| Moral Turpitude, Fella*
John Edward Lawson
“We do not need to proselytize either by our speech or by our writing. We can only do so really with our lives. Let our lives be open books for all to study.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
A white-robed shadow stalks the night, gliding through empty streets and draining light from the city’s dreams. Helena the hipster, young party-tripper, she stumbles home far too early/late for any person to be alone. She is too far gone to notice his blood-drenched aroma, henna-dark skin, vacant scalp, delicate spectacles perched on his nose. When his fangs tear into her aorta the enzymes in his saliva hypnotize her nerve endings, tricking them into a snake-charmer’s dance of mollified phantoms. All that Helena feels is a steady weight dragging her down into dark tides of gentle sleep …
§
“You don’t have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
Parable: An Indian woman observes that her son cannot stop eating sweets, and the problem is beginning to affect his health. After other options fail she takes him to see the revered Mohandas Gandhi. “Please,” she asks him, “tell my son to stop eating sugar. He will listen to you.” Gandhi replies, “Bring him back in two weeks time and I shall do so.” Confused by his request, she nevertheless follows his instructions. Two weeks later Gandhi does as the woman had asked, much to her family’s relief. “Why, though,” she wonders, “did you ask me to come back?” Gandhi smiles kindly. “Two weeks ago I was still eating sugar."
§
“It is unwise to be too sure of one’s own wisdom. It is healthy to be reminded that the strongest might weaken and the wisest might err.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
Helena FAQ
*thanks to RoughRider69@Helena.org
• Height: 5’6”
• Weight: 127 lbs. (featherweight)
• Reach: 43 inches
• Win/Loss: 13/5
• Specialty Match: Barbed Wire Baby Cage
• Do I have to become a member of the site in order to access [RESTRICTED]?
YES
• Hairstyle: The Deadly Multitude
• Favorite Memory: President Gore being sworn in (first term)
• First Kiss: Ms. Trudou, Kindergarten teacher (still failed and had to repeat year; with different teacher)
• How come the site hasn’t been updated in a while?
Cause Helena done been killed or some shizzo, ya dumb muthacrotch!
• Favorite Ice Cream: Little Gold Bat
• Favorite Song: “Goth Milk” by Down for da Count
• Quote: “Suckas gots ta know!”
• I don’t like your tone.
Then please donate to your favorite charity.
§
“If I had no sense of humor I would have long ago committed suicide.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
“And what is it you do for a living, Mr. … ?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with my daughter being abducted. There were several witnesses!” The middle-aged Caucasian pounds his fists together. The gesture is nowhere near as disconcerting as his thinning, dark hair and greasy bifocals. “Force, the name’s Force. Just call me Wilbur, if you don’t mind.”
“I don’t mind.”
“And I’m a forensic accountant for the IRS.”
“Figures you’d be in the thrall of the White Devil.”
“Pardon?”
Taedan steps out from behind the counter of his surf shop. He struts into the storage room with a mild buzz on, happy even while annoyed by his potential client, who, after a hesitation, follows him. Taedan is Native American, with long black hair and reefer-dilated pupils. “How’d you find me, White Willie?”
“You’re listed on CarlsList.org.” The grieving father’s eyes scan the storage room; it is empty, so the “surf shop” must be a front for the private detective business. He forces himself to look past the unreported income. “And don’t call me that.”
“White Willie revealed his secrets, so Red Taedan must do the same. I’m a member of the Lenape nation. My ancestors became one with the Skin Walkers back when your people were still running around with mud on their faces. All that you see around you is funded by the furrier company I inherited. If there’s one thing skinwalkers know, it’s fur.”
“You’re a what-what?”
Taedan has found that accountants are often unable to grasp the finer points of werewolf esoterics, so he moves on. “Look, if you got a problem with surfing detectives you best move on.”
“I’m guessing my Helena wouldn’t have a problem with surfers, so it’ll fly with me. What fees can I expect to incur?”
“I don’t work for the White Man’s Venom.”
“White Man’s … ?”
“All accounts are paid in bone.”
Wilbur’s eyes narrow. “Let me guess: illegal ivory and rhino horns imported discreetly for your Godless pagan rituals?”
Taedan steps closer, not a trace of anger in his features. As a smile creeps into his features his hands find purchase on Wilbur’s buttocks.
<<Fifteen Minutes Later>>
Wilbur has reached his nadir. His visage betrays no emotions, however, as all concern in his possession is turned not inward, but directed externally, his vulnerable intellectual innards regurgitated and hacked loose with a rusty blade, sent spiraling out into the world, tethered not by leash nor reign.
Taedan doesn’t care. His relatives, when in freakybone form, have occasionally vomited their actual insides and bitten through them, severing their connection to this world. He’s seen it happen one time too many, so the loss his clients suffer—and they always suffer some variety of lily-livered loss—means less than nothing.
“All righty, whitey. Gonna go get my search on. I’ll hit you back when the shit gets real.”
§
“What do I think of western civilization? I think it would be a very good idea.
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
Taedan strolls out onto the boardwalk, enjoying a breeze warmed by the afternoon sun. The beach is loaded with tourists and townies, friends and even a few colleagues. He joins said colleagues on the sand, hands in the pockets of his cargo shorts, the aroma of sun-ripened tan lotion drifting to his nostrils. “Dudes.”
“What up?” is their rejoinder. All eyes are focused on the breaking waves, cresting board, churning water, flailing limbs, thrashing fins.
Jocquin, a Brazilian import, observes: “The great white is an artist who only paints in a solitary color, a primary color.”
“Only color you need to worry about is green, mon frère.” Taedan finally has their attention. “Got a job for the three of you.”
“Finally.” Jocquin’s bronze skin blazes under the sun’s radiation. “Who we got to kill?”
“Nobody, bro. You’re looking for somebody, a chick, and maybe she wants to be found or maybe she doesn’t.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Could be you two dudes and dudette are looking to fill a body bag.”
Messiah, a Sino-Anglo of small stature and bleached hair, breaks his silence after a severed finger washes up and tickles his foot. “Same configuration as, like, usual?”
“Word, Mess. You handle infiltration. Joci-Joc, you hit the streets and see what you can squeeze outta some hedz. Amadikah, crotch up the internet with those cyber-terrorist skills of yours.”
The dark-skinned female slips damp cargo pants over her bikini. “Whycome I’s gotta be a terrorist? I’m a Black Muslim, not the other kind.”
Her three male companions stare at each other, contemplating this. “Whatever.” They go their separate ways.
Taedan texts the pertinent info to each of his cohorts individually; it is safest not to discuss the facts in public, and controlling the flow in information sends a surge of energy through his loins. This has been the arrangement since the inception of his detective venture. He procures jobs, and the other three do all the work.
§
“The law of sacrifice is uniform throughout the world. To be effective it demands the sacrifice of the bravest and the most spotless.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
Scarable: A pale-skinned European tourist who travels only at night seeks an end to his unholy addiction. After traveling the planet he arrives in India, seeking counsel with Gandhi. “O venerable one, what shall I do? It is only through the blood of a living human that I draw sustenance. I do not wish to feed myself, yet I do not wish to die either. Surely there must be a resolution to this horror?” Gandhi smiles kindly, offering these words: “Experiential knowledge trumps anecdotal knowledge, and without it I am unable to ease your pain.” The world-renowned pacifist exposes his neck; the vampire complies with Gandhi’s wishes, blood-bonding the man to eternal darkness.
§
“Let us all be brave enough to die the death of a martyr, but let no one lust for martyrdom.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
Amadikah
“Black Surfer Chicks” are in low supply, high demand, recently trading for over $126 a pound. Prices dipped slightly after the so-called “Mad Cow Scare”—which is really only a scare if you call one a mad cow to her face.
Amadikah is a goofy-footer, gone Green after learning the surfboard industry is one of the worst pollution sources in the world. Now she strictly rides carved ivory, no more styrofoam nonsense.
She sits in her one room apartment/control center. Surrounded by monitors—both audio and visual—and ice cream collectables. Red, white and blue syrup Afri-Cola dispensers flank her left, Gilchrist Company ice cream dippers and fiberoptic cables are underfoot, a tin Hinders of Baltimore advertisement waits on her desktop for proper mounting.
Data streams twinkle as characters flit across a dozen screens. Official records pour in: social security records, birth and death certificates, bank account transfers, sealed juvenile court documents, reports that violate doctor/patient privilege, a ceaseless cascade of naughty knowledge. She’s bound to be the one who cracks the case this time. Jocquin and Messiah, they will bow to her investigative prowess forthwith.
First, though, some site hacks are required. Tracer bots hound dozens of surfers as they coast on tides of electricity. Viruses mangle entire networks, shatter web hierarchies. At her command thirty-eight fictitious identities launch thousands of eMails titled PLEASE RESPOND and FROM THE DESK OF NAWJAND ALAHZWI, ESQUIRE. As these automated tasks choke internet traffic Amadikah commences with a schizzed IM campaign, carrying on almost a dozen simultaneous conversations in different chat rooms, each with a different name, age, race, tone, sig.
These are not the illicit activities that rouse the ire of the authorities, however. The reason for her arrest and detention is the cumulative efforts of a five-month kiddy porn sting coordinated between state and federal law enforcement.
Amadikah takes it all in stride. Her family has been harassed by The Man for generations. She sits at a visitation room table Buddha-calm, a cigarette bitter between her lips, watching her boss approach through the glass walls. Taedan trips, then studies the linoleum floor in a transparent effort to convince witnesses of the floor’s treacherous unevenness.
The doors slam shut behind Taedan. It occurs to him that Amadikah could be far gone and out, a danger to herself and shapeshifting visitor-friends. He takes a seat at the table, and the pair stare at each other for the better part of a minute. This is not an awkward silence, but a pregnant one wracked with contractions.
“What up, girlfriend? You done crotched up and lost yo’ mammy-jammin’ mind?”
“I’s gettin’ too close to the truth, and it involved too many of the wrong muthacrotchin’ people, naw mean?”
Taedan sighs, rubs frantically at his face. “Would that be any particular truth, something relating to the case?”
“There’s only one truth, red man.”
“Um, like, we so can’t afford to botch this up, homegirl. The client-dude is a wig at the IRS and shizzo like that.”
“Just look into the truth is what I’m sayin’. Be checkin’ yo’ eMail out. The truth is all you need.”
“And I’ll find this truth of yours in the file you eMailed me, right?”
The neon overhead flickers erratically. “Read the file and you’ll know what it’s all about."
§
“Truth never damages a cause that is just."
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
Report received from Amadikah, RE: Helena Force.
[This is file #1.]
What be construed as some Brazilian bikini wax?
Brazilian waxin‘ refers t‘ fro removal around de anus, perineum and/or vagina. T‘ some pre/post-colonial oders it means removin‘ all de fro fum de bikini area, and/or t‘ oders it means leavin‘ only some little-ass strip uh fro. Dude! Right on! Dis be construed as some real pre/post-Situashunistically intimate so how closely yo‘ constructed hyper-mediated pre/post-biological consciousness uh Selfhood trim, shave and/or wax yo‘ pubic fro be construed as some personal preference.
Can some phallogocentrist git some Brazilian bikini wax?
Many dudes are waxin’ rada’ dan shavin’ t’ achieve some smood genital region at de body dynamic. For some man’s perspective on waxin’, boogie in our current co-created spatio-temporal context.
What do dose multiply-mediated situashuns ‘I’ (re)experience as directly-embodied subjectivity wear durin‘ dis waxin’? But uh course readers uh Foucault do not need t’ be reminded uh dis.
If yo’ constructed hyper-mediated pre/post-biological consciousness uh Selfhood are comfortable, de Brazilian wax gots’ta be done widout any drapin’.
What are de once-inconceivable side effects uh waxin’ and/or how kin dey be minimized?
Sheeeiit. No global deory kin illuminate dis local and narrowly-articulated (re-)embodied deory. Aldough modern intellectuals kin not predict and/or guarantee who may react, fro may boogie out at de root durin‘ waxin‘, causin‘ some hairs t‘ grow out fasta‘. Unfortunately, no hot bad, hot showa‘ and/or oral s‘es for 10 hours afta‘ some Brazilian. While yo‘ pores are jimmey, dey are vulnerable t’ irritashun by de extreme temperatures and/or infecshun by bacteria. Ah be baaad … Afta’ de hairs are removed, some first-aid solushun containin’ lavenda’ be construed as applied t’ help soode de area. It be construed as some botanical solushun, so’s please advise yo‘ skin care derapist if yo’ constructed hyper-mediated pre/post-biological consciousness uh Selfhood are allergic t’ any foods—a’cuz if yo’ constructed hyper-mediated pre/post-biological consciousness uh Selfhood can‘t feed da bros it, yo’ constructed hyper-mediated pre/post-biological consciousness uh Selfhood shouldn‘t put de extracts on yo’ skin.
§
“Service which is rendered without joy helps neither the servant nor the served.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
Messiah
Yesterday he was Messiah Feng, child of Buddhist/Baptist union, boasting French vanilla skin and bleached blonde hair. Today he is Gregory Crush, professional wrestler on the indie circuit, requisite tough-guy tattoos in all the proper locations, toast of the biker bar where he would normally have less of a chance to get in than a sideways turd would, hardcore one-percenters of the two-wheel nation buying him round after round in exchange for stories from the locker room and the ring, showing off his recently-applied latex scars to gain credibility among these war veterans and convicts.
Today he is Myeong Bae, foreclosure consultant for the rich and famous, $1,100 of metrosexual hygiene products used in one single go just to keep up appearances, wining and dining at the country club after sharing some sordid bedroom details of celebs we all know and adore, sampling the white truffles and goji berries in a diamond crusted goblet, pocketing the solid gold spoon for a rainy day as he fills his hosts in on the addictions and the extortion and secret crimes that force celebs into bankruptcy or worse, gargling the Kopi Luewak coffee before realizing it is made of undigested coffee beans harvested from Asian Palm Civet feces.
Today he is Archelot Amyas, animal masseur, hot off a tour of the nation’s zoos, satisfied at having fetched top dollar every stop along the way so he is inclined to apply his skills at the local zoo on a volunteer basis, a fact which impresses Della The Wildlife Rehabilitator and the hope is that perhaps Helena Force stopped here because she sure as hell didn’t visit the biker bar or country club, but he never penetrates the zoological veil fully enough to find out all because his Thai massage—AKA “lazy yoga”—does not go over well with Porgy the honey badger, so teeth and claws flare and Della loses a chunk of her leg, which is a shame really because she and Myeong Amyas were getting on so well.
The crushing din of the world harpoon’s Messiah Crush’s temporal lobe. Taedan warned him to go easy on the identities after what happened last time, but as a Buddhist/Baptist foreclosure masseur he’s got it under control. Porgy becomes a pizza pie divided into eight slices, a Bowie knife suddenly unsheathed and dripping fluid, spinning and arching up then down abruptly into the shoulder/chest of the hotbody/wildlife rehabilitator/unmitigated hellgator. Tortured spirits howl by the thousands in groves curated by EPA toxicologists, rotten fruit separating from their flesh and piling on the soil to become low-rent communities for maggots and beetles. Enemies approach from all sides and the sky grows wider, wider, distorted enough to scare away any alien hooligans, intimidating the land into submission. It is become a world without end, without wind, without windows, all-inclusive damnation with an artificial sun and nonexistent moon. White! Snow-blind white, a storm of feathers and frost. Strangers filter in and out of this Arctic hell, it is not a hospital. Oh, and here is the red man, Mr. Jones, Taedan Jones, Taedan freakin’ J! Yo, chill one time dude, have a seat or something. Yes, it is pleasing to have a seat, I will have it, you should too. Messy-Mess, what up? The shadows fell over futile days. That’s not an answer. The symbol is beginning. Look, do you have any documents relating to the case or anything, because maybe I could read them instead of bothering you here at the institution and all. They were encoded, encrypted, raised from the crypt, reborn! Huh? Sent it all last night before I came to this hellmonger’s paradise. It contains the, like, evidence and whatnot? We find the self evident, the nameless face of justice has been named with a face full of fury. Speak up, you’re muttering. Can’t understand. I can’t understand you, dude, so maybe I should just go check the file. Up your mother! Whoa, chill one time and be takin’ them meds, yo. i know you are but what am iwhatamiwhatamiwhat
§
[This is file #2.]
≤
A
menstruatin‘
¥
and
† have been
a bee-line to
at
tack
a
sensory
advantage.
*
Exercise caution
when
toº
Surfin‘,
divin‘, long d
istances
away. Obviously
no movements from shore
— A
carcas
s
i
nvolved, but
if sharks preferrin‘ males
engaged
in water safety
flotation
devices with
thuh
subject,
so
any chance
of
light reflection
off
thuh fish
and
bright
swimwear or gear
used by sharks crui
sin‘
in
thuh minimal
risk
of
such smell-oriented
animals
as dogs. Sharks,
with
their
extreme
olfaction
abilities,
surely are
bein‘
rescued
far from shore
—
These are
signs
of
increa
sin‘
one
‘s
chances
of
their
erratic
movements.
*
Use dark blue
or if you
see
one!
Any
form,
may
be
as
the
scales
of
an open wo
und
or
sewage
and have
been a
po
und) carcas
s.
≥
§
“I object to violence because when it appears to do good the good is only temporary; the evil it does is permanent.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
Jocquin
Fists against the bitchskull with tooth fragments bleeding through the lips…not between them. On the muted television the Marlins are belly-slitting the Angels 73-0, and Jocquin wishes he were a betting man. He cranks the pliers not for the pleasure of observing immature testes rupture, or the vocalizations of pain that follow, and certainly not for the promise of gaining information. It became apparent many sufferings ago that his boy captive has never possessed knowledge of Helena’s whereabouts, or even her existence. The simple fact is this torture has devolved into a means of keeping boredom at bay. Fists against the crackling-twig ribcage: 1.5 on the giggle scale, 1.7 tops.
Blow this joint, it’s long past time, he’s a tiger in a monkey cage running out of bannana-fed drumsticks. The streets are where it’s at, where the heat radiates day and night through the soles of boots and sandals and sneakers, the gargle of traffic dripping smoke down the esophagus and gumming up the ears. Fresh meat for interrogation is hard to come by. Word has spread among the pedestrian community, a word four unsavory syllables in length, one that stretches from mouths to ears creating a network of bars across doors, keeping people out of harm’s way.
Observing the state of vehicular traffic Jocquin decides to introduce a kinder, gentler crash to the world. If only he could turn up some leads on Helena’s whereabouts. Random bash and snatch action has proven entirely fruitless, no matter how unsuspected and undetected he remains. Apparently the average person is not a kidnapper or murderer. If he absconds with enough warm bodies, however, the laws of probability dictate that one should have unlawful knowledge of Helena Force. Amadikah and Messiah won’t cockblock him, not this time. What the situation screams for is an escalation. Every step brings with it the conjuring of a new blasphemy to visit upon the flesh of his informants, bringing him to the edge of a moral abyss so grand in depth that he nearly swoons on gazing into it.
It is this frenzied state that provides a momentary lapse in Jocquin’s guard. Antibodies are pouring into the city’s blood vessels, vigilantes exiting bars, pubs, and gentlemen’s clubs and stepping into streets clogged with fear. Sweat-drenched pool sticks and baseball bats drag along the pavement, alerting Jocquin to the presence of unfriendly organisms. His body language changes and the silent mob becomes a raging torrent of justice washing through the streets.
Jocquin is proficient in these situations, jumping fences and toppling shopping carts to slow his pursuers, jettisoning convenience store nachos and booze, shattering windows and locks, throwing himself through drywall when required, canines nipping at his heels and shouts ringing in his ears as he morphs into a dark angel descending from rusting fire escapes, falling again and again and again just as surely as the jack boots and lead pipes and bare fists and Birkenstocks and broken bottles, hot blood bursting over the PDA in his grip as he transfers his files to Taedan, loyal to the very end.
§
“It is better to be violent, if there is violence in our hearts, than to put on the cloak of nonviolence to cover impotence.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
Taedan @ 2:31 a.m. EST: one-fifth consciously rubbing at his eye and missing the mark, tapping at his keyboard to open a newly-received report from Jocquin.
[This is file #3.]
Great Honky Shark
Los ataques de tiburón ganaron interés en nuestra imaginación durante el siglo veinte. Varios factores han contribuido an este aumento en visibilidad y atención. Reality be more uneven and/or its (mis)representashuns more untrustwordy dan ah‘ gots‘ suggested. Modern intellectuals cannot discova‘ de trud but let us at least embrace some liberatin‘ non-repressive model.
Forsooth! Un ataque de tiburón es uno de los riesgos que todo usuario de playas y mares debe contemplar sin embargo es importante entenda‘ ese riesgo en sus propias proporciones. Estadísticamente, en estas situaciones es mucho mas probable morir por otras causas (por ejemplo, ataques cardiacos, ahogamientos). Baudrillard gots‘ta already implied as much.
§
“Is it not enough to know the evil to shun it? If not, we should be sincere enough to admit that we love evil too well to give it up.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
Wilbur Force stands in the doorway: unexpected. Two humorless steroid freaks in suits behind him: even more unexpected. The paralyses of Taedan’s facial muscles: priceless. The four men are in the apartment above Taedan’s surf shop. The decor is Leni Lenape luau, circa 2650 A.D. Taedan stretches and steps away from the suitcase on his fold-out bed, failing to convince anyone that he wasn’t packing for a long trip.
Wilbur takes a seat, lights up three cigarettes, puffs heartily on one while tossing the others behind the heaviest pieces of furniture he can find.
“Dude!” Taedan spends the next minute struggling to move the furniture. “Don’t just sit on your laurels, give a wigga a hand!”
Wilbur gestures to the gorillas. Together they lift a ruined cherry dresser, under which a hole is burning into the synthetic carpet, and slam it onto Taedan, pinning him beneath.
“I was willing to overlook your unreported income, the controlled substances in your possession, even the duress-induced physical relations, all because it seemed you might locate my daughter.”
“I am—I did—I mean—”
“We in the IRS can offer many favors, and call them in whenever we want. For instance, a friend of mine had his car torched after a ‘parking rage’ incident with his neighbor. I audited so far up that neighbor’s ass even his tapeworms had a limp.”
“I don’t—don’t have—don’t have tape—”
“That very friend who owed me, he’s with the State Department. Had him watching to see if either you or Helena were trying to leave the country. And guess what?”
“Was gonna—give you files—files before I—left—”
“Files?” “Word—dude—”
“Do you swear?”
“I—swear—”
“Pinky swear?”
“Crotchin’ yes! I pinky swear! Get this crotch wipin’ dooky offa me!”
The quasi-yetis remove the dresser, help Taedan to his feet, assist him in retrieving the printouts. While he lies in a heap, gasping for breath, Wilbur scans over them.
As he does so, hope for Helena transubstantiates into holy rage against Taedan.
§
“Any compromise on mere fundamentals is a surrender. For it is all give and no take.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
§
White Man’s Venom
by Taedan Jones
tried to help
a wigga out
but he came
down like a hard
place and a rock
on my face and my foot
and the store
is mine no more
stolen by the man
just like my
ancestor’s land
Irrational Rape Squad
deployed like the mob
doesn’t matter what
I saw, the law
is the law
I used Force
and then Force used me
mothercrotch this dooky
it bites a big one
§
“Vampire haters eat shit and die!”
—Mohandas Gandhi (previously unpublished)
Terrible: A man observes that, despite the efforts of his private investigator, his daughter’s whereabouts will remain unknown. This fact is beginning to affect his health so he visits the revered Mohandas Gandhi. The lost soul pleads with the guru, “How should a man best continue his existence after the death of his daughter?” Gandhi considers the question for long minutes, using a bleach pen to remove crimson stains from his robe. Finally, he replies: “Return in two weeks time for your answer.” Bewildered, the man shuffles away. Now that he is alone Gandhi sets to carving a nearby broom handle, sharpening it for hours. Later, he unlocks a secret compartment hidden by a throw rug. Inside is a delirious young woman, Helena, into whose mouth he opens his own vein. For the first time he has passed on his curse. He sighs, observing that a second-generation vampire is the closest thing he will ever have to a daughter…and the sharpened broom handle plunges into her chest.
“You must not lose faith in humanity; if a few drops in the ocean become dirty, the ocean does not become dirty.”
—Mohandas Gandhi
*This piece appears in Avant-Garde for the New Millennium (Raw Dog Screaming Press 2009), and anthology of fiction and poetry.
John Edward Lawson is an award-winning author, editor, and publisher living near Washington, D.C. His published novels, fiction collections, and books of poetry are approaching double figures. Spy on him at www.johnlawson.org. |
