Oct. 27th, 2014

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I went to Salem with a bunch of good friends on Saturday, and when I got home the writing bug did bite me. Twelve hours and 17,000 words later, I have this thing that does not have a name or a purpose, but I never did write anything this long before. I don't know what it is or where it came from, but it was fun to do; for the first time ever, I sat down to write three or four times over the last two days excited about learning where this would go. If you read this thing, may God bless you and keep your name forever upon the land. There are no rewards for completion, other than virtue itself. Here 'tis:





More than anything, I don’t want to Google “Dick Blood,” but the thin, intense man sitting across from me says I need to do just that or my story will be incomplete.

No, not incomplete; my story will be so fraudulent that “inaccurate” would be high praise if I fail to learn all I can about Dick Blood, says the man sitting across from me, whose name is Zane Nino.

“I’m not even sure I can do that on a work computer,” I tell him.

We’re having coffee in a diner somewhere near Los Angeles, and Zane Nino is losing patience with me.

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