Sultry fornicators and cutthroat greed fuel the hearts of the lovelorn castaways that inhabit an industry on the wane. Sin is the only coping mechanism. Lust stokes the fire. Skulduggery wets the log. Distilled spirits help bridge yesterday into tomorrow. When the smoke clears, everyone is guilty, and virtue is the corpse.

Rembrandt. Beethoven. Schnell. The list ends there. Those are the three names the author can spell from memory without referring to a search engine. Raised by boxcar derelicts and schooled by angry harlots in a soapless village, the author immigrated to America the old fashioned way (Zeppelin) in 1997 and has never looked back-unless to see if his butt looks big in those new skinny jeans. He writes how he lives-using one word per day and on borrowed time.