8FOLD/ACRA: Jolt City # 22, "October Surprise!" (Part 2 of 3)

[Tom Russell]

While Dr. Fay and Derek attempt to find a way around his FEVER
implant, they have installed a "kill switch" to prevent FEVER from
using his body as a weapon. Meanwhile, Martin has instigated a mob war
between the O'Lantern and Pastrone crime families as part of his
attempts to prove Pocket Vito is still alive.

          "...OCTOBER SURPRISE!"

   EIGHTFOLD PROUDLY PRESENTS
////////////// [8F-118] TOM RUSSELL'S
    ////  //////  /// //////  ////// /// ////// \  //
// ////  //  //  ///   //    ///    ///   //     \//# 22
//////  //////  ///// //    ////// ///   //      //PART 2

Derek has a dream about Alix, but when he wakes up, he can't remember
it. Was she dead in the dream, did she know she was dead, had she
never died? It seems important that he remember it, but the more
desperately he tries to hold onto it, the more he wonders if she was
even in the dream at all.
   Don't look at the clock, don't look at the clock. It's probably
four or five, don't look at the clock. It's one-thirty. Christ.
   He didn't use to have this much trouble sleeping. When did it
start? Last year? The spring? Was that before he got the implant?
   Or after? Could it be changing the way he sleeps? The way he
thinks, acts, and feels?
   It makes him queasy. There's no such thing as mind control, right?
FEVER might switch him on and take over his body, but they can't
control his thoughts. Can't control his actions.
   And yet. The brain and body runs on chemicals in careful and
delicate balance. And that balance can be changed. When he was a
dealer, he saw how the drugs could change people. Not just when they
were high, though there was that. It was the need that changed people.
The desperation, the sickness that lingered.
   Sickness. His mother was sick, and it lingered before it killed
her. She had been a patient woman. Empathetic. Even and especially
when people didn't deserve it, she would give them the benefit of the
doubt, try to figure it from their point of view. His dad would go off
the handle about some idiot or asshole, and his mom would just say, "I
don't know, Moses," and then offer some explanation as to why that
might not be the case. It drove both of her men nuts.
   The disease shriveled up her patience. It strangled her empathy.
She was angry all the time, raging and screaming, crying furiously. It
wasn't fair, wasn't fair. Why was she dying? Wasn't her time yet. She
didn't leave this world with the grace and understanding she had while
she was in it. By the end, she didn't love Moses. She didn't have
enough room in her left to love anyone. By the end, Derek didn't think
of her as his mother, but a stranger that had stolen her body, and
soon it didn't even look like her anymore.
   The grief changed Moses. Made him smaller somehow. Made him harder.
Soon he was a stranger, too. A body snatcher. Derek got away from him
and started dealing for Snapp. Made his father even smaller. Harder.
Until there was almost nothing of him left. God. What a fucking idiot
Derek was.
   Drugs, disease, even the simple act of living changes the
chemicals. Changes the way the brain works. Changes the person and
they don't get any say in the matter. A little machine in his brain
attached to his nervous system-- does he seriously think that won't
change the chemicals? How much of anything he thinks or feels or does
is him, really him, and how much of it is the implant? How much of it
is the grief, the stress, the pain, the hunger, his own need to count,
to matter, to be something? And how much of all that is something that
was in him to start, and how much of it is just him reacting to what
he's done and what's been done to him? If any of those things hadn't
happened, would he be a different person?

Derek spends his morning going over all the paperwork Glass could give
him on Kara Caller. Her birth certificate, her transcripts, et cetera.
One thing he feels queasy about looking at are her Jolt City library
records, obtained via the Patriot Act. [1]
   Not much to go on there; the library didn't keep track of what
someone had checked out unless they returned it late and owed a fine.
Two volumes of DECLINE AND FALL OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE, 25 cents each.
DVD of JUNEBUG, four dollars. DVD of WALK THE LINE, two dollars.
   This exciting research is interrupted by a phone call. The
preservation company wants to know if he's interested in doing a few
dozen inspections in his area. Just stop by the home, see if it's
occupied or vacant, and snap a few pictures. It's once a month, only
five bucks a pop, but the mortgage is six weeks overdue and he's eager
to show them that he'll take whatever work he can get. They send him a
list of addresses. He feeds them one at a time into his computer to
plan the most efficient route.
   He calls them back. "One of the inspections, I can't do it. 42426
Danube Street. Conflict of interest."
   "You know the owner?"
   "I am the owner," he says.
   "You must be late on your mortgage, then."
   Nerve of this lady. "Yeah, a little bit."

Bierce Bail Bonds.
   Pam looks at Derek when he comes in and says, "No."
   "No? What no? I didn't even say anything yet. You can't no."
   "There are three reasons you come to visit me," says Pam. She leans
back against her desk, arms crossed against her chest, legs crossed at
the ankles, tight jeans and six-inch heels. Oh, Pam.
   She holds up three fingers. "Reason one is you want me to cook
something for you."
   Derek nods. "You're a better cook than Martin. Or Roy."
   She curls a finger back, leaving two. "Reason two is you want to
'flirt' with me."
   "Why are there air quotes around that?" says Derek.
   "Because it's not flirting when you stand there staring at my tits
and stinking of desperation," says Pam.
   "I'll stare at your ass, if you like," offers Derek. "Change things
up a little."
  One finger remaining. You can probably guess which one. "Finally,
you come here to ask me to borrow money."
   "There is that," says Derek.
   "Sorry, sport," says Pam. "Taking a vacation, and I've not a cent
to spare. Don't know if you read the papers, but there's a mob war
going on, and I'd rather not be around to be in the middle of it.
Besides, you still haven't paid me what you owe me."
   "Where you going?"
   "Vegas," says Pam. "If I win millions of dollars..."
   "...you'll pay off my house?"
   "...I'll forgive what you owe me."
   "How big of you."
   "I'm a big girl."
   "In all the right places."
   "Sleazy and desperate," notes Pam. "Not attractive."
   Derek shrugs.
   "So," says Pam, "I take it your business hasn't exactly lit the
world on fire?"
   "Slow start," says Derek. "And it's hard to juggle the work,
school, and, you know, everything."
   "At least you're juggling," says Pam. "Martin never did."
   "Yeah, well. I don't know. We're coming at it from different
angles, I guess. In different ways. I mean, he already went through
school, when he was my age, and he was, y'know, doing his thing."
   "He also had a billionaire paying the bills," says Pam. "Doesn't
require as much juggling."
   "You know about... that?"
   "About Cradle? Sure," says Pam. "All sorts of things tying Martin
to Cradle. Job history. Photos in the newspaper. Once you know who
Martin is, it ain't hard to draw the line to Cradle."
   "Yeah," says Derek. He had pretty much done the same thing. [2]
   "You two should be careful," says Pam. "Probably shouldn't be
living together. If one of you gets outed, the other's gonna be a
gimmee."
   "Luckily, I am a master of disguise," says Derek glumly. Then,
eager to change the subject: "You know, he was supposed to get the
money. Instead of Anders."
   "That was in the papers," says Pam. "When they thought Anders was
dead, and that Martin had done it." [3]
   "I wonder how it would have gone," says Derek. "If Martin had
gotten the money."
   "I certainly think some of our dates would have went differently," says Pam.
   "I probably wouldn't be in this pickle with the house," says Derek.
   "He might not even have known you," says Pam.
   "That's true," says Derek.
   "Doesn't matter," says Pam. "You can't change the past."
   "Not to be pedantic..."
   "...But you're going to pedantic?"
   "You can change the past," says Derek. "You just can't change the future."
   "This ought to be good," says Pam.
   "No, I mean, this is actual science," says Derek. "We used to
think, the old model, is that every point in the present, there are
infinite alternate futures. An infinite number of ways it can go.
Every decision creates a new timeline, et cetera. But it's actually
backwards. There's only one present, and its fixed, but with infinite
alternate pasts. That this moment, right here, will always be, but
there are an infinite number of ways for us to get to this same point.
All roads lead to Rome." [4]
   "That makes no sense," says Pam.
   "It helps not to actually think about it," offers Derek.
   "I'll just go back to doing that, thanks."

But Derek can't. When he first heard the "all roads" theory, it filled
him with a certain level of despair. No matter what decisions or
choices he makes, he'll always end up stuck in this mess? In his
better moments, he likes to pride himself on being able to think his
way out of things. To find solutions. But if all timelines always
course-correct to this hellhole, then there is no solution. He has no
control over his life. (Heh. Knew that already.)
   But now it strangely fills him with hope. Because no matter what
happened to him in the past, and what mistakes he made, he will always
end up being this person at this moment. If that's true, then who he
is isn't because of cause-and-effect, or his pain, or his screw-ups,
or the chip they put in his head. (Of course, in all timelines, he
would end up with the chip in his head, but like he told Pam, it helps
not to actually think about it.)
   No, he is who he is because of who he is. Because of him. Because
of who he chooses to be. Which means that if he finds a solution to
the implant problem in any single timeline, then he'll solve it in all
timelines, because those timelines will always lead to a present where
he has solved the problem. And with an infinite number of Dereks in an
infinite number of pasts working on the problem, odds are pretty good
that at least one will find that solution. Which means that they all
will, because science. They might be different solutions for different
alternate pasts, but it will be solved.
   In fact, talking to Pam just now, he's pretty sure that he has
solved it, at least in this timeline. Now just to convince Dr. Fay
that he hasn't gone off his rocker...

Vito's bedroom. After midnight. Always after midnight. Why is it
always this dead of the night shit? Can't any of these fuckers ever
have a crisis in the middle of the God-damn afternoon? Disrespect. The
God-damn disrespect, banging on his door in the middle of the night.
He's half a mind to show up in his God-damn pajamas, show them
disrespect right back. His pajamas add up to about a square foot of
fabric, and it's still more expensive than their socks.
   No; he's better than that. He pulls on his three-piece suit, combs
back his hair, and straps on his jetpack.
   He flies from his bedroom, down his hall, to his office, which
already stinks of brimstone. The demon is waiting for him, tapping his
pimp cane impatiently against the floor. With his other hand he rubs
the tiny horns sprouting out of his forehead.
   Vito lands. "Ronove," he says. [5]
   "Don Valentine," says the pink-faced dwarf in his sweet, high
voice. "The Seventh Circle Gang sends its respect."
   "I bet," says Vito. "Dispense with the preliminaries."
   "As you wish," says Ronove. "Yesterday, the O'Lanterns hit the Pastrones."
   "I'm aware," says Vito sharply.
   "Tonight, the Pastrones retaliated."
   Vito nods.
   "They hit one of our dens," says Ronove.
   "Shit," says Vito.
   "You've told us to stay out of this, and we have, but I don't know
if Vise-Head got the message."
   "Go to ground," says Vito. "I know it's hard to hear that, but we
can't let this escalate."
   "Oh, you misunderstand," says Ronove. "The Seventh Circle has no
intention of going into war. We are princes of vice and debauchery,
but abhor violence."
   "Yeah, that's why you called yourself the Seventh Circle," deadpans Vito.
   Ronove smiles, biting his lower lip with his dagger-like canines.
"You're literate," he says. [6]
   "It's called google, you schmuck," says Vito. "What are you saying?"
   "I'm saying we should show Pastrone that we have no quarrel."
   "How?" says Vito. "He's too horny for Maranzano to listen to any overtures."
   "So, give the man what he wants," says Ronove.
   "The fuck you just say?"
   "Give up Fishface."
   "That's what I fucking thought you just the fuck said."
   "Don Valentine, please," says Ronove. "I am only playing... devil's
advocate." He's quite amused with that. "Fishface is one man. Not
well-liked. Not even particularly important to your organization.
Keeping him safe is putting everything and everyone else at risk. One
man is not worth the empire."
   "I offered him my protection, and he took it. He's been loyal. Kept
all his promises. I keep all of mine. A man has to have a code, or he
ain't a man."
   "Is that what makes a man?" says Ronove, pretending to think about
it. "Following rules? Letting them tie your hands so that when things
fall apart, you can say you have no choice? Is that what makes a man?
Or is it the will to act? To do what is necessary? Needs must, Don
Valentine."
   "When the devil drives," says Vito. "Yeah, that's peachy. You done?
Good. Now, listen: I'm still the boss of this town. We go to ground,
and we keep our promises. We wait this out. We clear on that?"
   "Of course, Don Valentine."

Furtive overtures are made in secret, and after one thing and another,
Ronove brings Jack O'Lantern and Vise-Head together to discuss the
cessation of hostilities. It begins with an airing of grievances:
   "I considered you a friend, Jack; we came up together. It was I who
pushed for the Italian families to accept you, despite your deformity.
By which, of course, I mean your Irishness." Vise-Head smiles,
painfully. "I was glad to see you in alliance with the other families.
I would not be so glad if I knew that alliance was against my family."
   "Don Pastrone," says Jack, making a lazy and perfunctory effort at
deference, "I did not ally myself against you."
   "You stood with my enemy," says Vise-Head. "Does that make you a
friend? I was betrayed, Jack."
   "As was I," says Jack. "Blood of my blood was spilt. Flesh of my
flesh was beaten to a pulp."
   "And yet," says Ronove, "your grievance, Don Pastrone, is not
really with Jack. But with the short man."
   "With Fishface," seethes Vise-Head. "Anyone who stands with him,
anyone who hides him."
   "But you, O'Lantern," says Ronove, "you don't give Maranzano
comfort. And you don't stand with him."
   "No," says Jack.
   "Nor does the Seventh Circle. In fact, I think no one in the short
man's organization stands with Fishface except the short man.
Certainly, none of us want to bleed in the streets. Not for Fishface."
   "Do you know what it is?" says Vise-Head. "What it is to live your
life with your head in a fucking vise? The pressure. The pain! It is a
constant agony. I don't sleep anymore. I don't screw anymore. I don't
even want to live anymore. That's what Fishface has done to me. I want
to just... I want to just reach over and unwind this damn thing, and
let my brains fall out, and be done with it. I have the gates of hell
opening wide for me, but I will gladly welcome the torments of eternal
death, for they must be nothing but spittle compared to living like
this. [7]
   "But first. First I will have my revenge. This is a surety, gentlemen."
   Jack speaks slowly. "I see that now. And I see that it was wrong of
me not to tell you who was hiding Fishface. Because Vito's alliance
was shit. When I was attacked-- when you came at me, and before we
leave this table there must be a penance for that-- Vito refused to
help. All of them refused to help. Even you, Ronove, you and yours
didn't come running to me and mine until he and his gave you a taste."
   Ronove nods. "We're men of the world. We serve our own interests
first. And I think it's in our interests that we work together."
   "A peace," says Jack, disgusted at the word.
   "Not a peace," says Ronove. "Neither of you will stomach it. Not a
peace, but an alliance. Against Fishface. Against the short man.
Against all who stand with him. And, like I said, I don't think many
will, as they've seen how well Vito Valentine's promises have served
you, Jack."
   "I hear you," says Jack.
   "As do I," says Vise-Head.
   "But," says Jack.
   "But," says Vise-Head. "As you said before, a penance must be paid.
For the Will O' the Wisp?"
   Jack nods.
   "For Boyle?"
   "No," says Jack.
   "I knew you'd say that," says Vise-Head. "For your nephew, then.
For his face."
   "For his life," corrects Jack. "The life that was stolen."
   "For his life, I'll give up a life," says Vise-Head. "A nephew for
a nephew. Michael, he that did the act."
   "And I knew you'd say that," says Jack. "Cagey fuck. You always
were. You knew one day, however it turned out, that we'd be sitting at
a table, trading lives to satisfy our honor. And so you sent your
worthless nephew after mine, and after Boyle, so that you could give
him up, magnanimous-like, when the time came, and now the time is
come. Cagey. Cagey fuck. Even when you're frothing at the mouth, you
have your eye on the end game. Very Sicilian of you.
   "But I'm an Irishman, and we are a passionate folk. Up here," he
taps his prime finger against his extended noggin, "it all makes
sense, nephew for nephew. But it's the heart that makes an Irishman,
and in my heart, I cannot accept Michael.
   "For my nephew was more than nephew. Having no children of my own,
truth told, he was more like my son. And only a son will do."
   "My son?"
   "You've got two of them," says Jack. "So you've one to spare."
   "How could you ask me that?" says Vise-Head. "And you call yourself
my friend?"
   "Oh, friendship is fine as far as that goes," says Jack. "This be
business. This be the call of blood for blood."
   Ronove intervenes. "The question to think on, Don Pastrone, is do
you love your son more than you hate your enemy?"
   Vise-Head's eyes flash with anger. "That's not a question that
requires thinking! Not a moment's thought! What kind of man do you
think I am?" Then, quietly, "It'll be the eldest. Peter. He's had more
living than his brother. Only fair."
   "Of course, Don Pastrone."
   "Two promises, Jack?"
   "Go on," says Jack.
   "Fishface dies before you lay a finger on him."
   "That's reasonable. And the other?"
   "Have Fix do it. He always does it clean. I don't want the boy to
linger and to suffer. I've done enough lingering and suffering for my
whole family."
   "You've my word."

Somewhere in the night.
   "Please. Please."
   Fix laces the cord through the holes he's made in Topsy's ears. He
pulls it tight so that the ears lie flat against his head.
   "I'll talk. I'll tell you who it was. You know that. You know me, Fix."
   Fix doesn't know.
   "I heard it from Black Davis. Black Davis."
   Fix aims his gun behind Topsy. He holds it parallel to the right
ear. He fires. The noise punches a hole in the ear drum.
   Topsy screams. "I've already told you. Oh God. It's Black Davis.
I'm telling it true! Please. Please."
   Fix aims his gun behind Topsy. He holds it parallel to the left ear.

Word comes to Vito that Johnny Banana and his boys were hit last night.
   "I expected as much," says Vito to the gorilla gangster.
"Pastrone's going to keep poking at us until he gets a response. But
we've got to... what?"
   "It weren't Pastrone what hit us," grunts Johnny.
   "Got a feeling I ain't going to like this."
   "It were O'Lantern."
   "Fucking Irishman!" bristles Vito. "Does he think he can get away with this?"
   "Pastrone did," dares Johnny.
   "Is that what you think?" says Vito.
   "That's what everybody thinks," shrugs Johnny.
   "Tell me what everybody thinks."
   "They think youse gone soft. That when some mug hits you, you gotta
hit back, and you're just taking it, like a chump. That's what they is
saying and thinking."
   With some effort, Vito holds his tongue. Normally he wouldn't
suffer one of his underbosses to disrespect him like this. But Johnny
has never shown him or anyone else respect, and he is a savage son of
a bitch. One wrong word, and Vito could easily be squash-city. Only
two reasons Vito keeps him around. First is that he'd rather harness
that violence than have it harnessed against him. Second is that
Johnny's stupid, and Johnny knows he's stupid, and that he needs
someone smart to do his thinking for him. That makes him loyal, and
Vito will stomach a lot of shit for that.
   "Is that what you think?" he says finally.
   "I think you don't pay me to think," says Johnny.
   "What I'm trying to do, Johnny, is I'm trying to build something. I
am building something. Come a couple months from now, just a couple
months, and it will be built. What I'm building, who I'm building it
with, it will make us kings in this city. One day, in this state. Real
power. Like the old days, before the Commission tore it apart. And you
have no idea what the hell that means, since you're from another
universe."
   "I got an inkling," says Johnny. "Like it were back home?"
   "Yeah," says Vito. "Living like kings. Untouchable. Friends in all
the right places. Problem is my friends aren't there yet, and a second
problem is that all this mayhem makes them antsy; less friendly.
They'll be there soon enough, so that's problem one we don't have to
worry about. As for problem two, well, that problem isn't solved by
escalating this thing. See?"
   "I see well enough," says Johnny.
   "What I need you to do is go over to Fishface," says Vito.
"Safehouse thirty-six. Move him to twenty-four tonight and wait there
with him. I'll give you a call in two days, and you'll move him again,
and wait with him again. Every two days. Chances are some enterprising
son of a bitch will see what O'Lantern's doing and decide he wants to
do it too. And one of those assholes might know where Maranzano is. So
I need someone I can trust to keep him safe. Last thing I need is
fucking Vise-Head getting what he wants."

Johnny calls Ronove. "He's in thirty-six. I'm moving him to
twenty-four tonight."
   "Thanks. I'll send word to Mr. Pastrone." He hangs up and turns
back to Proctor and Canton. "Apologies, gentlemen. Where were we?"
   "Our mutual friend," says Proctor. "We," he says, pointing to
Canton and himself, "were uneasy about accepting the help of our...
friend."
   Ronove waves his cane. "This is a scrambler, Mr. Proctor. If, as
you suspect, this place has ears, all they're going to hear is static
and squeaks. You can both speak freely, without worrying about any of
it being heard."
   Canton waves his hand; the future Mayor of Jolt City isn't taking
any chances.
   Proctor's a little braver and clears his throat. "We didn't want to
get involved in any of this. But we're both men of the world, and we
know that crime will always exist. Cracking down just creates a
vacuum. When Sam, uh, when Snapp was removed, Mr. Valentine moved
right in. And rather than butt up against that, we have to work with
it. So we accepted Mr. Valentine's help. But he made assurances." [8]
   "That there would be no violence," says Ronove. "No more killings,
no more wars. That he would keep the underworld under. Hidden.
Domesticated."
   "Obviously, this hasn't happened," says Proctor.
   "No," says Ronove. "The short man only seems interested in
escalating the war until it swallows the entire city."
   ""And that's made us awfully shy to get involved with your... element."
   Ronove smiles thoughtfully. "But if someone was to end this war.
Someone who could keep the peace. Someone who was practiced in the
subtlest, sweetest discretion," he adds, tapping his skull with the
scrambler at the tip of his cane.
   Proctor looks to Canton; Canton nods. "Something like that, yes."
   "Not me, of course," says Ronove. "I'm not one for the spotlight.
But a young man. A man who's willing to do what needs doing to keep
the peace. You would accept such a person's help. And you would help
them back. You would be his friend."
   "We would," says Proctor.
   Canton taps on his shoulder.
   "But Mr. Valentine," says Proctor. Canton nods.
   "He has few friends left in this world," says Ronove. "And fewer by
the minute."

Safehouse twenty-four.
   "Damn," says Johnny as they pull up. "Glad we're finally here. You
stink like fish."
   "You stink like gorilla," gargles Fishface.
   "I know," says Johnny, like he's proud of it. "Glad I was born in a
civilized universe. If I was born in this shithole, I'd have been an
Apelantian. Then I'd stink like a gorilla and a fish."
   Johnny opens the door and pushes Fishface inside.
   "Hey! What'd you do that for? And who's this?"
   "Peter," says the young man. "Peter Pastrone."
   "Oh, what the fuck is this?"
   "I'm sorry," says Johnny, breaking both of Maranzano's arms. "But
Vito says I'm to give you over. I don't want to do it, but it's
business." He pushes him to the ground.
   Fishface flops around, flailing. Peter picks him up by the head.
   "Need a little help?" says Johnny.
   "No; I got this."

Vise-Head and son.
   "Well?" says Vise-Head impatiently. "Did you go and get him?"
   "I did," says Peter.
   "Well, where is he?"
   "Dead."
   "Dead?" says Vise-Head. "Dead?"
   "Sure," says Peter. "I drowned him. Filled up the tub while I was
waiting for them. I was thinking about how much you hated him. How
much you wanted to kill him yourself. How much you wanted to watch him
suffer. And then I shoved his head in the water until his eyes bulged
out. So he's dead."
   Vise-Head sputters, speechless. Then, finally: "Why? Why would you
do this thing?"
   "Because I know," says Peter.
   "... You know?"
   "Ronove and Jack told me." Peter grabs hold of the vise, and spins
it loose. His father makes a little moan, and a sob, and then he
bleeds to death.

Somewhere in the night.
   "Do I know you?" spits Black Davis. Blood dribbles from his mouth.
   Fix doesn't say. He hands him a package.
   Inside is one of Topsy's ears.
   "Oh," says Black Davis. "If I tell you, will you make this quick?"
   Fix doesn't say.
   "Man who told me about the short man. Didn't give a name. Never saw
him before. Black man. In his forties. Had a broken arm."
   Frankie Salad was troubled by a man with a broken arm. "Martin Rock."
   "I don't know, man. He didn't give his name."
   Fix puts a bullet in his face.

On October 25th, an anonymous package is delivered to the main police
station, addressed to the Chief of Police.
   They run it through their scanners, and see that there is a dead
fish inside. The bomb squad is called in. They find no traditional
explosives.
   This being the world that it is, they call in a specialist in
improvised nanite-based explosives. He uses his own nanites to scan
the fish. He, too, gives it the all-clear.
   Finally, they take a deep breath, and they cut it open.
   Vito's body spills out limply, bringing to a close the October
Surprise War. On any other day, it would have been the biggest story
in the news. It would have dominated local coverage. It would have
warranted a mention on the national news, and may even have been
trending on twitter and google.
   But on this day, the entire country-- the entire world-- was only
talking about one thing. This was October 25th, 2008.
   This was the Day of Terror.

(TO BE CONTINUED IN JOLT CITY # 22, PART THREE)

COPYRIGHT 2014 TOM RUSSELL