpapers. Palahniuk doesn’t ice over bedroom business either, nor does he spare the reader of about a hundred cheesy porn titles in Cassie’s portfolio.

Most readers probably can’t get past the subject material or the language. Those who can, or those who seek the book specifically for its content and style, will find a fast read, an intricately woven and beautifully cohesive piece of contemporary American literature.