
My name is Morgan. As for my last name, shit, I had dozens of them. Make up one. Amuse yourself. Some members of the press know me as Morgan the Cunt-knife. I’m sure you’ve seen me on TV, in the newspapers. You probably have a friend of a friend who’s liked me on Facebook.


The boy showed up at the side of her ice cream truck wearing a fedora (probably his grandfather’s) and a beige leisure suit stretched tight across his pudgy belly.

On a late Thursday afternoon in January of 1968, a trumpet teacher molested my brother. Or so I think—I’m not sure exactly what happened.

Out toward edge of town, buildings crumble around the vacant lots and trashcan fires, and as I walk past the decay, I feel like I’m being chewed up by a giant mouth filled with rotten teeth. I keep heading toward the Gryphon’s Den where I’m supposed to meet Geoff and settle some business.