Don't Look Back

There I was . . .

Scene opens. Jack sitting in front of a “camera” in a nondescript location in the near future.

Jack> No shit. There we were in a posh house of a dead man with a the corpse of a screwed up meth head friend who was still with us in the trunk of a car in garage.
I could tell it was going to be a shitty day. Then again they are all shitty days.

Feds, some bullshit government shadow bullshit and more bullshit on the way.


(Long drag on a cheap cigarette, followed by a pull off a bottle of some brown liquor)

So where do I start? I got an email from a fucking dead guy on the radio. 

(inaudible off camera)

Jack> Yes I said a dead guy named Terrance Green, He’s on the radio. Well, kind of, he’s Radio Free Death.

(inaudible off camera )

No I didn’t make that shit up. Who the hell would make that kind of shit up!?
If you want the rest of the details stop interrupting me. So I want to meet with Green to make some contacts, we’ve been set up shit on and blowed up.
I was doing so well, pulled my shit together, I had a job, even had my eye on having a normal relationship. Till’ she got killed by a bomb and we had to leave her rotting corpse on a park bench. Goddamn it.

(another pull off the liquor bottle)

Anyway this dead guy tells me that Jeff Rose and Steve Mollok are a couple of bad guys with Bishop who are behind the bad things and Flatline.
(inaudible off camera)
Godamit I’m telling the story here. Didn’t you read any of the shit I wrote down?


I go through bullshit with Rose and Mollok and find out that some motorcycle lowlife named Butch Crawford runs Pigment and in order to get in good with the first set of scumbags I need to get the date and time of a Pigment shipment from this lowlife.

So I dial out and jump into this guy on the can. So now I’m on the can in some scumbag’s body to read his mind. That’s how I wanted to end the day, on the can wearing some scumbag’s skin.

We found out that Terrel and Squib has bullets that can hurt ghosts too. Some other lowlife named Matt McFarland sells them to this lowlife.

Well hell. We went back home, made a crappy ass memorial to our dead meth head friend and called it a day.


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