I’m about to release the first episode of my serial, Debt Collector.
I love it.
I’m obsessed with it.
And I’m afraid of what (some) people will think when they read it.
(Caveat: I’m not talking about gratuitous sex and violence here. I’ve read stories that had blood spraying by the discount gallon and felt unmoved. There’s an entire genre devoted to sex-driven stories – erotica – and I’m not talking about that either. I mean the stories where the darker elements are an integral part of the story, a necessary part, to fully explore the promise of the premise.)
My jackboots are new, the latest ultra-light material out of Hong Kong’s synthetics district, and they make a strange squeaking sound against the hospital floor. It’s the kind of sound that might gather snickers or a raised eyebrow, but no one looks at me, at least not on purpose. I stroll past the ICU desk, taking my time, breathing in the antiseptic smell that masks the odor of death held back by machines and drugs and round-the-clock care. The nurses duck their heads and study their charts, ignoring me. As if catching my eye might mean I’m coming to collect their debt, rather than Mr. Henry’s in Room 301.
Dark. And it gets darker.