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First pages


"495 Mt. Oracle," Catherine repeated.

" says we're here," said Ben.

"Well, then maybe that really is it."

Ben drove the white Lexus up and around the windy hill until an enormous gate blocked their way. A metal box scanned the QR code printed on their invitation. The gate opened. Their car began moving toward an ungodly large house.

"My foot’s on the brake," said Ben. The couple was guided all the way to a thick front door. "That's neat. It's like a treadmill." They got out, and the driveway valeted the car itself. Ben watched it and went, "wow." He held the door open for his wife.

"Oh my," she said as soon as she noticed the glass floor and what was beneath it. Water, with all sorts of fins and tentacles sticking out of it. She looked up. The sight of an ill-placed chandelier made the floor feel thinner.

Catherine went up a spiral staircase leading to a hallway with one room branching off from it. Ben followed. They entered the room and looked around. Ten other people, all dressed in elegant suits and gowns were drinking champagne and lying to each other. The room was lined with liquor cabinets and bookcases sitting on top of white carpet surrounded by red walls covered in expensive paintings with expensive frames. An unnecessarily large mahogany table stood in the center with golden chairs for each guest. Catherine seemed to have already befriended a curly haired drunk fat woman with long fake nails.

"Did you get to see the rest of the house?" asked the woman.

"Oh no, we just got here!” Catherine said.

"Well, I guess dinnah's about to be served, so I'll show you all around aftah."


Everyone stood around unsettled until a bell rang, then all twelve took their assigned seats. Compartments on the ceiling opened and steel containers were lowered. Steak, king crab, prime rib, calamari, an endless supply of the American dream came down. Once everyone was on their third plate and well wined up and coked out, the monologues began.

"In regard, unfortunately, the prices of the market entry are so substantiated by inner league business divisions, it's almost a shameful way to increase profits, yet legal and considered ethical," explained Seymour, a little man with glasses and a bowl cut, husband of the drunk lady with the long nails.

"Is there any-"

Seymour interrupted, "Transfer funds can be-"

"Is there any-"

"Product reinforcements entwine with technical relations...."

"Is there any stew?" Finally, a skeletony old man got off after being talked over several times. Everyone stopped. He asked again. Ben, who was seated next to him, told him he wasn’t sure. "Do you live here?" asked the old man.

"No," said Ben. He raised his voice, "Excuse me, who's the owner of this house?”

Everybody looked around.

"Well, didn't you read the invitation?" asked a tall gray-haired woman. "It says from C.Y."

"Alright, is C.Y. sitting at this table?"

Nobody answered. Ben got up to pour himself a drink. A Mona Lisa painting framed in gold on the hallway wall outside the dining room winked at him. He sipped his jack and coke and stepped over to it. "What the fuck..." he whispered to his glass.

His wife came over from behind, "What do you think this is all about?"

He shook his head, “I don’t know.”

A cranking noise began and something more was being lowered down from the ceiling: a giant steel tray with a giant lid. When the tray hit the table, the sitting guests laughed, at their curiosity of what could possibly be inside. What could possibly make things better? Two of the guests, a strong looking blonde-haired man named George Crisp, and Seymour, stood up to handle the removal of the lid. Catherine went to re-enter, but a solid glass wall shot down blocking the doorway. Seymour had one end, George Crisp had the other. Catherine and Ben watched through the clear barrier. The men bent down, counted to three and George lifted up his end while Seymour made a poor attempt at his. A fully grown, angry, hungry, PANTHER came blasting out and went straight for George Crisp's throat. At last, Seymour got his end up, but based off the screams and growling, decided it was best to hide under the lid.

The guests ran for the exit, but were blocked. Many hands patted on the wall until the crowd decided to make way and let the fattest of them try to ram it. George Crisp was behind them being eaten alive. Ted Ugget, a balding orange haired man, took a few nervous steps back and ran at the glass. He slammed into it, cracking it a bit. The PANTHER charged and pounced on his back and shattered them both through. She clawed into Ted's back over and over before turning her head to see Ben and Catherine making their way to the staircase.

They made it down the stairs and went for the door. Locked. The PANTHER came down, but sat docile on the last stair and stared at the couple. The chandelier fell from the ceiling and shattered the glass floor, sending Ben and Catherine down into the pool of piranhas, sharks, octopuses, a mist of projection and smoke and mirrors. They were caught by a net and suspended in the air, confused as ever, until a solid tile floor escalated from under and brought them back up. A young man in a black suit stood clapping with the PANTHER sitting by his side. The other ten guests came down the staircase, lined up, and bowed before leaving through the front door. A crew of five custodians came rushing down to sweep up the fake glass.

Ben stood up. "It's way too much," he said. "We're trying to scare people, not give them heart attacks."

"Nobody had a heart attack" said the young man.

"I almost did," said Catherine, still laying on the floor.

"It's too real. You couldn't open this to the general public," said Ben

"And I don't intend to. Aristocrats like haunted houses as much as the rest of us, but they wouldn't be caught dead standing in line at one."

"So, what makes you think they would come all the way up here?" asked Ben.

The young man smiled. "Same reason you did. Clients would customize a greeting letter, like an invitation to a party, and send it to their desired recipient. For a hefty price too."

"How much?"

"$25,000 per couple."

"How are you going to make any profit?"

"If I was worried about profit I wouldn't have had all this built."

"You're crazy. And you'd have to be crazy to want to do that to someone."

Ben walked Catherine to the car that was already on and waiting for them. The driveway sent them out the gate and on their way back down the hill. Ben went to sleep with the crazy idea bouncing around in his head.


He starts out every wakeup fighting an invisible person. Once completely drenched in sweat, he slides a glass door open to his balcony for a cigarette. He stares at the alley beneath, lined with trash and recycle cans, making what could have been sort of a relaxing view into a reminder that him and all these people are stuffed into one shit-smelling building. The sun peeked up. He ended the cigarette and took a hot shower.

Ben was dry, and ready to put his briefs on. He hated walking around thinking he smelled like wet shit all day. He swore he could smell it sometimes, but thought his nose might be playing tricks on him. He has considered getting his asshole anonymously shaved by an Asian woman, but isn’t sure where to find such discreet services. He has tried doing it himself. One day he set a towel down on the floor, and with an electric beard trimmer, went to the city on his gooch and around his thighs. Sadly, he couldn’t reach the crucial spots where the shit brushed by. He had his legs behind his head looking like he was trying to suck his own dick, trying to figure the whole thing out. He sat up, defeated, in a puddle of his own pubic hair. With a frown he wrapped the towel up along with the trimmer and threw all the evidence away. Then he shoved the showerhead up his ass. Ben hates staying in hotels, because…unless he’s in a handicapped room, there is no removable showerhead. He likes to give his ass a nice spray, and a blast with the turbo setting. If he can’t wave the head freely, he has to resort to using a cloth and he’s always embarrassed to leave a shitty towel behind for the maids, so he throws that away too, but can’t rest easy because he’s afraid the maids will notice the missing towel. The man is a living mess.


How could I possibly be naked right now? There was zero sign of danger when I walked into the office this morning. The path to the elevator was ridden with business talk and the smell of hot paper. I felt like a lone yuppie in a typical brass framed American portrait walking in between two tie wearing teams that were screaming at each other with bouncing hats. Like how high their hats bounced corresponded with the volume of their voices.

The elevator ride was filled to the brim with scum. A man next to me was blasting 80s pop music in his earbuds, another wannabe. And I think that’s why my boss doesn’t like me. I don’t do the whole hair-gel-thing and I only really look at my phone when I’m working. This firm wasn’t the best, it’s kind of one of those that a big daddy will send his son to start out at, but it was safe here. Safe from most of the chauches. But I’m getting closer to thirty-five, and I’m noticing my conversations with Ben, the fifty-something-year-old, are becoming longer. And Ben’s issues are becoming more relatable. I found myself nodding in agreement when he said, “I’ve had some pretty bad luck with underwear this year.”

A young buck walked in at the right time to hear it, and made a confused look. There seems to be a line between the young bucks, and me and Ben. Ben and I have been here for a while, so we got to know each other, work-wise at least. These young bucks come and go so fast they don’t really get a chance to get to know guys like me and Ben’s type. We’re not shy, just not so loud and confronting, we’re happy to meet you, but we don’t want to bother you. We don’t want to be those creepy old guys at the party. I don’t know, maybe Ben doesn’t think this way, but I sure do. And trust me, anything over thirty is kind of too old to not be a millionaire in my line of work, so that’s why I feel like the creepy old guy when I see these young bucks stroll in looking perfect. Seeing young bucks come and go so quickly over the years has made me feel like I’m wasting time or missing out on something bigger. Where are they off to in such a hurry? Dressed so nicely? It’s not mandatory to look like something out of a wall-street movie. When I started, being young and all done up was kind of like wearing a sign that said, “I make 2% commission.”

Broking for the Armitage firm felt the same as driving down a dead-end street. When it comes time to make the U-turn, I’m not sure where I’ll head to. I haven’t been meeting with other firms. I haven’t been sending out resumes. I haven’t been doing anything other than what I do on this dead-end street.

“David!” Mr. Jessen greeted me as I walked in.

“Morning!” I said, with scripted enthusiasm.

I took my seat and started to unpack my things. Reaching into my bag, I felt the presence of Mr. Jessen’s gut behind my shoulder blades. I put my laptop on the table, then looked back at him. He didn’t say anything. I slowly opened my laptop, which was already turned on, displaying my chart, full screen. I looked back at him again, he didn’t say anything, then walked away. Why was he making me feel like a schoolboy? I remember in high school I came in late one day, and when I went to my locker the head football coach stopped and watched me enter my combination. My locker in high school couldn’t have been plainer, especially that morning. Only the textbooks I hadn’t brought home with me sat there. But, in this instance, I didn’t look back at him for approval like I did with Mr. Jessen. I completely ignored the coach, spun my combination into the lock, opened my locker, and prepared myself for the day like there wasn’t a grown man behind me pretending to be a police officer with an imaginary K-9 at his side. Why would you stop in the middle of the hallway to stare at a kid? Then walk away as soon as he opens the locker? Why would Mr. Jessen wait to see what was on my laptop? Because I must have done something that made him…suspicious!

I wasn’t up to anything, really. Nothing that bad. I have been doing a lot of research on this whole stock market thing, and have been digging up a lot of history on the original firms. Armitage came along at a funky time. They entered the game, I think, late 1800s-ish. A time that wouldn’t allow them to be bunched in with the original firms, yet too old to be categorized with the younger ones. They started out strong, but over the years have kind of been in their own lane, under the radar, yet still somehow staying afloat. But why I’ve been doing research is because I noticed Armitage only deals with one commodity: shoes.

1882, ITALY

Armitage sat high on his horse and clicked along the stone, a sound he was guiltily pleasured by. A sound he often imitated with his own shoes. There was a woman in his sight, he tied his horse down and went walking that direction. The horse gave him a look with big tired animal eyes. “I know,” said Armitage.

He was American, somehow lost in a boat transaction and now in Italy for the next few hours, waiting. His black outfit and white skin made him stand out, if anyone asks, he’s German. But the sight of this woman…he forgot about any alliances. He walked towards her, and she looked right at him, and he stopped. He wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure if she’d understand it. He nodded his head towards her, and smiled. She smiled, and her smile slipped into a giggle. He pointed to the empty seat across from her, “Is anyone…?” he mouthed. She shook her head, and presented him with the seat. He sat…and then felt like he was waiting for directions. Where am I? Some sort of park, I guess…where people wait for boats? Why else would she be here? There was a small stone bridge that curled over a pond of lily pads and clear water. A whistling flower boy strolled by and Armitage got up, pretending like he was going to leave the girl. He gave the boy a coin for some flowers. Armitage came back to the girl, and tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around, and there were the flowers, a smile forced itself upon her face. She took the flowers and wrapped them in her arm. He grabbed her free hand and took her to the bridge. The two stood, looking down at their reflection. “What’s your name?” she asked, in decent English.

He wasn’t sure if he should say, but compromised and said, “Leon.” There was a windy pause. “And you?” he asked.

“Efya,” she said.

He held her hand a little tighter.

“Do you have horse?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. He slowly started to walk her around the park, in a circle, back to where his horse was sitting, the poor thing.

“Pretty,” said Efya, petting the white horse.

“I’d better get him Fed, might need a nap too. Know a place?”

Efya nodded.

“Will you show me?”

 Efya nodded. He helped her get on the horse and they went on their way. He was led off the stone road and onto dirt. He then thought that this was a big mistake. But her directions led to a small dark brick house with one window and a tile roof. There was a post with a bowl already full of water. He helped the girl down and let the horse drink.

“And for you?” she asked.

Armitage thought he could really go for some milk. “Do you have milk?”

Efya looked at him funny, “Of course.” She led him inside.

Someone was wearing a mask. Armitage stared out the crossed circle window, and across the street, someone was standing there with a mask on. Efya placed the glass on the red cloth covered wooden table. It sounded like she put a rock down. The glass was ice cold, and Armitage sipped it as soon as politely possible. He looked out the window again and the masked someone was gone. He hadn’t been in Italy long enough to think anything of it. He guzzled the milk. Efya sat across from him with a glass of water, then noticed Armitage’s empty glass and got back up. She filled him up.

“Oh, thank you,” he said.

Efya sat back down. “You’re American?” she asked.

He looked down, “German.”

She smiled. She knew, but didn’t care, she was a bit intrigued.

“I should feed my horse.” He went outside and opened his satchel full of oats and fed the horse handfuls at a time. He looked around for the mask, but saw no one. He thought about the boat, and when it was leaving. If he left right this second, he’d barely make it. Then he thought about just staying here, with Efya maybe. He had enough coin to. He went back inside. “Would you like to come to America?” he asked.

She laughed. “What?”

“I’m taking a boat to California.”

She barely thought about it, then said, “Yes.”

“We have to hurry.”

She got a small bag together and hopped on his horse. He sped all the way back down the dirt road onto the stones and towards the dock. They made it just in time. As the boat set sail, Armitage looked out from the upper deck and saw the person in the mask.

The other agents all had wicked smiles as they saw Armitage come on board with his new gal. They cornered him, and beat him, and raped her, and slashed her face, and Armitage got what was left of her only when they landed in San Francisco. But he still loved her. When they finally saw each other again she gave a fake smile and Armitage burst into tears. The other men rode by on their horses, laughing, on their way back to their wives who probably had a warm dinner and a kiss for their innocent return.

Armitage and Efya married as soon as they could. They had a son, and named him Leon. Efya sat on a rocking chair, with baby Leon on her lap, rocking back and forth. She thought about how fast everything changed for her. One day she was minding her own business, and some American man swayed her with flowers and good looks and clothes to move in with him, and now she was the mother of his child. She could have been back home, still young, single, a virgin, free, but instead she was in America with a giant scar on her face. The reality killed her, and it drove Armitage insane. At this point, Armitage was only with her because he felt he had to. Efya sensed this, and became very sick. She could barely walk, and barely had the strength to feed herself. Leon grew up taking care of his mother, and Armitage paid the expenses, but was rarely around. Leon helped, while a house nurse did the technical stuff. Armitage really just wanted the bitch to die, but she wouldn’t. She held on for about twelve years. At her death bed, she looked at Armitage and with all her strength she said, “Give Leon my things,” then died.

Leon looked through his mother’s things. Nothing but old perfumes and some jewelry. He could sell the jewelry, but didn’t really need the money. And he wasn’t sure that’d even be the right thing to do. He saw a purple bag tied at the top by a string. He thought some coins might be in it. But when he picked it up, it felt like something sandy, or rocky was inside. He untied the bag. Seeds. Boring. He tied it back up and took the jewels and seeds to his room. He liked the bag.

Years went by and he never sold the jewelry, maybe he would give them to his own wife someday. As for the seeds, he kept those safe in his nightstand drawer. Armitage remarried as soon as he could, and was around more for Leon’s teenage years. They got along fine, Leon liked his school, had many friends, and everything was fine. It was a Saturday, and Leon had asked if he could walk to the park himself to meet with a friend. His father said yes, but reminded his son to lock all the doors of the house. Leon woke up that morning, freshened up, got dressed and left the house without locking a single door or window. He didn’t realize it until he was halfway to the park, the point of no return. He always forgot to lock up, and it was never a big deal. Nothing ever happened in their quiet neighborhood. Dad just wants to teach me to follow up on orders, he thought.

Leon returned to a house that looked like it was injected with a tornado. All the pictures were torn off the walls, radios gone, plates out of the cabinets, Leon rushed upstairs to his room. He panicked and looked all over. His baseball cards gone, marbles gone, and his mother’s jewelry…gone. His mother’s seeds, gone. They must have liked the bag too. When his father came home he was furious, but relieved they didn’t find the safe full of gold. His son almost never does anything wrong, and it really wasn’t his fault some lowlifes decided to rob the house. By the way they trashed the house, they would have gotten inside anyways, regardless of how locked all the doors could have been. The police were there talking to Armitage. Leon sat in his room looking out the window. Down past the driveway, in his neighbor’s yard by a tall tree stood a figure wearing a big mask, staring at him. The mask was wooden and painted with big black eyes and a red frown. Leon rushed downstairs to where his father was talking to the police. When he got there, the figure was gone, and he decided not to bother saying anything about it.

123 Years Later: 2018

“Oh yeah,” the man looked through the magnifier with a big old eye. “It’s a diamond, alright,” he said, with his fluffy white mustache. Antonio stood on the other side of the glass counter. Under him were pagers, beepers, Zippos, watches, you name it. DeCarlo Pawn had it all. Antonio’s brown boots gripped the pukey brown carpet, his tight jeans looked strapped at the ankles, he had the scratchy taste of barbershop M&Ms in his mouth, and his neck itched. “Where’d ya get these?” Old Henri asked. Antonio’s eyed widened briefly, ‘til he thought of something. “My mothuh’ passed away,” in a fake, exaggerated Italian accent. “Oh. Sorry to hear.” Henri felt bad. Antonio gave a half smile and nodded. His mother was alive and well, he never liked using the dead mother lie, to him it felt like walking under a ladder or breaking a mirror. He believed in all that stuff. Antonio carried guilt all around and felt like something was always about to catch back up with him. If only he could remember, he would be clear of this guilty conscience. Henri handed over $400 for the jewelry, more than Antonio was expecting. He was so happy walking, he accidentally started skipping, and stopped himself before he ran into anybody he knew. He ducked into a payphone and dialed the number to his best guy. It was time for an eight ball.

Under a dark streetlit rain, his green Volvo’s wheels scrolled slimily beside a meter and came to a halt. His door clicked open and he started walking with a newspaper over his head. The guy lived above O’Grady’s, so Antonio stopped in for a drink...he was early.

I make sure the bad things happen!

Antonio was sitting at the corner of the bar, the seats next to him empty. A man with a yellow rain coat walked in. At first, Antonio thought he was looking at a giant walking banana. It was relieving to find out it was just an old man drinking Genesee…no, not Guinness. He made eye contact with him, and they both nodded at each other. The dry peanut air was dizzying. Eventually the door opened, it was the guy. He waved to O’Grady and took Antonio upstairs. Antonio hadn’t consumed enough alcohol yet to have a functional conversation with anyone, he wanted his drugs and he wanted to get out. He was just going through the motions. Sometimes when he stopped and thought about what he was doing every weekend he just got sad and felt like a dart hit his chest. He would need all the drugs in the world to feel okay. He left and got back to his car, noticing he forgot to shut his door. When he got in the driver’s seat and shut himself in he thought of tinfoil for some reason. He also thought about crying and driving his car off a cliff. But he went home instead. He lined some things up for himself and went to sniffing. The eyes were red and now he wanted to walk around, he kind of even wanted to talk to people, maybe. Just a man, sitting on his dirty couch, watching TV, alone, like every identical Saturday. What to do? He was already wondering about what would happen when he ran out of cocaine. Run for president? Mayor? Senate? Judge? Pope? Can you run for pope? No, of course not. The pope is chosen by God. How do I get God to choose me? God! I am your soldier! The ramblings and dead-end thoughts…he was like a dog with his tongue out chasing himself around the house. He would sure scratch his eyes out soon if he didn’t get a hold of some woman or thing to take him out to the ballgame. Ughhh if I just had the money I’d be her everything and she’d fuck me and this whole problem would be solved! Why do I have to lead this life? Carry this weight? Escort this cross? The meek shall inherit, but I don’t exactly feel meek. Did you choose me or not, God? Antonio, obviously a loon, wasn’t so happy about his spot in life. He wanted cars and boats and drugs, maybe some big guns too, and big butts, definitely some big butts. He had fallen into deep sleeps many times as a young student dreaming of big breasted women spoon-feeding macaroni and cheese to him…the happy look on his face when he imagines them unzipping his—the bell always rings before it goes any further. And he wakes up at the end of another missed lecture, then walks through the halls with the smell of drool lingering on his cheek. He stares at any tight pants or cleavage until it’s time to sleep again.

Unfortunately for everyone else, Antonio never lost sight of his fantasy, and is a freak amongst the world because of it. He woke up at noon feeling useless…helpless…that sharp dart reappeared in his chest. And if he had a loaded gun there’s no doubt he would blow his head off right here. The pain started to simmer, he took a deep breath and went out to the porch to smoke. Kids rode by on their bikes while leaves fell into the street. The sky was cloudy, good for the eyes. Yesterday’s mail was still in the mailbox, Antonio looked through it, nothing but junk, coupons, bank statements, and free tickets to some vineyard tour. He dropped the stack of it all at his feet, he didn’t care, he just wanted to finish his cigarette. An old man with a mini American flag on his electric wheelchair sped by, leaving a trail of Neil Young and Marlboro smoke. ♪Rock and roll can neverrr die! This cheered Antonio up a bit, he went back inside, greeted by loud colorful commercials, then the cartoons were back on. Or should I be responsible and watch the news? He debated. He felt guilty for some reason, like he owed someone something. What is it now? Can’t the world just leave me alone? Little did he know, it wasn’t the world that was bothering him, the world could care less if he wanted to watch cartoons or the news, according to the world they’re the same thing; either way, you’re sitting down looking at a screen. At least you’re not peeing on somebody. Is that it? Is all I have to do is not pee on anybody? He shook that thought off his head, then got up and walked mindlessly to the fridge. He cracked open a beer, but hesitated to sip it. Do I even want this right now? Is this muscle memory? Oh well…he sipped it and returned to his safe couch. Okay, you can’t have both. He changed the channel to something more mature now that there was a beer in the equation. 60 killed last night at a pop concert. The singer was on screen, crying, showing fake despair for all the victims and their families. Someone rigged themselves with explosives and even managed to sneak in a small automatic pistol and a knife. At first, he started stabbing people, then when the crowd caught on, started shooting, then gave up and blew himself up. 60 dead. Over 500 injured. This was the news, this is what all the adults were watching. Mass murder, drama, and fashion tips. A soldier in a suit was telling Antonio and the rest of America what to do, “in case they got shot.” Antonio listened carefully. Suddenly, the guilt wore down, and Antonio started to feel proud of who he was. I’m not bad after all! Wait, why should I care this time? Doesn’t this happen often? Didn’t like 30 people die in a nightclub shooting two months ago? Oh, never mind, I forgot, they were all gay. But this time...this time was different. These were Americans! The TV showed shaky cellphone videos from the venue, people running, chaos, loudness, lots of screaming, and lots of blood. Antonio dropped the remote, when he picked it up he accidentally paused the TV. I could use a break anyway. But he noticed something on the frozen picture that disturbed him. Standing clearly still in the middle of all these running panickers, stood a calm figure wearing a mask. He didn’t think much of it, and hit play again. Who was the coward responsible for this? I gotta see what this fucker looks like. They showed a picture of the killer…it was him! Antonio Davis, 28 years old, unemployed, dropout, no girlfriend, etc. Antonio’s jaw was to the floor. “But I’m here! I’m right here!” he shouted at the TV. The worst feeling had struck him. If it was me then why am I not dead? He started slapping himself around. Nope, still alive, definitely alive. He turned the TV off, but noticed something even scarier in the dark reflection. He slowly crept towards the screen, then ran for the bathroom. He looked in the mirror. His face was completely changed. No longer did he have his father’s nose and big brown eyes, instead, green eyes and a significantly smaller nose, pointier chin, dimples…he was a completely different person. The first question he had was, “who the hell am I?” Then it occurred to him, he had to get the fuck out of there before a bunch of people started showing up to his house. He scrambled a bag together and ran out to his car. A local news van was already outside. A reporter said something to him, but he quickly got in his car and sped away. All he had on him was $200, the rest of that eight ball, and whatever useless things he threw into that bag. I’m fucked. I’m completely fucked. But why? With a new face, I could start a whole new life! Nobody will know me. But…he thought of something else. He pulled his wallet from his pocket and looked at his ID. Antonio Vincent Davis. What am I gonna do with this? And my plates? If a cop gets behind me he’ll run my plates, and see that this car belongs to Antonio Davis, the dead guy. He drove in an aimless panic, until deciding to pull into a library just to breathe and try to make some sense out of this whole thing. He got out and walked around. Is this what it’s gonna be like from now on? Just me, walking around, with a new face and no name? On file I’m a dead mass murderer, in the flesh I’m a green-eyed man with a couple grams of cocaine in his pocket. So is this just my life now? Wandering around like a ghost until I run out of money…which is bound to be soon. More terrifying thoughts occurred to him, who does this face belong to? And what have they done? So many questions.


About me

Andro Juzak is a robot.

Q. Is there a message in your book that you want readers to grasp?
Q. Tell us about the cover and the inspiration for it.
It got stretched out.
Q. Where can readers find out more about you?
Run a virus scan.