<<< Back Table of Contents Next >>> 23 Harry Mellow Reinhold knew everything. He was the master of events, so he knew that Steve had caused a rupture between Anton and Kliff. He was the one who had made that possible, by dropping Uncle Tom and Old Charlie onto Steve's path. He knew the two old-timers from his days running a bookmaking operation under Railroad Bridge. Watching the barges and freighters pass, he'd planned his empire. Later he'd mutated, become the Colonel, but Uncle Tom and Old Charlie had stayed as they were. Now they were his intermediaries, like everyone else. Of course Steve didn't know any of this. He was the innocent in the picture. He called Kliff to him at the Citadel and told him to stay out of it. This was the same conclusion Kliff had come to on his own. He promised Kliff that he would have his role to play. "Let him have his fling with the kid. Let him think he's breaking away. Soon enough, we'll be ready to take things to a new level. Meanwhile, I want him to keep busy with that boy. It'll go more smoothly that way. So keep an eye on his business interests, promote his image like you always do, but don't draw his attention, don't show your hand. The Colonel is stepping in, taking charge. I'll handle things with Anton from now on." He instructed his secretary at the Square Peg Foundation to call Anton and make an appointment. Anton was surprised to hear the voice on his answering machine saying, "Mr. Reinhold would like to make an appointment with you sometime next week to discuss a project. Would you be so kind as to call us and suggest a time?" He didn't know why Reinhold would take the trouble, when he could summon him to the Citadel whenever he wanted. The Square Peg Foundation had moved to a posh modern skyscraper, a prestige address it shared with a financial services company and an international consulting firm. Anton got in the elevator with people in corporate attire and a bike messenger. The messenger recognized him but was too cool to say so. He leaned against the wall on his elbows and blinked slowly, like a lizard. Anton gave him a shrug as if to say, "Why am I here? I don't know either." On the tenth floor, the messenger gave a shove against the wall and moved out the door. Anton rode the elevator the rest of the way up. Reinhold ushered him into an office with a sweeping view of the city, its river and bridges. Once they were seated, he got straight to the point. "We're forming a new church, a church for young people. Not a church in the traditional sense, with God and prayers and all that. It's more of a moral youth movement." There was a twitch of irony at the corner of his mouth. "Young people today are drifting. They need guidance, so we'll fill that role. Our partner in this venture is the Clean Kids Initiative." "Are you out of your mind? They're against everything we stand for." The Clean Kids Initiative was one of his harshest critics. When Destroyed Teen was released, their militants had clashed in several cities. "To be honest with you, I've been one of their biggest sponsors for years." He felt stupid for being surprised. It was just like Reinhold to play both sides of the game. "Our new church will be an extension of Clean Kids for teenagers and young adults. It answers the question, 'What do we do with these kids once they're grown?' We're taking over the New Jerusalem Chapel in Zombieland. For Clean Kids, that's the heart of the sin zone. For you, it's your home base. Our goal is to build on that sense of community to form a spiritual movement. Pastor Blackwell recently suffered a stroke and decided to step down, so we're seizing the moment. He agreed to hand over his church to us, so we can upgrade it for the Psychic Hygiene Movement." Anton's stomach tightened. New Jerusalem had been home to some of the city's most memorable all-night parties, and it was still his favorite venue in Portland. He'd noticed it was closed for renovation, and now he understood why. "What I envision," Reinhold was saying, "is a new type of ritual that combines ecstatic trance music, hypnotic visuals and psychedelic drugs to form an experience that appeals to the techno-primitives, the urban scavengers. Those are the people we need, soldiers of chaos, bringers of mayhem for a new era. And who could be better to lead this new movement than you, with your talent and charisma? They're your people, the core of your fan base. You understand the needs of this community better than anyone." He found it hard to believe that he was hearing these words. He marveled at the majesty of the plan, but also at how clueless Reinhold had become. Techno-primitivism was long dead. If that community still existed, he'd long since lost touch with it. He didn't deserve to be its leader now, certainly not for a cynical venture like this one. He shook his head to clear the confusion. "You want me to found a new religion? With myself as prophet?" "A prophet's not what I'm looking for. What I want is a figurehead. I'm not asking you to convert the masses or perform miracles. What I need is your image." He could tell that being a prophet appealed to Anton, so he decided to play on that. "You don't have to say 'I'm a prophet' in so many words. Just lead by example. You're passionate, full of conviction. You have faith in yourself and your ability to lead. People believe in you already. Why not take it a step further for a worthy cause?" "How worthy is it?" "Do you have doubts?" "Of course I have doubts! How can I be a prophet if I don't believe in the religions we already have?" "All the better. You couldn't bring a new one if you did." "We don't need a new religion!" "Then let me explain. It isn't a new religion, it's an upgrade of the old ones. The trouble is, none of the old religions work any more for manipulating crowds. If you can get people fired up, you've got a mob ready to do anything. Torch a city, wipe out your enemies, do you think Billy Graham can do that?" "I'm not into torching cities any more." "That's not the point. The point is control. The psyche is a person's control center, and religion is the gateway to the psyche. If you can tinker with that, you can control the person. All religions have handles on the psyche to control their followers. We need a few handles of our own." "Are you saying you want me to deliver my generation over to you? You want me to lead them into the ocean, singing? Do you think I would do that? Kids don't need heroes. They should be smashing icons, not making new ones. What they need is for everyone to get out of the way and give them the keys to the temple. That way, they can drag all the old gods and demons, all the old mysteries into the sun. Frankly, a world without heroes would be a better place." Reinhold applauded madly. "That's the spirit! Don't you see, you're proving my point. With you out there preaching against icons, that makes you a prophet. A nihilistic one to be sure, but all the more appropriate for the times we're in." "What makes you think people will accept me as the head of a new religion? That's just bizarre." "People believe all kinds of silly things." "I've been speaking against hypocrites throughout my career. Opportunists who want us to follow them blindly. Now you want me to become one?" "We'll put a positive spin on it. We'll say you're grown wiser, and you want to give something back. The underground press will be the first to defend you. The mainstream media will follow their lead." He knew that Reinhold wasn't asking for his permission. This had all been planned in advance. He wished he had the nerve to refuse, but he didn't. "I won't protest. I won't stand in your way. But don't expect me to get excited about it. It's not going to work." He figured the idea would fail on its own merits. A joint venture with the Clean Kids Initiative was too farfetched for anyone to take seriously. His fans would assume it was a joke, and his enemies would say he'd sold out. He would set things straight soon enough, when he released The Last Assassin. He would show the world he still had principles. With Reinhold's blessing, preparations began for the new church. Farnham T. Sparks combed through his archives, looking for interviews and testimonials that portrayed Anton as a guru. Kliff got in touch with private collectors he knew, persuading them to hand over relics from Anton's past—his first bass, posters from his shows, the costume he'd worn on the cover of Destroyed Teen—for a museum in the temple lobby. Flyers for the Psychic Hygiene Movement started to appear in clubs, record stores, and clothing boutiques around Portland. They quoted Anton in a way that led people to believe he was behind it all, without ever claiming a direct endorsement. There were his calls to purity and sincerity, his incitements to tear everything down and let flowers bloom in the ruins, his warnings against deceivers and false prophets. It was as if he was calling his flock to him, uniting them around him in an urgent cause. He was aware of what was happening, and he even participated from a distance. He sketched out ideas for staging the collective rituals, and provided collages of trance music designed for various moods. He wanted Reinhold to think he was playing along, because he wasn't ready yet to bring his revolt into the open. Eventually he was called back to the Square Peg Foundation to meet Ethan Frump, head of the Clean Kids Initiative. This was the same man he'd protested with his friends back in the Trashtown days. He'd nearly been grabbed by the police as he tried to slip into the building where Frump was speaking. It felt strange to be in the same room with him now, considering that each thought the other was Satan. Frump held out his hand. "Despite our differences, we're on the same team. You're a model for young people we can respect. This project is a breakthrough for both sides. Finally, we can speak to kids with one voice." Anton eyed him warily. Weren't they supposed to be enemies? Were Frump's conservative values just a put-on? They shook hands as Reinhold looked on. "This is a new role for me," he muttered. "I hope it works out." They talked for a few minutes until Frump announced he had other commitments. Once he was gone, Reinhold got out the Scotch and tumblers and poured drinks. Before Anton had come in, he'd been talking with Frump about how to fund the project, and their strategy for the rollout. He'd arranged things so that his two protagonists would get a chance to cross paths, and now he was ready for another talk. "You told me once that you want a revolution. Well, here's your chance. We're forming the Unity Party in Omaha, and Ethan Frump is a big player in that effort. That makes him a great ally for you, in my opinion. It's your chance to have a platform, sway the agenda." "I already have a platform, my millions of fans." "Sure, but why stop there? Think of the possibilities this opens up for you. With real political muscle behind you, you'll be able to make the kinds of changes you've only dreamed about until now." "I don't know about that. Your agenda is already set. Back at the Citadel, you were talking about elections to end elections, or something like that." "True, the broad brushstrokes are already in place. But there's still something you can add, your constituency. A constituency of millions gives you political clout. So go ahead, make your demands. What kind of revolution do you want? Steal from the rich and give to the poor? Free love in the park? Throw all the cops in jail?" "You're patronizing me. We want to destroy the political system, shut down the media, bring the global economy to a halt. We want to start over, try something new." "Excellent! I've always admired your ambition." He knew that even if the Colonel pretended to let him have his say, the script was already written. If he played along, all would go well for him. If not, Reinhold would find someone else. He'd seen it already in his musical career. Why fall for the same tricks again? He didn't want to be a puppet in someone else's revolution. He had his own revolution to think about. As they traded small talk over glasses of Scotch, he kept his thoughts to himself. In fact, he was afraid to even think them in Reinhold's presence. His strategy was to bide his time, let Reinhold believe he was using him, and wait for his chance to strike. The new church opened its doors a few weeks later, in a blast of publicity. Instead of advertising in the mainstream media, an army of young people hit the streets. This was Anton's idea, so that his barefoot followers could earn fifty dollars a day for handing out flyers. First-time visitors to the church were given a CD of his words and music if they agreed to take a personality test. For all he knew, he was paying for this out of his own pocket. He'd never taken charge of his business after Kliff's departure, so he had no idea how his money was being spent. He only knew there was always enough. After a few weeks, he decided to go down to the church to see what was going on in his name. He walked there one afternoon from Steve's apartment. When he arrived, he was shocked to find that the place had been renamed the House of Mysticism. On either side of the entrance was a full-length image of him in a white robe, a gold medallion around his neck. He floated in space, arms open in a welcoming gesture. The background was done in violet hues, and he was radiating a golden glow. "Creepy," he said as he went in. On one wall of the lobby was a larger-than-life portrait of him as the young guru, the original of the ones outside. It was a richly textured oil painting, framed in silk and bathed in mysterious light. CDs were displayed at a lighted counter, showing him in a range of erotic, transcendent poses. The candy colors, lavender and lime and orange, told him it was Périne's work from the Extreme Liberties period. Looking closely, he realized this was the trance music he'd created to accompany the rituals. On the other side of the room were pamphlets and books allegedly written by him, such as Escape from Matter, Why Psychic Hygiene? and Dark Blossoms, a book of poems with the tag line, "As relevant as today's headlines, as enduring as the Psalms." He picked up Why Psychic Hygiene? which was described as "the Bible of the Psychic Hygiene Movement." It was culled from things he'd said over the years in interviews and conversation, arranged to give the illusion they formed a philosophy. It was presented in catechism format, with Anton answering setup questions in eloquent bursts. Q. Where can we find our motivation in life? A. Speaking for myself, I'm motivated by an almost Buddhist notion of the illusory nature of things. It's hard for me to take things too seriously, isolated tragedies and so forth, even my own. Q. Is this life we're living real? A. Don't you ever wonder if you're dreaming? I mean, this has to be a dream, doesn't it? How could it be so hard just to survive? On the other hand, if we're dreaming, our imagination must be pretty fucked up to have invented this. Q. Where do we come from? A. I believe we're descended from men from the sky. Somehow they breathed their seed into the local species. We've preserved the memory of that initial contact, and have been driven by it since then. Always we yearn to rise out of ourselves, to soar out of this realm altogether. Q. What is the reason we're here? A. Let me explain something to you. You and I exist, but "here" and "now" do not. The world we live in is simply another womb, from which we must emerge or be born dead. Why is this so hard for people to see? A toilet flushed somewhere, followed by the rush of water in a sink, and a door opening. Anton didn't notice, because he was engrossed in his reading. A young woman, the temple receptionist, came into the lobby. Seeing Anton there, she started to tremble. When he finally looked up, she let out a yelp. "Are you here to take the tour?" she said, biting the back of her hand. He smiled reassuringly. "Sure, let's take the tour." She caught her breath and corrected herself. "Well, you don't really need to take the tour, because you're the guru." "I may be the guru, but that doesn't mean I know everything." He waved the book at her. "For example, I don't remember saying half the stuff in here. It's almost like someone else wrote it, you know?" She nodded, biting her lip. "I might've said it, I just don't remember. So let's take the tour. I want to see what it's like to be a regular recruit." She stood there, paralyzed, for several seconds. She seemed to feel there was something deeply unusual about the guru wanting to be shown around his own temple, but she could hardly refuse her spiritual master. Or perhaps she was shy, terrified he would see the holes in her training. Finally she overcame her resistance and led him into a little room that had a one-way glass looking onto the lobby. It contained a conference table, a video projector, headphones, a stack of workbooks, a shelf with flash cards and puzzles. It was like a third-grade work area, which made it reassuring, in a troubling way. She explained that normally they would sit there, and she would administer a personality test. "It helps us to target the needs of our recruits, so we know which programming to use. For example, we help angry people direct their anger at the right targets. Lost people we give a reference point, a goal. We give a sense of belonging to insecure people, so they can improve their self-confidence." "What about sarcastic people?" "What do you mean?" "People who don't cooperate. Belligerent people. People who mock the very idea of what you're doing here. People who say, 'That kid's no guru. You guys are a bunch of frauds.'" She blanched. "You mean they're resistant to the Teaching?" "Resistant to the Teaching, or maybe they just don't like the Teaching. Maybe they think the Teaching sucks." She grew extremely nervous. She kept glancing over his right shoulder, which led him to believe a camera must be mounted there. He figured another camera was mounted on the wall in front of him, though he couldn't see it. "We'd call security," she said firmly. "They might contaminate the other recruits." "How many recruits do you get a week, on average?" She'd been asked a direct question by her guru, but it was one of the questions she was forbidden to answer under any circumstances. Her hypnotic indoctrination made it impossible, but she could hardly disobey her guru! Finally she spat out a nonanswer. "I think...normally I'd give you a personality test here in this room, but of course we can't do that because you're the guru." She paused as if mortified. "So maybe...I think it's best if we go on with the tour." She ushered him into the main auditorium, which looked familiar to Anton from all the concerts he'd done there, though it had undergone a redesign that made it flashier. It was still open to groups from the community who sponsored break-dancing contests, drag queen karaoke, or all-girl grunge opera, which was one way they drew in new recruits. But the main attraction was an all-night party called the Ritual, centered around the Musical Recipes, as Anton's sound collages were now known. These pieces were designed to arouse specific emotions, leading the listeners through a series of "chord changes" that used their emotions as an instrument. In this way, the music could be lived as well as heard. The Rituals were open both to temple initiates and newcomers, who were known as "butterflies from the street." The initiates blended with the newcomers, and those who responded in a certain way to the musical signals were invited to take a personality test, and their first Guided Meditation. She led him into the Meditation Center, which was a small, domed room just off the lobby. "It doubles as a chill-out room during the Rituals," she explained. She proudly showed him the Brainports, pneumatic chairs fitted with what looked like hair dryers, huge bell-shaped things that fit over the head, bristling with electrodes. In addition, a skin patch was placed against the back of the neck during mediation, "to keep a steady stream of Soul Vitamins flowing through the blood." He observed powerful speakers close to the floor, and projectors that could light up any portion of the dome's surface. "Do you want to meditate?" she asked, and he agreed. She strapped him into one of the chairs and lowered the apparatus over his head. She swabbed the back of his neck with a conductive ointment, and pressed the hallucinogenic patch to his skin. The lights dimmed and she left the room. Dizzying patterns began to play on the walls and ceiling. The space filled with his Musical Recipes, and he was just beginning to lose himself in them when a voice came on the tape. "Welcome to the Guided Meditation Center. How are you today? Your host will be our guru, Harry Mellow." The portrait he'd seen of himself in the lobby floated before his eyes, emerging from a violet background and radiating light. It was a hologram that pulsed slowly, speaking with his voice. Human beings have the spirits of angels in the bodies of beasts. It's like some kind of perverse joke. Sometimes I think it would be easier if I didn't know people. I can never manage to get used to the way the world works, the priorities that people have. I feel like a stranger here. There are times when I'm against everything, when I hate human nature and even hate myself. But I learned long ago never to doubt myself at a crucial moment. It made him uncomfortable to be indoctrinated by himself, to have his own voice drilling into his subconscious, telling him what to think. I believe there is a consciousness on this earth that enslaves us. I call this consciousness ignorance, narrow thinking. It keeps us chained to what we already know, when in fact we have so much to learn. The way is scattered with clues, but few of us think to look for them. All we need is right there in front of us. It's just a question of what to do with the information. I believe that people are waking up, asking themselves why we behave the way we do. Most of the answers aren't elegant or pretty. Our life doesn't matter automatically. We have to make it matter. It's not enough to "care," to give and feel support. We have to act in a way that is dangerous, that has the potential to change things. It's better to step into the fire, endure the test of fire, than to remain forever outside the action. Let's not seek the shelter of the familiar, let's search the world for our companions! He couldn't remember what happened next. He woke up in bed in his studio, with no memory of how he'd gotten home. Some of the temple's evangelical pamphlets were stuffed in his pocket, confirming the awful truth, that his random thoughts were being turned into religious dogma. The circumstances under which he'd left the House of Mysticism remained a mystery. Perhaps he'd torn the Brainport from his head and run outside, screaming in the street until someone calmed him down and delivered him into caring hands. More likely he'd kept his cool, thanked the temple receptionist, and gone for a walk in the hills until the drugs wore off, along with his sense of panic. Until now the Psychic Hygiene Movement had been an abstraction to him. Being a victim of it himself was another thing entirely. He'd experienced what it felt like to be one of his own fans, one of the "butterflies from the street" lured into the House of Mysticism by his voice and image. He didn't like it at all. He wondered if it was always this way between a fan and his idol. If he'd been part of the audience at one of his early Trashtown shows, he knew he would have been as caught up in the energy as anyone. He would have given in to it, sensing its authenticity. He would have caught fire, and after the dancing and the vertigo, he would have gone home to dream of a radiant new world. Even the Destroyed Teen period, with its massive arenas and huge video screens, might still have inspired him. He would have seen a young star who was trapped in his own hype, but even so, he would have sensed that his idol was trying to break down the barriers, slashing away the layers between them with a knife. The House of Mysticism was different. It was a marketing tool or worse. In fact, it was much worse. It represented everything he'd fought against, yet he'd become its guru, Harry Mellow. How had it come to this? He'd met Harry Mellow in a dream, the same dream that had brought him to Portland. He'd been a bit like Anton, blond and charismatic, with a piercing gaze. He'd asked Anton for the Colonel's secrets, but a powerful force had kept Anton silent. He'd said to Anton, "We've been expecting you for a long time," and, "You may not take Anton very seriously, but you're perfect in the role." Now the dream had come full circle, and he was the guru he'd dreamed about. Had it been his destiny all along to become Harry Mellow? For perhaps the first time in his life, he felt shame. As Harry Mellow, he was Reinhold's number one whore. He could only imagine what his old friends were saying. "Anton hooked up with the Clean Kids people and made himself their guru." There was no way to explain it except as the result of an out-of-control ego. The Last Assassin would expose Reinhold's plot to control kids' minds, but now as Harry Mellow, he was an example of that himself. How could he attack false idols when he'd become one? It was as if the Colonel had learned of his plans before he'd even begun, and had tricked him into short-circuiting his own intentions. He found a message from Steve on his answering machine. When he returned the call, Steve sounded worried. "Some people saw you outside Club Omaha making a scene. I told them it wasn't you, because you never make a scene. But it's been almost a day since I heard from you, and that isn't normal. So I figured maybe you really did freak out about something." "Do you know what they've done to me? They made a new church...." "The House of Mysticism? It's pretty weird. When I go there, I feel like I'm in Antonland." "You went there? You?" "Sure, once or twice." "Did they brainwash you? Did you take the tests?" "I didn't need to. I'm under your influence already." "That place is revolting. It's wrong." Steve tried to soothe him. "You've been involved in it for a while. It's not like—" "Do you remember when I said I want to get out? Let's do it today." Steve had assumed that when the decision was made, they would discuss it together in a reasonable way. Instead it came with no warning. He hated to go back to the sticks just when he was starting to settle into city life, but his faith in Anton was complete. They'd planned what to do. Steve had an aunt in Idaho, and she'd always been a free spirit. He was on better terms with her than with the rest of the family. She had a young family of her own, and would be happy to host Steve and his friend. They could stay with her for a few days while they looked for a place of their own. They rented a white-paneled truck to take their things to Idaho. When Anton looked around his studio, he saw that he didn't want anything. He took his recording equipment and the things that mattered to him most, like Timmins' painting of the Virgin, his writing and his favorite books. From Steve's place they took whatever would be useful for furnishing a new place, leaving the apartment almost empty. Anton liked Steve's aunt even though she was Christian, but family life wasn't for him, and after a few days he started to get restless. There was always something simmering in the kitchen, and they were surrounded by endless trees and mountains, but that just meant he suffocated slowly, rather than all at once. Steve's aunt was open-minded about his clothes and behavior, saying, "A friend of Steve's is part of the family," but it was hard not to sense the disapproval of her husband, a white-collar conservative with a carefully trimmed beard. He bought a used car from a local family, putting in Steve's name because he didn't have a license. He'd never had one, and he didn't want to get one because he was trying to stay off Reinhold's radar. He spent the next few days driving into the mountains, looking for an isolated place to set up a studio. His dream was to live with Steve high up in the rocks, far from intruders, until The Last Assassin was ready. In the end he realized it wouldn't work, because he needed an industrial space with lots of electricity. After drifting into Twin Falls to get a burger, he noticed a freestanding building on the road out of town. It was made of cinderblock with its own small parking lot, and it was almost windowless. It still had the signage from its last occupant, an auto supply store. A notice in the front window said it was for rent. He wrote down the number and drove back to Steve's aunt's house, arriving just after dark. "Oh, hello," she said, turning from the sink with wet hands. "We were just about to sit down to dinner." "Hi, Anton, leave your coat in the closet," Steve called from the back room. He'd stayed behind to help his aunt around the house. "Steve...!" his aunt chided him. "What, you want me to take his coat? He lives here now, he can find the closet." "I've got it, Mrs. C." He put his coat in the closet. After dinner, the family settled in the living room around the TV, while Anton and Steve went on the sun porch where they'd made their nest. There were lots of windows, hanging plants, cushioned benches and a coffee table. There was an old Victrola no one used. Blankets and pillows lay on the benches where they slept. Their papers and things were scattered around in mild disorder. A storm was brewing in the distant mountains. The smells of earth, pollen and pine floated on the night air. Steve's nephew Benji, who was about eight, appeared in the doorway and blinked at them. "Hey Benji, c'mere." Steve told Anton, "You gotta see this, it's freaky. Benji, do your dead puppy imitation for Anton." Benji came over. "I dunno, it's not really...." "C'mon, it's hilarious!" "Okay," Benji muttered. Suddenly, his neck was broken and he was on his back on the ground, suffering paralytic death throes and an inability to breathe. His hands drew close to his chest like a puppy's. His body had a series of spasms and went limp. After a moment he got up, dusted himself off and slunk away, ashamed of himself. Anton and Steve burst out laughing in a delayed reaction. "Spooky," Anton said. "That was pathetic." Steve imitated a whimpering puppy, and they laughed again. "Where'd he get that?" "He must've seen it in real life. He's sure got an eye for detail." "So far, it's my nephew's only talent, but his dead puppy imitation is right on." Anton told him about the place he'd found in Twin Falls, and the next day they went there together. After seeing the inside of the building, Anton decided it would work for him and signed the lease. They looked for a place to live, settling on a bungalow on a tree-lined street a few blocks from downtown. It was smaller than the houses around it, and set back from the street. They returned to Steve's aunt's house to pick up their things. Following their move, Steve spent his days at the house fixing things up, while Anton stayed at the studio to oversee the improvements he needed. He hired a couple of workers and brought in cables and soundproofing materials, sheetrock and carpet and lumber. Some of the equipment he needed wasn't available in Twin Falls, so he had to go to Sound 2000 in Boise, the only pro audio store in the state. He decided to keep the white-paneled truck indefinitely, because it was useful for transport. Once the album was finished and he started touring again, he could use it to haul gear to his shows. He was eager to get to work on The Last Assassin, but setting up the studio took longer than he'd intended. Money was never a problem, but it did make him paranoid. He was sure that someone at the Citadel was monitoring his account, and he almost felt guilty using his resources against the Colonel. <<< Back Table of Contents Next >>>