Splattered-Out, prologue

Serge Waxxon took a loud, long sip of his coffee as he inspected the document. He pondered. He ruminated. He thumbed the weathered papers, weighed their insignificant heft. He considered the words on the page.

The document identified five men: Orlando O. Lucas, Amos Huff, Ramiro Poole, Reed N. Blankenship and a man named Vegas Action. Who were they? Why were these men allegedly bankrolling the galaxy's most flagrant crime syndicate? Or did these men even exist? Were they mere ciphers, smokescreens used to obscure the truth?

He set the pages down on his horrendously messy desk, which was piled with shifting dunes of paperwork and five-day-old coffee cups precariously balanced atop empty cigarette cartons. Beneath it all was an unstable bed of paperclips, pushpins and staples.

Waxxon reclined his overstuffed body in his overstuffed leather chair, and as he did this, he rested his chin comfortably on his chest. He closed his eyes and appeared to sink into deep thought. His glasses slid inexorably down his nose.

Eventually, his body began to list to the side, slowly but surely pressing additional weight against the left armrest, until the chair, with Waxxon still in it, finally toppled over in a great crash against the floor. His body rested face-down on the carpet; a tiny golden needle protruded from the back of his neck.

A trickle of blood descended from the intersection of needle and flesh. He was most assuredly dead.