“Asia...” I tapped my finger to my chin, the vaguest of memories flickering at the edge of my conscious mind. “Your name’s familiar somehow. Have we met before?” I doubted it. She wasn’t a Villain Vamp, as we called the girls who lowered their standards enough to date our kind. So where did I know her from? She blew out a long, drawn out sigh. “My full name is Anastasia Bella Tremaine.” At my blank look, she added, “My step-dad’s Kin...

Prologue Once upon a time (about 9 minutes and forty-seven seconds ago)in a land far, far and away (the corner of West Fairy-Second Street and Sugar Plum Lane to be precise) stood a beautiful princess, a woman without compare in beauty or sweetness. Every one in the land loved her, from the most villainous villain to the wickedest of witch. “Hello there.” The princess smiled at a bluebird pecking at a bit of gravel on the sidewalk. “Aren’t you a pretty bird?” T...

At sunrise, Pike pull The Dive’s anchor from its burial place at sea, and cast off for Big Pine Key. He waved to Captain Bill, the crusty, gay owner of the Manland Express, a catamaran painted vivid pink in color. Killer yapped from the Manland’s gunwale, his big, pointed ears twitching in the breeze. Pike grinned, and shook his head. Damn dog, he thought, leave it to me to own the only pup in Florida who gets seasick. While Killer wasn’t making the trip to Big Pine Key, so...

An hour later, Pike climbed from his Jeep, and raised his hand. “Stopp!” he commanded Killer. The pup froze, his stubby tail shaking with excitement. Pike flipped a Pup-Peroni in the air, it tumbled end over end, landing an inch from Killer’s twitching nose. But Killer stayed still as ordered. “Braver Hund,” good dog, Pike told him. “Hol!” Killer lunged for the treat, snapping it in pieces with one chomp. Drool spilled from his mouth, coating Pike&r...

At ten minutes after two, dressed in a pair of jean shorts and a faded gray t-shirt, Pike arrived at the opulent Jupiter Beach Resort, which overlooked the ocean and a private sandy beach. Secret Service agents lined the perimeter, as did a few police snipers, reporters, cops, and protestors. The protestors waved signs, and yelled hate-filled slogans, mostly about the current president’s political views. Julia’s views didn’t seem to factor. He hopped in the elevator, and w...

Pike woke the next morning, his head, and bladder aching and full. No more Sex In or On Anything’s. No more booze period, at least for a while, he vowed. He wasn’t eighteen anymore, as his liver had protested after the third frilly, umbrella drink. Shifting carefully so not to wake Patty, Pike maneuvered from the bed and headed for the head. The weak sunlight filtering through the window suggested it was close to sunrise. Pike’s favorite time of the day. After pissing for...

After fishing his phobic hundred-pound Doberman from the drink, and spending an hour blow-drying and babying said neurotic pet, Pike needed a drink. A really big one. Swiping a comb through his hair and a razor across his chin, careful to avoid the fist-sized bruise, Pike dressed in a pair of Bermuda shorts and a pineapple colored shirt with a parrot emblazoned over his heart and headed for Love Street and the Square Grouper Tiki Bar. Pike hated the Tiki Bar, but it was the one place in Ju...

The first punch connected with the side of Pike’s jaw, snapping his neck back with the force of it. Blood exploded inside his mouth, warm and rusty. He spit out a glop, his eyes focusing on the red stain. No teeth or bone. A good sign. “We want our money, boy,” said Boyd Buddha Gallagher. Boyd’s meaty, good ole boy fist smashed into Pike’s sternum, dropping him to his knees. He sucked in a shallow breath and considered puking. But decided the effort would hurt ...

After leaving the panhandlers, I glanced at my beat-up watch, a gift from the Salvation Army for thirty days sober. 3:12 p.m. Fuck. I’d missed my bus. I ran an angry hand through my collar length black hair, pushing it from my eyes. Its greasy ends left smudge marks on the plastic of my sunglasses, giving my vision a hazy glow, like the days of old Hollywood. I looked across the street to a hooker dressed in a leather shirt and push-up bra. Soft focus did nothing to cover her Adam’s apple and...

Ten blocks up, Bill dropped me off. I waved goodbye and headed into the Hollywood BAART Clinic, a seedy substance abuse treatment facility funded by Medicaid and the good-old city of angels. The place smelled of human waste and bleach. A line of addicts waited on cracked plastic chair, hunched over, eyes vacant. I picked a number, 89, from the machine and sat down to wait my turn. I’d read somewhere that the average citizen in Los Angeles spends over sixty-two minutes a day waiting, for the b...