When Jay Desmarteaux walked out the gates of Rahway Prison, the sun hit his face like air on a fresh wound. The breeze smelled different, charged somehow. He had spent twenty-five years as a monk locked inside a dank Shaolin temple dedicated to violence and human predation, while the men who put him there lived free from fear.
Men who needed killing.
For the rest, you’ll have to wait until I find an agent and a publisher.
Onto the next novel, a boozy caper about craft beer, decrepit old bars, Bon Scott’s secret lyric notebook, Nazis, cat farts, and hipster invasions.