A washed-up writer of action-adventure thrillers is menaced by the ghosts of the characters he has created.
Brock Knew Who The Man Was
Despite the murky moonlight shadowing the man’s features, Brock knew who the man was. He could tell by the long black hair that curled around the man’s broad shoulders. He couldn’t see it because of the dim light, but Brock knew the man had a long jagged scar on his face, running from beneath his right eye down across his cheek and under the right side of his nose. The scar pulsed when the man was angry. Brock wondered if the man was angry right now. Then he realized that was a foolish thought. Of course he was angry. The man was always angry. Isn’t that what I had named him? The Angry Man? Brock struggled to remember, but the fog of the rum and the lingering effects of too little sleep muddled his thoughts for a moment. Yes, the Angry Man. That was it, he thought. That was the man’s name. Angry Man.