My first novel; originally written in 2010, and published four years later after several rewrites to the point wherein I was finally(!) satisfied. It will always hold a special place in my heart due to the fact that it was a re-imagining of a story I had originally concocted, illustrated, self-published and sold as a comic series as a twelve year old boy in 1989.

Subsequently trying to take it to new places through adult eyes was one of my proudest –yet most difficult—accomplishments. But in the end, after 600+ pages, I finally had that satisfaction; a satisfaction only compounded and exceeded by the reception it received and the surprising success it garnered – thanks to you, many of the readers my many articles and columns have gifted me since my breakout in 2002. And for that, I am forever grateful.



The Plot: Arriving in the care of a female doctor for whom he senses an unusual but undeniable bond, a mysterious amnesiac with otherworldly abilities soon finds himself drawn into a Billionaire Industrialist’s intricate web of intrigue and apocalyptic horror as he journeys to find the truth of his own dark past, and the destiny that will one day define him. This is the epic story of one man’s awakening in the face of encompassing darkness; a path of both fall and salvation; a journey of monster and hero.


This is the story of Marc Slash. His legend begins here.



Her head felt heavy. Her mind – it felt like it was on fire, her memories flashing frenetically and painfully before her with zero control. Valencia tried to calm herself; to get herself into a state of calm, to try to even make sense of the disjointed chaos her mind had become, to try and reason, to try and remember.
“Remember,” she now thought to herself – the word itself somehow holding far deeper meaning. It was a  necessity. She knew this, even in her confusion. She could hear a voice commanding it. Her own.
She felt herself running. Down a long hallway she ran, in her hand, a simple implement: a fork; one she had seemingly procured. As if instinct, as if inborn, she felt herself using this fork defensively, quickly, brutally, stabbing its prongs into the necks and jugulars of  several armed men trying to stop her, to prevent her escape, to prevent the escape of others…others she had freed from imprisonment… those, like her, who had been kept against their wills.
Blood. It flowed. It sprayed. It spurted. It covered her. It painted her face, her arms, her hands and fingers like a series of lethal Rorschach ink blots. It was not the first time…It was not the last…  




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