So I TRAVERSED the street to the used book store. The owner appeared, wheeling a cart full of bargain hardcovers in front of his establishment before scurrying back inside and flipping the sign to Open. I was in the mood for something light, and, as if in answer, my eyes fell upon the frayed jacket of King's Christine. Hadn't read it since...high school? Damn, copyright 1983. Already in Special Forces. I picked it up. Five bucks. Can't beat that.

"You don't wanna mess with that shit," came a gruff voice from behind me. I spun around and confronted a grungy little man with a crewcut in a military-style jumpsuit. He was sporting a thick mustache that gave him more than a passing resemblance to G. Gordon Liddy.

"Pardon me?" I asked, stifling a lusty chorizo-and-rice-flavored belch.

"Fucking King. Looks evil. Writes about evil. Pretty much makes him evil."

"Yeah, well, evil doesn't frighten me. Excuse me."

"You don't understand," he said, blocking my way. "I'm telling you not to mess with that shit. Put it down."

"Excuse me?" I said, blinking in surprise. Who did this loon think he was dealing with?

"When a man writes about evil, he's allowing evil to taint his soul. When someone reads that evil, they in turn allow themselves to be tainted. In essence, they knowingly introduce corruption into their life. King's books have print runs into the hundreds of millions. His evil is spreading."

I stared directly into his bloodshot, lunatic eyes. "I've seen evil. I've grabbed it by the balls. I can handle it. Now fuck off, I've got somewhere to be."

It was his turn to blink in surprise. Clearly, he wasn't used to back-talk. "I'll 'fuck off' if you can tell me exactly why you want this book so bad."

I decided to humor him. "I've read it before. I like the cheesy concept. I like the alternating narrative struct--"

"Hold on. The what?"

"The narrative. It switches from first-person to third-person and--"

"What kind of sloppy bullshit writing is that?"

"Nothing sloppy about it."

"You can't do that," he sputtered.

"Do what? Switch narrators? Of course you can."

"If you're a goddamn hack."

"Or William Faulkner."

His eyebrows knit together in confusion. "William who?!"

"As I Lay Dying?" I offered, and tried muscling past him.

"If that's the way you want it," he growled, and forcefully shoved me backward the moment my arm brushed against him.

Without a word I yanked the Silver Dragon butterfly knife from my back pocket and watched his eyes widen as my wrist danced and the grip-halves and blade whirred and clicked neatly into position. It was for show, mostly, and I figured that was all it would take to send this guy packing. If the guy didn't back off, I'd drop the book and pull the foot-long K-Bar from its hiding place up my sleeve. I could always brain him with the pommel end. A true professional doesn't need to kill. It wouldn't be a problem, though. I didn't get to be one of Soderstrom's top go-to guys for my looks.

I spat a PHLEGMY wad of Jaritos juice at his feet.

***

Earl eyed the man with the knife warily. Clearly, he'd misjudged him. This man was a pro, like himself.

Behind him and oblivious to the unfolding drama mere yards away, a woman with thin, wispy auburn hair stepped out of a cab. Her left hand was bandaged, and the wrapping was stained dark red. A pair of sunglasses shielded her haunted eyes. She handed the driver a twenty and closed the door.

Just as the cab pulled away, there came an ear-piercing squeal of tires as a blue Cadillac swung from the curb halfway down State Street and lurched forward as its unseen driver gunned the engine. The woman, nerves already on edge since bumping into the stranger outside her apartment the night before, whirled quickly, saw the vehicle barreling toward her, and dashed for the relative safety of the sidewalk.

***

The guy with the mustache didn't see it coming, and I probably wouldn't have either, if the skirt with the sunglasses hadn't come running towards us, commanding my attention. The Caddy jumped the curb and hit him from behind. Hit him hard. I only saw two things after that. Three, if you count the events of the day strobing before my eyes. The first was the broad, throwing herself sideways over the hood of the nearest parked car, and escaping the Caddy's grille by inches. The second was the crazy guy's mustache--up close and personal, right in front of my face a split second before his hurtling body torpedoed into me.

Then blackness.

***

"Two men down on State Street, one survivor..."