Eddie Mars: The Ongoing Saga of a Guy with Nothing To Lose

A Noir Thriller

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Location: Canada

Nick Zegarac is a freelance writer/editor and graphics artist. He holds a Masters in Communications and an Honors B.A in Creative Lit from the University of Windsor. He is currently a freelance writer and has been a contributing editor for Black Moss Press and featured contributor to online's The Subtle Tea. He's also has had two screenplays under consideration in Hollywood. Currently, he has written two novels and is searching for an agent to represent him. Contact Nick via email at movieman@sympatico.ca

Monday, May 28, 2007


DISCLAIMER for the first time reader:

For those unfamiliar with the posting structure of a blog: postings appear in the order they are made by their author, not necessarily in the order that would most benefit an ongoing series such as the one you are about to read. Since the purpose of this blog is to be an ongoing thriller, simply removing the previous chapter to alleviate confusion is not an option – since no one coming to the series after the first chapter had been removed would be able to follow the story line.

Therefore, if you scroll down or visit the archives in future months, you will be able to read this continuing drama in the manner and order it was intended to be read. For this reason and purpose each subsequent adventure in the ‘Eddie Mars’ serial will be marked by a number. If you follow these numbers marked at the top of each chapter in their numeric order - eg ‘Adventure the 1st’ - you will be able to follow this continuing saga.

For those savvy to the blog world – this disclaimer may seem redundant, and for that no apology is made. This disclaimer is meant to better acquaint new readers in how the entries in this blog will be posted and how best to follow the series from this point on. And now…

Bahamas Stakes

I take a plane to the Bahamas the next afternoon – unable to erase yesterday’s events from my mind even as the plane begins to dip toward the glistening surf on its final descend. If I close my eyes I can still taste the sweat salts trickling in jagged streams off my brow, with the only relief coming from that cold silencer nuzzled into the side of my head. Time, I bought my own small parcel of it by agreeing to kill a man I’ve never met.

“What’s his name?” I asked Karl on the road trip back to the hotel.
“He’s traveling under Somerset.”
“No,” I clarify, “His real name.”
“It will be better for you if we leave names out of the equation.”

So, I’m given a photo instead; a mug shot of a sixty-ish portly gent who looks like the guy that used to do my taxes. I’m told by Karl he was one of ‘our’ own – a congenial fella whose specialty was death by untraceable poisons. Only, friend Somerset became greedy and started skimming off the top – a little, at first. Then a lot, until there just wasn’t anyway to conceal the deficit.

I suppose he figured, steal little/steal big and get out while the collars and cuffs match. The man’s a walking corpse and he doesn’t even know it. That’s Karl’s specialty. Give ‘em enough rope to hang themselves, then tighten the noose and watch ‘em swing.

“Remember,” Karl tells me, “Whatever his disguise, he always wears this ring.”

I’m shown a picture of that too…and a nice ring it is, brushed white gold braided strands with one bulbous diamond set on top.

“Sentimental bastard,” I suggest.
“Trophy collector,” Karl clarifies, “The ring belonged to the agent he was working with – the man I trusted and sent to retrieve the money he stole.”
“You picked the wrong guy for the job,” I reason.

Karl’s bitter.

“I chose a friend instead of a killer,” Karl corrects me, “My mistake. His too. Bring back the ring.”

“For sentimental reasons?”

“To prove you haven’t failed,” Karl coldly replies.

The assignment’s pretty straight forward. Get in, get out – and somewhere in the middle leave a body with no ring for the concierge to discover. Only time doesn’t seem to favor my itinerary.

. . .

I arrive at the Lucaya Beach & Golf Resort just before sunset. Money – suddenly thrust into the deep end of culture makes me nervous. I play it big but feel small inside. Maybe it shows, but I still have an ace in the hole; one I use with discretion to pump the bright young thing sitting behind the front desk for information on a Mr. Somerset.

“You see,” I reason, “We were supposed to get together yesterday, only my flight in was delayed.”

“That’s too bad,” the clerk reasons, leaning in, “He’ll be gone until tomorrow evening.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know where?” I press a bit further.

“Afraid not,” my compliant Miss replies, though I’m not convinced she couldn’t pull up a few new facts – even if I have no lasting interest in her figure.

. . .

As per instructions, I unpack in my suite and send an email to my contact. I’m advised to stay put and take in the scenery as an inconspicuous tourist.

That’s when I catch sight of her – a rail of a girl, bumped out in all the right places, poured into a paper thin burgundy gown. She meanders between the swaying palms, her soft arms loosely dangling by her side, black tresses caught in the gaining breeze off the water. A minor distraction, I suppose.

I put on some evening clothes and saunter to the gardens where I find her leaning against an ornate gazebo. The brush of magic hour is upon us now – lurid purple and orange hues tainting the real into the imaginary; an effortless hallucination for play.

She doesn’t see me coming but I’ve memorized every line as I make my way to the gazebo steps.

“Extraordinary view,” I call out.

She pivots on one heel, eyes tracing the contours of my body with considerable interest. But she’s hardly impressed by the double meaning in my words. I’ll give her that. When I’m looking for diversions, dialogue is cheap.

“Do we know each other?” she coolly asks.
“Tragically – no,” I reply, giving her just enough of a thin smile to know that there’s a passing interest, but not enough to disappoint me if she decides we’re a washout at low tide.

“Let’s keep it that way,” she tells me.

She returns her attentions to the crashing waves upon those distant rocks. Maybe I’m out of practice, but I doubt it. She’s just twenty degrees cooler than her surroundings.

“My mistake,” I tell her, “I thought it was stormy out there.”

I start to walk back to the resort. It’s late and I am not that starved for companionship. Almost out of earshot when I hear her thin voice call after me.

“Hey stranger!”

Ball’s in my court and I intend to play it. I stop in my tracks and wait for a moment, unconvinced that if I turn around she’ll be facing me without the attitude. But I do and she is. So I play up the winning hand and give her some of her own.

“Do we know each other?” I ask.

She accepts the snub like a sport.

“No,” she reasons, this time approaching without her armor, “That’s why I said ‘stranger’.”

“Well, maybe it’s not what you say, but how you say it,” I explain, giving her the other half of that smile on credit but still keeping it serious.

“How’s that?”

“As though we aren’t going to be strangers much longer.”

I’m about to solidify our pact with an invitation to dinner when we’re interrupted by – of all things – the jangling collar on another mutt – a black and tan daschund, enthusiastically trotting up our path. He bypasses me entirely, nuzzling up against the girl’s shapely ankle with a soft caress of his fur about her patent leather. I don’t envy him that privilege - so much for ‘man’s best friend’.

“How cute,” she says, gingerly picking up the little fella, holding him in the palm of her left hand while allowing her right to be licked like a lollypop, “Yours?”

I shake my head. Upstaged by a dog…that’s class.

The girl checks his collar, then laughs.

“No,” she agrees, “I guess not.”

The collar reads - ‘Poopsy.’

. . .

At the front desk we find the night manager, Bryan, a strapping island boy who seems to know more than we do, even as we approach with our new found furry friend in hand.

“There you are,” Bryan says.

Poopsy obediently jumps from the girl’s hand onto the counter top. He is quickly removed and placed out of sight by Bryan before anyone else has a chance to complain. Bryan then reaches into a bowl just below the counter, feeding Poopsy a handful of rather odd looking, milky white kibble.

“Interesting diet,” I comment, “Whose animal is it? Yours?”

“No sir,” Bryan nervously explains, “He’s by way of being something of the hotel mascot. He was left behind by a guest several seasons ago. We adopted him. But he’s not supposed to wander the grounds freely. I hope he didn’t disturb you.”

“Not at all,” the girl replies, her playful roving gaze returning to me, “I enjoy animals.”

We’ll see.

. . .

The rest of dinner’s a blur. It feels so good to have a conversation that I momentarily forget myself and laugh at her silly jokes. I don’t think about me for a change or what I’ve been sent to do. I let my guard down and it’s the first time in a long while that I don’t experience that crushing need to pretend.

Her name is Amanda and she’s vacationing with her father, Edward - who’s returning from a business trip in Miami. They have no permanent residence, but he owns a yacht moored at the club docks.

“I’ll take you sailing,” she says, “There are some really private spots where a girl could get lost when she wants to.”

“What about a fella?” I inquire.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what it is you do for a living,” Amanda explains, “You see, I don’t do anything. I’m just here.”

“…for the asking?” I tease.

“For the taking,” she admits.

. . .

We’re in each other’s arms before midnight – like a pair of moths beating our frantic wings against one another’s white hot flame. There’s years of experience in her every touch. She’s a girl who likes to push buttons, but I’ve never met one who knew exactly where each finger should go – until now.

We migrate in various stages of undress from the couch to the carpet in my suite. I lie back and kick away the coffee table, feeling the cool night breeze blow the sheer curtains across her back as I fumble for her button holes.

“You’ll never get it,” she reasons, straddling me while reaching for the awkward clips that hold her dress together.

“Oh, so that’s how it’s done,” I say as the satiny straps slink off her shoulders.

“You want me to show you, how it’s done?” she coos.

Why not? I’ve had every other kind of tutor.

“Lead on, professor,” I say.

She’s a fifty year old woman in a twenty-something body. A bit of invisibleness disappearing from my touch, only to reappear seconds later with gem-like sparkles of electricity caught glistening in her eyes. I find myself in unfamiliar territory – actually savoring the moment without letting the mechanics get in the way. We give each other a tune up and test drive – the open road of mutual possibilities tangibly real for the very first time.

“You’ve given this some thought,” I tell her.

“Anything worth doing is worth doing well,” she whispers into my ear.

I couldn’t agree with her more.

. . .

When the dawn breaks anew, I find myself feeling liberated from my past only to be deceived bydaydreams yet again.

I awake beneath the soft silken overlay of tussled sheets, feeling the light and island breeze tickle its way up and down my exposed spine and neck. I’m alone in bed, the wreckage of clothes strewn about the place the night before now neatly pressed and stacked on a nearby end table. Efficient young miss. I’ll give her that. But I gave her plenty more last night.

Damn the daylight. There’s nowhere to hide all the imperfections that the moon makes adorable. I’m suddenly aware of that thin scar of anxiety creeping in beads across my sweaty brow. I should crawl out of my cocoon and back into my shell - only I’ve too much cheek and bravado to consider what a mess I’ve made. I suppose there’s an appropriate time to declare one legally dead. Just how many years I’ve lacked a pulse is open for discussion.

There’s a knock at the bedroom door, distinct – instantly identifiable, and a moment later Amanda’s voice echoing from just beyond.

“Room service.”

Breakfast arrives on a rattan bed tray – coffee, grapefruit, orange juice and toast with blackberry jam. It’s all placed for my approval across my sheathed waist, Amanda leaning in with her soft slender hands pressed tenderly against my chest and sealing the offering with a passionate good morning kiss.

“Well,” I conclude, “This hotel is definitely improving. You give ‘complimentary breakfast’ a whole new meaning.”

She pulls back a dark shock of hair that’s getting in the way of her eyes. They’re suddenly sad and tired. There’s something wrong behind that smile. I can’t figure out what.

“My father’s coming home,” she whispers.


“In an hour or so,” Amanda reasons, “I just received a call from the yacht club.”

A moment of awkward silence passes between us.

“I’m not the sort of girl who brings strange men home.”

“Oh,” I acknowledge, sitting up in bed, “So that’s it. Well, I suppose check out time, then.”

“Breakfast first,” Amanda explains, leaning me back into the pillows and smothering with a litany of wet kisses, “You can work up quite an appetite in an hour.”

. . .

The afternoon is hot and sticky. So was the morning – for different reasons. Breakfast was the last thing on either of our minds and we proved it by satisfying another basic hunger.

Human sexuality is a curious thing. It’s total surrender – a place removed from time and space where you completely lose yourself. With all the powder behind that keg, one would think the fuse was lit for an explosion worthy of any stick of dynamite. It is – only occasionally, the detonator doesn’t seem to have as much of a thrust in the charge.

I replay the morning in my head while browsing the quaint and colorful shops for a trinket. Odd, I reason. She was distracted today. Maybe it was daddy’s arrival diluting the thrill. Or the daylight; seeing everything in living color without the escalating luxury of half shadow to conceal those less than perfect stabs at pleasure.

Afterward, I showered, shaved, and decided to do a bit of leg work for the man I’ve been sent to kill. But he’s a no show again, leaving me with thoughts of how to impress Amanda’s father when we meet later this afternoon for lunch; a casual accident cute meet-on-purpose – her idea.

I find myself playing the part of the nervous suitor – you know, the awkward buck who rings the doorbell for his prom date only to discover some burly ex-cop blocking his path to true lust with folded arms and a glower that sends limping shockwaves from the waist down – combing my hair just so and changing outfits three or four times for maximum effect, or rather - a disguise of truer intensions already expressed.

I’m batting zero with any ideas for what to bring to our luncheon date. Flowers would be obvious; jewelry a waste; an invitation to the casino stakes appearing as though I were grand-standing to bilk the old geezer out of his other assets too. I decide to go the cool approach – just me, in casual white cotton knit and khakis, looking as though I haven’t given the matter a second thought. To hell with first impressions – they’re cheap and fleeting and say nothing about the sort of beast lurking just beneath that veneer of pretend.

It’s been a long time for me since meeting any girl’s father was the issue and it’s a bit unsettling – I’ll grant you. I reason that none of this can come to any good, and my instincts are right on the money as I round the corner up the path to the open air plaza where I suddenly find myself face to face with my target – set out just so, and in the last place I would have thought to look; arm around her waist, sun glistening off the thick gold band wrapped around his ring finger, and telling her lies about his ‘business’ trip.

So she’s Amanda, is she? Amanda Somerset!


Not quite.

Eddie Mars will return in his next great adventure
DOGGIE TREATS on June 29th, 2007.

@Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).

Wednesday, May 09, 2007


DISCLAIMER for the first time reader:

For those unfamiliar with the posting structure of a blog: postings appear in the order they are made by their author, not necessarily in the order that would most benefit an ongoing series such as the one you are about to read. Since the purpose of this blog is to be an ongoing thriller, simply removing the previous chapter to alleviate confusion is not an option – since no one coming to the series after the first chapter had been removed would be able to follow the story line.

Therefore, if you scroll down or visit the archives in future months, you will be able to read this continuing drama in the manner and order it was intended to be read. For this reason and purpose each subsequent adventure in the ‘Eddie Mars’ serial will be marked by a number. If you follow these numbers marked at the top of each chapter in their numeric order - eg ‘Adventure the 1st’ - you will be able to follow this continuing saga.

For those savvy to the blog world – this disclaimer may seem redundant, and for that no apology is made. This disclaimer is meant to better acquaint new readers in how the entries in this blog will be posted and how best to follow the series from this point on. And now…


What is the measure of time; seconds, hours, days, weeks?

Or is it in the moment – drawn out in heartbeats? I don’t know time. We’re not old friends. I can’t quantify the purpose of it either; born – live - die. I only know that the next three weeks of my life go by in a blur – not that I mind, only I usually pick the libation that leads to fade out.

But this time I’m not in control. Instead, I’m fed through an endless meat grinder of tutors who strip my past layers to a thin base core, then coat the wellspring with a new, if even thinner veneer. It works – at least, on the surface. I take it all in – my mind and body growing stronger; built for the inevitable purpose drawing closer with each breath to murderer’s row. Because, there is a purpose to all this – a dark purpose. There always is.

Their a mixed lot – my ‘teachers,’ rough hewn and good natured…again, on the surface. Mr. Manners, in matters of form and refinement, is my most annoying; effeminate, immaculate and meddling. He thinks the world’ll end if I don’t use the right fork with my salad.

On my sixth day in his flamboyant care, I’m given a full body wax from his trio of his associates - all women. Smart guy. He knows better than to try it himself, though he’s constantly circling the room as they glue and tear at my flesh until I’m as raw as a stock-potted lobster. I don’t flinch – much…and this rather impresses him.

“You show considerable restraint, Mr. Mars,” Manners tells me.
“You should try it sometime,” I reply while toweling a few droplets of blood collecting just under by right nipple.

That raises a fairly curious eyebrow.

“You are mistaken, Mr. Mars,” Manners suggests, “I take no formal pleasure in this exercise.”

“Yeah,” I agree, feeling the sting as that cotton twill brush like sandpaper against my baby smooth skin, “That makes two of us. Tell me, what’s the purpose of making a hairless wonder out’a me? I thought the only thing naked in these parts were the cats.”

Manners gives me his once over, his hands raised in the air as though he were ready to pluck a harp. He looks upon me as though I were something he created from scratch and I suddenly feel a bit like a capon.

“Don’t you think the ladies will like this better?” he asks.

“Some gentlemen too, no doubt,” I say.

He glows red like Rudolph, only in his cheeks.

“You may get dressed now, Mr. Mars,” he coldly tells me, disappearing into his office for a splash of cologne and a cool face towel.

I enjoy playing him. He’s relatively pliable that way, but smart enough to know that if he ever got the wrong idea he’d have that bottle of aftershave crammed down his throat before you could say ‘Barbesol.’ Still, I make my notes. Every once in a while he actually does tell me something useful.

. . .

I was a fairly apt pupil in my youth. But I impress myself with how easily it all comes back. Memory’s a strange phenomenon. That instant recall that makes you relive your past when you least expect it. But I’ve no regrets. At least, none that I’ll admit to.

Ace Fairschot is my marksman instructor; a big beefy guy who could probably crush most adversaries with his bare fists, only he prefers the cold calculation of steel; an automatic with a silencer. Why not…keeps the finger nails clean. I sort’a guess I impressed Ace on my first day when he tossed me his weapon and pointed to this wax dummy some thirty feet away.

“Kill him,” he tells me with a polite grin.

Three shots – wrist, stomach, head; all with casual precision it’s taken me years to perfect. It’s all over in a matter of seconds. Ace takes a look at my sharp-shooting.

“Why did you shoot the wrist first?” he asks with great curiosity.
“To disarm him,” I reason.

“To give him something to think about while he bleeds to death,” I say.

“I thought it would be impolite to start off with a straight kill,” I tease tossing him a half smile and his gun back.

Ace nods with a grin. He’s only half impressed. Then, I see why. Without dispatch, he puts a one hole right through the mannequin’s heart, another bull’s eye in the neck. Then, almost too quick to imagine, he does a perfect pair inches apart into the piercing eye sockets.

“Lungs,” Ace exclaims, tossing me his gun, “To immobilize your victim before he can reach for the weapon of his choice. Voice box – so he cannot scream for help. Eyes – that you are the last thing he will ever see before going straight to hell.”

What a loveable chap, I reason. For him, killing isn’t a job. It isn’t even a sport. He genuinely loves it.

. . .

I get tested; scenarios mostly. Like riddle me this – you’re in a mall with several dozen shoppers when a lone wacko decides to thin out the herd. He threatens to execute six before you can get close enough for the kill shot – then you realize he’s the Afghani defector with military secrets you’ve been trying to get your hands on since you can’t remember when. What do you do?

Humanitarian common sense says, ‘kill the terrorist.’ A military strategist would think otherwise.

So far, I score high – or so I think, because I don’t hear anything back…and no news is always good. But then I get a summons to Karl’s suite one afternoon and I’m a little put off when I take note that the boys waiting for me in his elevator are the same duo who had me caned.

When I get to Karl’s, he’s not exactly pleased to see me. He’s going over a dossier of my test sheets with critical disdain. I start feeling edgy, just like the kitty whose litter box needs a good cleaning.

“Sit,” Karl commands.
“No,” I tell him…at least not without a please.

Karl’s not into pleasantries today. He snaps his fingers for Brutus Number One to make me sit.

But I’m caught up on my Karate. I catch big boy in the neck with the back of my hand, then twist his arm behind his back – kicking his feet from under him and let his forehead do the ceremonial bows with Karl’s mahogany desktop. Out cold and maybe, if I’m lucky, with a concussion.

Number Two’s sneaky - he grabs me from behind. I wrestle back and forth, then bend like a snake and flip him on top of his partner. But he isn’t quite finished with me. He’s up and ready to lunge, only Karl gives him his walking papers with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Enough!” Karl tells him, “Go!”

Then pointing to that unconscious lump of muscle lying face-down on the floor, “…and take him with you.”

I’m fairly impressed with myself – agility in motion without even breaking a sweat. I must thank my personal trainer when I get back…if I get back.

I’m offered a seat once more, only now with considerably more respect.

“You’re improving,” Karl says.
“Just not enough,” I read him like a book.

He places the folder with my test scores on the desk between us.

“Do you know the purpose of these tests?” Karl asks.
“You tell me,” I say.

Karl eyes me up and down like prey ready for the kill. He wants something. He expects something. I’m about to learn what that is.

“In several scenarios you refused to kill an eleven year old Malaysian boy, even though he is a drug mule,” he explains.

“He was a child,” I say.
“A drug mule!” Karl reasserts.

He’s not getting through to me, just yet. But Karl’s more persuasive in his little pinky than most men are with a fist full’a brass knuckles.

“And if this child,” Karl reasons, “…were strapped with enough explosives to decimate a small village; if this child had been programmed to assassinate your entire family; this child…was an angel – not of mercy, but death; a carrier of level three biological warfare that would kill thousands if he ever escaped into the public…if this child, were the devil himself…you would still spare his life?”

All good points, I’ll grant him.

“Hypothetical,” I reason.

Karl shakes his head.

“Not in this profession.”

And suddenly it all clicks for me. I’m at play in the field of the big boys. There is no sympathy in the majors. Heart comes a distant fourth to cunning, stealth and restraint.

I’m open to reconsideration.

“Spare me your middle class morality,” Karl explains, “It is a luxury we cannot afford.”

We’ve reached an impasse. I concede that circumstances are everything. But I refuse to whitewash the possibility that tomorrow’s generation should be exterminated today because they might wreak havoc some sunny tomorrow.

“Come,” Karl commands, “I want to show you something.”

. . .

We take the elevator down to the garage. There, a stretch limo that seems to roll on for a full city block is waiting and inside, so are the two thugs I humiliated upstairs. Brutus Number One has come around and is nursing a golf ball size lump on his forehead with a bag of ice. Number Two glowers in my direction, looking far too frisky for my liking.

We pull away from the hotel. It’s the first time in almost a month that I’ve seen the city in all its crowded, bustling glory. Even though we’re air cooled, the strain of scorching sun outside can be felt penetrating the tinted windows. I don’t ask where we’re headed and no explanation is offered. Apparently we’re all suffering from a complete lack of curiosity.

Gradually, the moneyed playgrounds subside into the real heart of the city; a labyrinth of dirty little byways where life is cheaper than the accommodations. I catch sight of a gnarled skin and toothless old woman, crumpled like a dark bead against stark white stucco. Is she smiling because there’s nothing else to do, or does she honestly believe that things will improve?

The memory of her gaping grin sticks with me long after the slums are just a tiny speck in our rear view. I don’t know exactly why I see her now. Perhaps, it’s because I still have my conscience. Maybe, it’s about to be tested.

. . .

We drive for almost an hour into the searing white heat of the desert. There’s nothing but flatness on all sides – a mesmerizing anvil with the pale blue unattainable horizon rising ahead. Somewhere along the way, we turn off the road, the wheels picking up pulverized sand crystals and turning them into a white chalky cloud behind the car.

After, what seems to be an impossible stretch of nothingness, the limo’s GPA tracking system begins to register a faint blip ahead that grows more prominent by the second. Our driver slows the car as the spacing between pulsations grows shorter, until it is one grating sonic binging in all our ears. We roll to a complete stop, and Number Two opens the door on my side, pointing for me to exit.

Most people think the desert is a metaphor for deadening nothingness – a paralytic lost spot on the world map that time doesn’t regard as its own and God left to the scorpions long before that. But the wind in the desert is something quite tangible and quite strong, just as stifling as those crippling rays of sunshine. It’s only after a few moments, as my eyes adjust to the staggering glare of that flat surface that I begin to make out the shape of a vast rectangular pit directly in front of me.

As the scallop of blow raises restless granules across this gaping hole, the mangled heap of bony finger tips, tibias and ribcages, half petrified, with the occasional skull cropping from its mess of limbs come into focus; a mass grave of epic and humbling proportions, and I wonder… have I been brought here to mingle with the rest?

Karl casually lights a cigar, expelling deep acrid fumes into the swift gusts, suddenly made sour with the stench of fresh kills.

“Who are they?” I ask.

The words get choked between shallow dry breaths.

“That depends,” Karl explains, “…on one’s point of view. Yesterday they were somebody’s mother, child, aunt, brother.”

He punctuates each familial relation as my eyes dart about that reckless carnage. I observe the ritual of corrupted life, as a scorpion diligently picks away the last juicy remnants of an eyeball from someone’s blood-crusted socket.

“The minions of progress, Mr. Mars,” Karl continues, “Working, building, selling their souls in trade for bread and a dry hovel to sleep in…but today, they are the honorable dead.”

I feel the tip of a gun silencer pressed into my left temple and realize that time has run out.

“There are lives, and then, there are lives,” Karl reasons, “Only some are worth living. So decide for us both - now…death today…or tomorrow?”

We’re all living on borrowed time. The only question is do I permit myself the luxury of a few more hours?

THE END… not quite.
Eddie Mars will return in his next adventure,
Bahamas Stakes on June 1, 2007.

@ Nick Zegarac 2007 (all rights reserved).