Blood Pink Steel

Jimmy Smit was born and raised on a dairy farm in Modesto, California, learning at an early age that hard work would be rewarded with strength and agility beyond his years. One summer evening, Jimmy was releasing the last set of cows into the field and heard a soft swoosh of wind above his head. He looked up and noticed a large bat circling near the rafters. He paid little attention to it, but as he turned to lock the wooden gate, the bat swooped down and landed on the tender nape of his neck. He tried to swat it away, but it sank its sharp fangs deep into his flesh. Jimmy screamed with pain and flailed his arms until the bat released him and flew toward the rising moon. He ran to the farmhouse for help, but his parents had gone to town and didn't see the tears running down his pale face. The pain faded, and Jimmy forgot about the incident, but he soon began to lose his vision and was forced to wear glasses. Most of the high school student body treated him with the utmost respect, but he heard two blonde-haired cheerleaders giggle and whisper "four eyes." The verbal wound festered and remained inside of his dark heart forever. At twenty-one, Jimmy moved to a small apartment in San Francisco. He obtained a job at the local Y Mart store and soon became the supervisor of the graveyard shift. He was placed in charge of a small crew that was responsible for restocking the empty shelves with a variety of sharp hunting knives. . . . According to the author, he was flushed out of his mother's womb with a quill pen gripped tightly in his slippery left hand. Everyone in the delivery room quickly concluded that he was a natural born writer. At the ripe age of nine months, his auntie left him unattended on the kitchen counter top, allowing him to roll off the counter and slam his frail little skull onto the hardwood floor. This has given him a legitimate excuse for any brainless actions or filthy words that mistakenly flew out of his mouth. When he tried to write with his left hand at age five, his mother spanked his little posterior with a willow switch until it resembled the reddish hue of a baboon's ass. His mother's disciplinary actions continued until he finally obeyed her wishes and began to write in cursive with his shaky right hand. Older now, the author has developed a growing contempt for loud noises and rude people. Pondering the inevitable, it's his best assumption that he'll have a smooth transition from dementia into senility. Real love has continued to elude his lonely heart, so he's spun all of his adoration and colored dreams into the characters of this murder mystery. He hopes this twisted red yarn makes you smile.