Tuesday, Aug. 9, 4:46 a.m. Paused near the end of a dead end alley, Jimmy Cain stood five minutes away from the last violent line of the last desperate chapter in his brief, miserable existence on earth.

Unlike the thousands of prisoners condemned to death by the state, the short, pudgy, dark-skinned, tangle-haired young fugitive didn’t know when or where he would die. He did not know that he was deciding those things himself by his choice of when and where to run. He did know that the odds were against him.

He stood as still as his shaky legs would let him with his back against a tall, wooden fence, his progress frozen by the sound of gravel crunching beneath his tattered sneakers. He hadn’t counted on that sound or any of the other sounds he heard carrying as crisply as they did in the night like audio beacons marking their point of origin.

A wind-blown scrap of paper slapped against the far side of the twelve-foot chain-link fence that cut off the dimly lit ally from the unlit side street. He caught his breath, his dark brown eyes going directly to the waist high spot where it hit. Cold sweat leaked from every pour in his body and he feared that even the sound of his ragged, rapid breathing would betray him.

He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head like a wet dog trying to fling away the excess moisture from its fur. He didn’t know where the idea came from to literally shake away some of his fear in that way or why he thought it might work. But it did. He heard all of the sounds he heard before and some he hadn’t. Only this time they didn’t intimidate him.

Shag Man’s people would be watching for him everywhere but here. As a weak, blubbery, uncoordinated new kid on the block, his inability to get over that fence with his trim, strong and agile cohorts was a joke. In the senior association of criminals that his junior association of delinquents grew into it was still a joke. No, he hadn’t ever made it over that fence. That didn’t mean he couldn’t if he wanted to badly enough. He always believed that he could. If there was ever a time to put that belief to the test, this was it.

Jimmy Cain took a long look behind him down the ally, then squared himself to the fence and leaped as high as he could....

This was the stuff of network telewindow entertainment for which a shockingly bright and beautiful time track programmer named Mina Foski was acquiring an enviable reputation among her peers. It was real and pregnant with a litter of exciting possibilities. In her control room at work she would have spied the potential in a scene like that, teased it apart and rewove it into the fabric of stories that millions of people would pay to watch. Of course, the boy’s race would have to be edited to make him more appealing to a wider audience of affluent telewindow viewers. Any telewindow-computer programmer could do that.

Unfortunately for the mahogany-skinned woman with the sapphire eyes and raven black hair who could manipulate such events on disk from her office several miles away, she wasn’t in her office. She was in her car. Two blocks away. Two short blocks and a world.

She was about to become a player in the unfolding drama, to be manipulated by forces as unknowable to her as she was to the computerized three dimensional subjects of her telewindow programming genius. She was driving into a storm of actions and reactions that would make her extraordinary intellectual prowess as useless to her as a prizefighter’s fists against a hurricane.

Mina grumbled to herself and steered her shiny new Lexus with its Black Glass canopy to a stop at the curb of a dark, deserted street.

Her only companion was the voice of National Public Radio commentator Corey Becket coming though the receivers implanted in purple swan earrings. He always seemed to know where he was. ¨...The incredible thing about these liberals is their fuzzy-headed insistence that the government can spend your hard-earned money better than you can.¨ Yeah, Becket was on familiar American Party turf.

Mina was lost. The audio component of her Pathfinder system had suddenly stopped working so she couldn’t ask it where she was and the system couldn’t tell her. She was having a hard time orienting herself to the flashing rectangle on the windshield’s message center map which was supposed to represent her car and the rooftop that was supposed to be her sister’s house. Her bladder was crying for release.

She may not have really had to go, but fear always made her think she did. Though she was loath to admit it, she frightened easily and often found herself trying to break out of a vicious circle; the greater the fear, the greater the urge, the greater the urge, the greater the fear. Anger helped but it was hardly a cure. She suffered in silence and secretly planed her every waking and sleeping moment around quick access to a toilet.

¨Damn it Viv,¨ she said out loud, as if her sister Vivian could hear her, ¨Why don’t you answer the call­or get a damn message recorder like everybody else?¨ Damn and hell were the strongest expletives in her speaking vocabulary. She used them only when she reasoned that she had good cause to be upset. Now seemed like a damn good time.

She didn’t have to know exactly where she was to know it was a dangerous place, the kind of place where rape, robbery and murder were likely to be common forms of recreation. The ancient, unlit street lamps and littered, overgrown lots sandwiched between broken down dwellings with their own garbage-strewn weed-lawns told the tale well enough. It was a place of overwhelming desperation, where only people desperate for any place to live would dare to live and desperate people with guns would dare anything for a taste of ¨Elation.¨

Street crime abounded in neighborhoods like this for reasons that were once the subject of hot debate between conservatives and liberals. Now that conservatism and liberalism had given way to ¨realism,¨ as Republicans and Democrats had given way to ¨Americans,¨ conventional wisdom held that the cause of crime was criminals, period. The way to deal with it was to dispose of them, permanently, and to let them dispose of each other. That’s what Becket was talking about now.

Mina never quibbled with his diagnosis of the disease called crime or the American Party’s remedy, until the neighborhood bordering her sister’s began to resemble a disposal zone in the making. She was on her way to confront Vivian face to face about her stubborn refusal to move when she ended up somewhere inside of one. It was all Vivian’s fault and Mina was going to tell her about it when she got to the house. If she got there.

She did a slow sweep of the area with her naked eyes before deciding that the clear, starry night wasn’t clear and starry enough to suit her needs. Although it was impossible for anyone to see into the cab of the car through the exotic one way material called Black Glass, the car itself was certain to be a target of thieves or vandals if the wrong people happened by. On this street, there were bound to be some of those wrong people and there was no telling when they would happen by.

Becket laughed, ¨Remember ‘publicly’ financed education? What a stupid waste of money that was. The parents who weren’t putting their money into the education of their children thought they were getting something for nothing. So did their children. No wonder the drop-out rate for those people was so high. You don’t value what you don’t earn or pay for yourself. That’s human nature. This Democrat/Republican bill in the House is nothing more than ‘public education’ revisited....¨

Mina pushed a button on her console. A door slid back. A metal-like plastic box rose to the surface and unfolded itself into a neat shallow tray.

Among the items at her fingertips was a form-fitting set of Daylights with finely contoured lenses that cast a faint purple glow. She pressed the skin-hugging glasses to her face and switched off the headlights of her car. She could now see everything in sight as well as she could have done on a bright, sunny day. The only difference was a faint purple halo that surrounded her field of vision.

If the lenses had been another color, the halo would have taken on that hue. Most people didn’t mind that minor imperfection. Some liked it. Mina found it irritating. So irritating that under normal circumstances she could stand to look through them for only short periods of time. Under the prevailing circumstances, the halo effect didn’t bother her at all.

A second scan of the area revealed no more lurking dangers than the first one and the urgent need to urinate went away.

¨Self-reliance,¨ said Becket, ¨can’t be learned by people living in a dependent state. As much as the Democrat/Republicans­or should I just say, liberals­as much as they try to read some kind of racist message into that simple statement of fact, it’s still a statement of fact. Reality folks! Reality. The reason they can no longer make one majority party out of both of those outdated parties combined is because they don’t know what reality is, and you, the voter­you do.¨

Mina pressed the button that turned the tray back into a box within the console and spoke aloud in different voices as though sparring with her sister.

¨But Mina,¨ she said, with a pouty face and a child-like whine, ¨I just moved in. I got a good deal on the house and I like it here.¨

For her answer to her sister’s oft’ spoken justification for staying put, Mina assumed her own voce and the wise but stern expression of a  concerned parent trying to talk sense to an obstinate teenager set on a course of  self destruction. ¨Has it occurred to you that you got such a good deal because the property values in the entire neighborhood were going down like the Titanic?¨

¨But Mina,¨ she said in the same, whiny caricature of her sister’s voice, ¨It’s the principle of the thing. People like us with brains and education and a willingness to work, can’t abandon the poor unfortunates who don’t have those things. We have to try to make things better. We just have to.¨

In the safe atmosphere of her suburban apartment or Vivian’s old house where they’d had this argument before, that parody of her sister would have sounded telling and funny. It was telling but not in the way she had intended. In these surroundings it wasn’t funny.

And Corey Becket’s reality no longer sounded as real.

¨If those parents wanted to educate their children,¨ he said, ¨they’d find the money to do it. They find the money for sugar, tobacco and alcohol, don’t they? And expensive shoes and cars—have you seen the cars that some of those people drive?. But that doesn’t let their teen-age kids off the hook. They can pay for their own educations with honest work­and they don’t have to wait for somebody to give them a job. If they’re old enough to sell narcotics illegally, they’re old enough to sell their bicycles and computer games and buy a cheap lawn mower or a ladder, a paint brush and some paint...¨

Mina turned off the radio with a pinch of the purple swan on her left earlobe.

She was sure that some of the people who got the same good start in life that she had would have made something of themselves even if they had started in a place like this. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine being one of them. The sudden hole in her imagination gave her an odd sensation in the pit of her stomach that she didn’t like. She couldn’t classify it or dismiss it and she couldn’t go back to her original train of thought. In her real debates with Vivian, she always won. For the first time, she understood why. It was because her objective was to win. Vivian’s objective was to communicate. Mina’s big sister never had a chance.

Mina concentrated on the message center map.

Thump! Thump! Thump!

At the sound of rapping on the side of the glass, Mina whipped her head around to see a drooling old white man with an old Army bush hat, a scruffy gray beard and bloodshot eyes. Her mouth opened in a scream that didn’t make it out of her throat—and her bladder gushed its warm, wet contents into her panties.

The fact that the man outside couldn’t get at her or even see into the cab had nothing to do with the automatic responses of her nervous system to his sudden appearance. She threw the car in gear and floored the accelerator with her vision obscured by the mental picture of a slobbering old degenerate sizing her up for unspeakable crimes against her person. But her well disciplined mind was already beginning to assert itself, to come out of hiding to analyze what happened from a more rational perspective. And to tell her that her pants were wet.

Her foot came off of the accelerator pedal. ¨Damn!¨

Nothing that anyone could have done to her at that moment would have been as bad as the humiliation of realizing what she’d done to herself. It could have been worse, only if someone else had been there to see it, like the children in her second grade homeroom who’d witnessed a similar ¨accident¨ twenty years before. She had never forgiven John Bajoric for waving that monster mask in front of her face at the climax of Mrs. Howlet’s scary Halloween story. She had never fully recovered from it, either.

Without stopping, Mina raked up her skirt, hooked a thumb under the waistband of the soaking panties, wiggled out of them, and tossed them onto the passenger side floor mat.

She cursed her penny-pinching lack of foresight in foregoing the incinerator option on her car. It would have reduced the soggy evidence of her shame to a quarter-gram of white ash in a shielded blue flash. Now she was faced with the prospect of riding around with it or tossing it out of the window. The trashy streets were deserted for as far as she could see and one more carelessly discarded item would not have made much difference. But it would have been a difference that she was not prepared to be responsible for.

She looked for a commercial service access alley, one that was open on both ends with dumpsters that sometimes got picked up by private contractors.

The first alley she came to was blocked on both sides of the street by a high, chain-link fence attached to vertical steel beams less than a foot apart. She kept going and saw that the next one was clear on both sides. She switched off her lights and coasted into the nearest gap with a sharp eye out for would-be attackers as well as a place to dump her soiled panties and the tissues she would use to clean up with.

For added security, she dialed up the outside noise level on her instrument panel and flipped down the telescopic visor to see if there was an outlet ahead. She could see all the way to the end of the alley as well as she would have if she’d been standing there. The exit was clear.

She was startled at first by the sight and sound of someone trying to scale a fence that blocked the ally on the other side of the street. But she quickly realized that he was no threat to her and couldn’t have possibly known that she was there. She spied an open dumpster, as she knew she would, in a service access alley. She stopped beside it, lowered her window and tossed the sodden panties inside.

Never would she have guessed that it was possible to find herself in a dark alley of a disposal zone at night and feel relief at being there. But that’s where she was and what she felt....

When she was cleaned up and ready to go, it amused her to see the same poor soul still struggling to get over the fence. She would have laughed if she hadn’t been brought up short by a booming male voice...

¨Where you goin’ boy!¨

The exclamation point punctuating the bone chilling question wasn’t lost on its intended victim. It was an order for the chubby black boy hanging on the fence to drop to the ground or to be dropped by a bullet.

Jimmy Cain dropped to the ground. Slowly, he turned toward the voice, not wanting to provoke a sudden deadly reaction to a sudden movement. His lower lip trembled and his body shuddered uncontrollably like a naked man trapped in a frozen meat locker.

Six shadowy figures advanced toward him from the entrance of the narrow, dead end passageway, sounding his death nil with each gravel crunching step. The glowing lenses of their Daylights gave them the supernatural appearance of giant, yellow-eyed wolves walking upright on their hind legs.

The closer they got the more human they looked, but no less terrifying because of it. They wore dark red business suits, the only suits they owned. The color was so dark that Jimmy could barely distinguish it from the black accessories. The stylish metallic trim on their sporty black caps, dull black shoes and pistol vests glistened, as did the heavy, thick-barreled, Exline plastic pistol they each carried down at their sides.

Jimmy knew from experience that they dressed this way for only one reason. They were literally dressed to kill.

The yellow halo framing the pudgy black youth seemed eerily appropriate to the slim, tan-skinned, middle-aged pack leader. To him, the boy was a hero and a saint. It was too bad that he had to suffer the way he was going to before he arrived in paradise. Thy will be done, he thought, as he brought his predators to a stop within lunging distance of their prey, but he said­in perfect black English, ¨I axed you a question, Jimmy. Where you goin’?¨

Jimmy’s eyes darted from one gun barrel to another as he fell against the fence. The question that wasn’t a question was now a question he couldn’t answer. Even if he had the right words, his early upbringing in Canada kept him from saying them with the right dialect.

He didn’t have an ear for language so he never got a handle on the basics, like when to say ¨dem¨ instead of ¨them,¨ when to drop the ¨er¨ from which words and replace it with ¨a,¨ or how to handle the verb ¨to be.¨ To people in the burbs who talked like telewindow news reporters, his use of the language would have served him well. But the folks in the urbs that he had to deal with every day rarely got past the haughty sound of that brand of English to hear anything but disdain for their own linguistic conventions. The judge and jurors standing before him were no exceptions. Still, he had to say something.

¨I... I wasn’t... Hey, Shag Man, you know I wouldn’t... I mean...¨

A husky younger voice in the pack called out, ¨What the fuck do you mean, you little blubba-butt nigga!¨

Three of the other boys laughed uproariously.

Shag Man shot them a silencing look that burned straight through his Daylights and into the marrow of their bones. This was a sad occasion. A fine young man would be losing his dignity and his life soon enough. But to everything there is a season, and the time had not yet come for that. The first order of business was to get the pertinent facts on record, to lay out in words what could never be surmised by action alone.

¨You know,¨ said Shag Man, like a banker telling a bad credit risk why his loan application had been turned down, ¨We cain’t be havin’ non a dis irresponsible behavior. You got people countin’ on you to be where you sposed’ta be, when you sposed’ta be dare, doin’ what you sposed’ta do. If you had’a done yo job, this here trial wouldn’t be necessary. And if you wasn’t guilty you wouldn’a tried ta run.¨

¨Truth!¨ chanted the boys, with a short ritualistic thrust of their empty fists toward the rapidly crumbling Jimmy Cain. ¨Truth! Truth! Truth!¨ With each rhythmic repetition of the word, he sank closer and closer to the ground until his knees were resting on gravel. ¨I can’t sell that stuff any more!¨ he wailed, ¨I can’t do it! I can’t do it!¨

Shag Man cut off the chant with a wave of his gun hand and addressed himself to Jimmy. ¨You repeatin’ yoself boy without sayin’ nothin’. All you got to do is stand on a corner when somebody tell you to go dare and wait fa the customer ta come ta you. You ain’t sellin’; they buyin’. You just givin’em what they want an they givin’ us what we need to survive. I know you wasn’t born in the urbs like we was but you been livin’ here long enough ta know dat.¨

¨But it’s not like that,¨ said Jimmy, realizing too late that he should have said, ¨it ain’t,¨ instead of, ¨it’s not.¨ ¨Elation ain’t nothin’ but Calvera cocaine! People don’t know what they’re dealing with until it’s out of their control. It only takes one time­one time! Then it’s like food and water. They have to have it. They can’t live without it. And then­¨

Shag Man molded his face into a mask of disgust and showed it to his followers, silently giving them permission to speak. They hesitated, each boy trying to judge whether the others had read the message the same way.

¨Shit,¨ ventured the tall, long-faced boy with the wide flat nose who had laughed the loudest at the other boy’s cruel jest. ¨A lack’a Elation ain’t neva kilt nobody. I told y’all this muthafucka was crazy, didn’t I?¨

¨Yeah,¨ said the jester, a dark-skinned bruiser with a large square head beneath his long, flat cap. ¨What the fuck is cocaine? Ain’t nobody but dis faggot even heard’a no shit like dat. I bet he made it up.¨

¨I heard of it,¨ said the medium sized boy with the medium brown complexion and nondescript face who hadn’t been amused by the big, black, square-headed jester’s opening remarks. ¨Cocaine is what the Guido Calvera war was about.¨

¨I don’t believe dis shit,¨ shouted a handsome, honey-skinned boy. ¨That was twenty fuckin’ years ago an nobody knows what that shit was about. Besides, it ain’t got nut’n ta do wit business. We got our own war we fightin’ right now! And if we don’t stick together we all gonna die.¨

An overlapping chorus of one, ¨Yeah!¨ and two clenched fist, ¨Truth!¨ jabs pointed in Jimmy’s direction, briefly interrupted the boy’s inspired dissertation.

He went on, his gun-hand twitching noticeably as he spit out the words, ¨We got niggas and whiggers comin’ at us from everywhere. They rapin’ our women, burnin’, stealin’, fuckin’ up our property—and killing us. An we doin’ the same thang back’ta dem only worse and firs’ if we can...¨

Another boy with a strong family resemblance to the honey-skinned twitcher, took over where he left off, ¨Cause we ain’t got no choice! The only thang keepin’ us alive is The Company. The only thang keepin’ The Company alive’ is Elation. An it’s jus’ like Shag Man say, we ain’t sellin’ da shit; day buyin’ it—dem white muthafuckas from the burbs. An’ if day don’t buy from us, day goan buy from somebody else. An’ if day do dat, we fucked! Dis here toasty know all’a dat! He been knowin’ it! He ain’t got no excuses!¨

¨Yeah,¨ said the tall boy, ¨I say this trial is ova! This burb-talkin’, fat-ass, faggot muthafucka is guilty!¨ He raised his gun to Jimmy’s head and three other boys immediately followed suit.

Jimmy Cain slammed his eyelids shut, his sweat-popping face contorted in terror as his vocal cords emitted an involuntary, siren-like cry.

Shag Man looked at the boy who had not raised his weapon, the boy who had not laughed or gestured or given a speech in ridicule or condemnation of Jimmy Cain, the only one besides Jimmy who had ever heard of cocaine. It was hard to tell what he was thinking without being able to see his eyes but Shag Man knew all of the key players in his organization well enough to take a good guess. ¨What do you say, Jesse?¨

All eyes, including Jimmy’s turned respectfully toward the youth, whose necklace, bearing eleven miniature skulls, said all that needed to be said about his stomach for killing. His head turned slowly toward the honey-skinned twitcher, his near twin, the tall boy and then at the hulking jester. An evil-looking smile crept across his lips as Jimmy’s long, continuous cry turned into short, intermittent whimpers. ¨Everybody dies. That don’t mean nothin’. We should do somethin’ to this faggot that mean somethin’.¨

The jester’s eyes brightened and he laughed, ¨Remember what we did to that east side punk. The one with the big boody?¨

¨What you did, Horse,¨ corrected the twitcher with a grudging smile.

Y’all was the ones dat took off his pants an held’em down.¨ said the jester, ¨I jus’ showed’em why day call me Horse.¨

Everybody laughed at that, including Jesse, who had so cleverly maneuvered Shag Man’s hand picked assassins into sparing his friend’s life. Since none of them could see more than one step ahead of where they happened to be at any given time they were easily outmaneuvered by someone like Jesse who could see two steps ahead. But then there were times when their spiral of options was drawn by someone like Shag Man who was always at least three steps ahead.

¨Hey, y’all!¨ said the tall boy, pointing at the face of the boy who had just gotten a stay of execution. ¨He wants it! God damn! You was right. He is a faggot!¨

¨Yeah,¨ said the twitcher’s near twin, ¨look at how happy he is! That’s fuckin’ sick!¨

The handsome, honey-skinned twitcher glared at Jimmy with utter revulsion. Heaping curses upon the kneeling boy, he bounded forward drawing his gun hand across his body like a tennis player rushing the net to deliver a hard backhand smash. The heavy weapon arched down in a vicious swipe across the boy’s cheek, knocking him sideways to the ground. The tall boy, the jester called Horse and the twitcher’s near twin followed behind him, raining punches down upon Jimmy wherever they could get in a clear shot with their guns, their fists and their feet.

Jesse threw himself into the melee while Shag Man stood back and watched.

Poor Jesse, thought Shag Man. There was nothing he could do to save Jimmy’s life if he didn’t contribute to his beating and rape. He would have to throw a few punches, yell a few epithets and break up the beating before it went too far by directing another kind of brutal assault.

After it was done, Shag Man himself would put his gun to Jimmy’s head and pull the trigger....

The chain-link fence and the closely spaced poles supporting it didn’t afford Mina the best view of what was happening to Jimmy on the other side. But through her Daylights and her telescopic visor, she didn’t miss much. And, because there were no competing sounds of note coming from other directions within the same radius of the attack, she could hear everything.

Mina had been too drawn in at first by the drama unfolding in front of her to do anything but watch and listen. But when the boys leaped into action so did she. She depressed a button on the right wing of her instrument panel. Her message center blinked off then on again with the time. ¨Ready,¨ said an androgynous, businesslike voice in her earlobe receiver.

¨Police emergency,¨ said Mina with her eyes on the message center.

¨Please stand by,¨ said the oddly sex-neutral voice, hurried just enough to reflect the urgency of the situation. ¨Your call is being routed to the nearest police emergency dispatch­¨

Before the suffix ¨er¨ could be added to ¨dispatch,¨ the message center took on the appearance of an open telewindow with a three dimensional face and upper body inside. It was a woman’s face, a fairly attractive, brown-haired, gray-eyed young white woman in the traditional blue shirt and black tie of the Detroit Police Department. ¨Tenth precinct. Officer Kevorkian speaking.¨

¨Officer,¨ said Mina, ¨A boy is being assaulted.¨ She couldn’t make herself say ¨raped,¨ although a small voice in her head told her that she would have without hesitation if the victim had been female. Still, she could justify her choice of words by what was actually taking place in front of her as opposed to what the police would most likely be confronted with when they arrived. ¨Please hurry!¨

The officer’s brow knitted in apparent concern, ¨Are you in danger?¨

¨What?¨ asked Mina, sincerely unable to comprehend the relevance of the question.

¨Are you in danger?¨ asked Officer Kevorkian, exactly as she had the first time.

¨No,¨ said Mina, ¨but can’t you hear—¨ Mina knew that the violent sounds of thumping and cursing coming through her car speakers should have been as easy to discern as her voice. Regardless of who was being attacked, it should have been clear to the officer that someone needed help.

¨Pardon me, ma’am,¨ said Officer Kevorkian, ¨but our spotter matrix indicates that you are calling from a restricted area of response. Is your property in danger?¨

Mina still hadn’t caught on to what was happening. ¨No, but what—¨

¨I’m sorry,¨ said the officer, ¨You are calling from a New Economic Zone. The Detroit Police Department has no authority to intervene at your location in private, third party disputes. May I suggest you call a private security service. If emergency humanitarian aid is required you may submit a form D3397-4 to the Michigan United Fund for immediate considera—¨

¨What!¨

¨Calm down, ma’am. I can understand that you’re upset—¨

¨What!¨

¨Calm down, ma’am. I can understand that you’re—¨

¨What the heck?¨

¨Calm down, ma’am. I can un...¨

Mina pinched her earlobe receiver, closed her eyes and quaked with rage. It was bad enough being told that she was in something the police called ¨a restricted area of response.¨ But to find out so far down the road from getting the news that it came from a computer program inferior to one that she might have created herself, was intolerable.

She could hear the boy called Jimmy screaming hellishly as the others laughed and jeered and joked about the awesome sex organ the boy called Horse was using as a weapon to punish and degrade him. How anyone could reach a physical state of arousal sufficient to commit such a crime had always been difficult for Mina to grasp. How males so hostile to the very idea of homosexuality could participate so exuberantly in such a crime against another male was beyond comprehension.

Mina’s hand came down on top of the information center’s on/off button much harder than necessary to shut it off. Within something less than thirty minutes, her emotions had taken her into a disposal zone, to a dark alley within a disposal zone, and now....

Click here    for Adobe PDF version of The Random Factor
Contact the author: Jasper Garrison

Send comments/suggestions
to Webmaster, Charles R. Alexander
Copyright © 1998 Smartfellows Press