1990

The ship was in chaos. The two leaders of the mutiny were unrelenting in their call to dive.

Our sub was already deeper than the specs allowed. The great metal hull was audibly groaning with the strain.

The entire crew had gone mad.

The evil twins smiled broadly, one with his hand on the controls. They were surrounded and protected from me by what was left of the crew. When the mutiny had first broken out, about a third of the men had followed my command. Now most of that third was dead or dying, and the rest had defected to the other side. The winning side.

But the prize would only be death for us all.

The moans of our tortured vessel made it sound like a living thing, writhing in the agony imposed upon it by its crew.

I was exhausted. The fight for the ship had lasted for weeks. The ever present danger of hull breach had prohibited the use of firearms. So the struggle had been primitive, violent, and bloody all the way.

I'd tried everything I could think of to save the ship, and us with it.

But the leaders of the revolt were too far gone; there was no bargaining with them. And there was no out-maneuvering them, either. For we'd always been matched in intelligence. Anything I could think to try, they could think to stop.

If not for their added advantage of winning over the majority of surviving crew members, I might have at least managed a stand off.

I realized now my greatest weakness from the start had been my desire to hold off their chaos with my logic and persistence. That had given them a decisive edge. For chaos is the natural preference of the universe. So if you align yourself with it, you've gained the biggest bully on the block as your ally.

Only the madness of the twins had allowed them this formidable accomplice. Because the only victory their strategy could gain was death for us all.

The twins welcomed death. And in the here and now that gave them the edge.

They'd defeated me. Though I was loathe to accept the fact.

The ship was theirs. The crew was theirs. We were possibly within seconds of reaching crush depth, at which point their victory would be complete.

Looking into their gleaming feral eyes, I realized I was really looking at the faces of Death and Chaos themselves. Two of the greater gods of the universe, according to the text books.

How could one insignificant man like me stop one god-- let alone two? I'd been foolish for trying.

No! I couldn't just give up like this! Although my fate was sealed, my manner of dying was not.

I couldn't bear to go out with a whimper: not struggling; not fighting to resist. Better to go out with a bang.

A bang. I liked the sound of that.

Gods. How does one fight gods? My mind was suddenly off and racing again. I'd spend my final moments of life resisting to the last. I'd die the same way I'd lived. My way.

The realization that my previous goal of living past this episode was lost to me actually opened up a new perspective on the problem. I could now consider options that before would have been unthinkable.

I was fighting not one man or many, here. Not even the vast sea itself. But rather forces infinitely greater and mightier than any of those.

I was grappling with Death and Chaos themselves. Here in this dark and lonely place, deep beneath the sea.

But that suited me just fine. I'd always preferred the underdog role myself.

Again, I struggled to frame the problem in my mind. How do you stop a god?

Appeasement came a reply, from deep within my subconscious. But the word grated against my new tack on the problem. I didn't want to appease them! I wanted to kill them!

Of course, I was being an idiot; logic dictated that a man couldn't kill a god.

Past experience though had taught me that my subconscious often came up with creative solutions that saved my ass. So I reluctantly began considering the idea.

Appeasement. Giving them something small, so they'd go away and let us go? But they'd be back. But...what did that matter? They'd always come back, sooner or later. Eventually I'd lose, and they'd win. No man yet had ever done more than simply slow them down a little.

But if I could appease them for now, I might get to avoid the big sleep at least a little while longer. Goddamn it: if I were dealing with anything short of outright gods here, I wouldn't even consider the idea! But what's a mortal to do?

What could I possibly give them that I didn't want to keep? That would satisfy them? I was stumped.

I didn't have anything to offer; I wanted to keep my life. And I needed the sub to escape these damnable depths...

Wait! What was I doing? My life and the sub were already forfeit. I was just seeking out a defiant way to die here. But I was puzzled: for my subconscious seemed to indicate an appeasement might win me back my life!

But how? Defiance. Appeasement. Risk. Win.

Some of this seemed contradictory. But maybe there was a martial arts sort of way to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat here.

To...take a defiant risk...in the face of Death himself...that might also appease him long enough...for me to escape this thing, somehow.

A defiant risk...with an element of appeasement...

At last I understood what I had to do.

Early on in the voyage when I'd still enjoyed some authority, I'd confiscated what few guns there were onboard. It had been easy, since they were still in the armory at the time. I'd done this when I'd sensed the very beginnings of the present danger.

I'd jettisoned the guns out a torpedo tube. All but one.

The last gun was in my personal possession. I hadn't used it so far because of the great danger it represented to us all: its shells could rupture the hull.

But the devil himself had us now, and all the options had dwindled down to this one.

I pulled the pistol from its hiding place and watched all the faces at the other end of the large compartment instantly change. Except for two. The twins were still smiling their evil smiles, unaffected by the sight of my weapon.

There before me stood Death and Chaos in all their glory; it was me against them.

I quickly drew a bead between the eyes of Death, and fired.

The grin on the face of Chaos disappeared. Death retained his smile, but it was now frozen on his face. He tottered, turned a bit, and collapsed. Exposing the bulkhead behind him, now coated with bits of skull and gray matter, and lots of blood.

The crew panicked. Chaos still lived, and reigned.

In the next few seconds everything would be decided.

"I'm blowing the hull!" I yelled, though I wasn't sure how many heard me in the din following my shot. Men were screaming, the hull groaning, and the gunshot still reverberating in the metallic cocoon around us.

As the crowd rushed away from Death, I rushed in. Chaos was stunned by the sudden absence of his companion. I seized the moment to reverse the sub's controls. I stopped our headlong descent to a crushing death, and changed it to a steep climb instead-- hoping it wasn't already too late.

The sub began to reverse its tilt.

Chaos and the mob began to regain their senses. I had to prevent them from changing what I'd done.

"I'm blowing the hull!" I repeated. This time they took more note of my words.

But rather than freezing at the threat, they began to move towards me. I didn't have nearly enough ammunition in the pistol to kill them all. There was only one thing to do.

I pointed my gun at the closest, weakest place in the hull that I knew of, and pulled the trigger.

This time there were three distinct sounds generated by the shot. The deafening explosion of firing, a metallic ping of yielding metal, and a rushing torrent of water in reply.

The water was bone-chillingly cold as it began to pool in the floor; but that wasn't what you noticed first about it. Primarily you noted the incredible force with which it entered the ship. It was after all under tremendous pressure at this depth.

I did my best to avoid the near horizontal geyser as it leaped across the room, in-between me and the mob.

A couple of men inadvertently intercepted its course in their advance towards me. The first one bore the full force of its initial impact, and at just about the worst possible angle. It sliced right through his clothing and soft abdomen, flinging his guts across the room.

The sluice next impacted the second man, but the greater resistance of his bony hip plus the partial shielding of the other man prevented it from gutting him like it had the first. Instead, the awesome jet threw him bodily against the far wall, where he then luckily bounced out of further harm's way.

The gutted man was screaming on the floor for a moment. But the water rose so fast the noise soon subsided to gurgling.

Fear took the mob. A frantic scrambling began towards the only exit on the far side of the jet.

Chaos gave me a look of impotent fury. Then it fled the man's body, and the surviving twin's face became human and afraid.

"Get out of here!" I yelled at him, motioning with my gun under the angry jet and towards the far door.

He ducked under the watery death and sloshed towards the exit.

The crowd was making progress through the hatch. The tilt of the sub wasn't helping matters any though, as it raised the doorway to make it an uphill climb.

I put away the gun and made for the exit myself. I squeezed through the door among the last of the mob, and as rapidly as I could got beyond them, to a safer position. There I pulled my weapon once more.

Once the last of the men were safe, I ordered the watertight hatch door closed.

The compartment filled with wet men became quiet, except for the sounds of dripping water, sniffles, and idle shuffling of shoes against the deck. Everyone was waiting for me to make the next move; I had control.

"Okay, this is it. We're headed for the surface now, and no one can stop it-- the controls are in the flooded compartment."

Very little reaction was evident in the wet, sober bunch who now stood before me.

"I'm in command now," I told them. No one said anything.

"Any disagreements with my command?" I asked, offering up what I hoped looked like a dangerous smile and wild looking eyes.

"Come on, speak up! If I have any more killing to do I want to do it now, and get it over with! Who wants to die?"

Apparently no one did. I'd made the right choice after all, it seemed.

I'd killed the craziest bastard onboard. And that had turned the tide in my favor.

The result was I'd taken his place. I was the leader all right. But the leader of a crew of semi-maniacs. Who only deferred to me now because I was crazier than they were.

I'd committed murder. Not killed in hand-to-hand combat, like the previous deaths on board; any of those could possibly have been labeled self-defense. No, in this case I'd used a gun. And hadn't even been under direct physical assault at the time. The other guy had technically been unarmed.

And I'd done this in a room filled with witnesses.

Immediately after that I'd ruptured the hull, risking the entire ship in the process. I was one crazy bastard.

I'd risked it all, and won.

I'd appeased Death by sacrificing one man directly, and risking all the rest of our lives in a terrible gamble.

Chaos was another matter. Him, I'd just pissed off. Royally. For Chaos never liked it when order was restored to territory he'd claimed for his own.

Death had been intrigued by my skill and bluster. And had rewarded me by withdrawing from the fight.

Chaos was furious and vengeful.

Both would be back, I knew.

But for now, I'd finally regained control over my life again.

Exhausted in all manner of ways, I returned to my room and collapsed into bed.

The next day was one of transition.

I awoke nervously. Expecting the new day to be similar to the last dozen.

The past couple weeks had been among the worst of my life.

Then I remembered what had happened the night before. I'd finally resolved everything. Hadn't I? Or had it all been just a cruel dream?

Though I knew my mental state was still fragile, at least the terrifying cacophony of voices in my head had all merged into one again.

Somehow the strange waking dream I'd endured prior to collapse the previous night had begun the healing process at last. A healing made necessary by a most disturbing real life experience some weeks back.

It'd been years since my last psychotic episode. My personality was remarkably strong, according to my doctors. But its tendency to fragment into a dozen or so independent voices seemed to me a weakness rather than a strength.

My recent abduction had triggered this latest splintering. The doctors had told me before that these divergences into multiple personalities were a defense mechanism. That they enabled me to absorb levels of stress I otherwise couldn't handle.

I'd thought myself insane the first time it'd happened. But after lots of tests, therapy, and months of observation, the docs had declared me safe to allow back into society.

Personally, I'd thought them all quacks at the time.

I'd also suspected all along that either the government (or Steve himself) had pulled strings somewhere to bring my institutionalization to a premature end. They'd all denied it of course. But I'd caught them red-handed in so many lies and deceptions in the past, that such denials were meaningless.

So me and my multiple personalities had continued to roam free for years now.

I often thought that the government mainly kept me around for about the same reason one did a loaded gun: for insurance against even worse possibilities than accidental firings might pose.

After several years of single personality success though, I'd started to think that maybe the docs were right; that I wasn't really crazy after all.

Duking it out with Edgar had multiplied me all right, but after a few months I'd somehow managed to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

So everything had seemed fairly hunky dory once more, for quite a while now. Until a few weeks ago anyway. Until somehow some very strange folks managed to snatch me in broad daylight from a busy street in Boston Massachusetts, and do something awful to my memories.

For added shock value I suppose, one guy had been made up to look just like me. But with one difference: he'd looked more like my teenage self, than my present adult one.

As you can imagine, being kidnapped by myself and maybe two even stranger associates seemed much like a sick parody of my mental state (my uncertainty regarding the number of assailants was pretty strange all on its own).

The unbelievable nature of the assault, combined with the fake memories they'd somehow pumped into my head, had split me into all my component parts again.

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King's horses and all the King's men, couldn't put Humpty Dumpty back together again."

The children's rhyme had tormented me ever since my first mental fracturing, years ago.

For weeks now, I'd languished in an existence composed of around a dozen separate persona.

I'd tried to stay hidden away from the world in my fragmented state, but certain personalities had insisted on making forays into the outside world.

It'd been a miserable sequence of endless days.

But finally, last night, it looked like I'd achieved fusion once again. It was still a shaky status, but my confidence in it grew with each passing minute.

The source of my apprehension now, was in how the new fusion had been obtained: one of my personalities had killed another. This had never happened before.

I was afraid to call the doctors about it. What if it was a sign I was becoming violent? Would they finally decide to put me away?

I no longer desired to be confined, like I once had. Except for these occasional splinterings of identity (and all too frequent government interference), I was reasonably satisfied with my life now.

But the vision of the killing was disturbing. It might even signify that I was now a danger to myself. For what did it mean when you killed off one of your own multiple personalities? Was it practice for a real murder? Or some kind of partial suicide?

Hopefully it didn't mean anything in particular. But it hadn't been a dream. For I'd been awake when it burst upon me. It'd been a full scale hallucination.

I didn't dare tell anyone about it. Especially the doctors. Which meant I also couldn't report my abduction to the cops. For that would surely cause the docs to want to check me out again; and I was afraid of what they might find.

I got up, and walked out of the bedroom. The skylights had the whole apartment brightly lit.

The noise from traffic in the streets below was louder in the living room and kitchen because of open windows there (One of my personalities has this thing about climbing around on the outside of buildings at night when he's visiting. Most of the rest of us are terrified by his antics).

Popping open a canned drink for my parched throat, I tried to remember details about what had happened to me over the last month. After all, this was the first time in weeks I'd had the chance to see it from a possibly sane perspective.

A few weeks earlier, I'd been abducted and briefly held against my will by a trio of truly scary characters.

It seemed they had released me less than twenty-four hours after taking me. Because I'd awoken at my place in Boston the next day.

I wasn't there now of course. Though severely shaken by the incident, I'd still had sense enough to get out of the place immediately upon awakening. After all, the bastards had broken into my place only a week before they'd grabbed me. Obviously in an earlier attempt.

I'd successfully eluded them for a while, but they'd had tricks up their sleeves I didn't expect.

They'd done something bad to my head. I didn't know what though, exactly.

I'd been so mentally debilitated and confused by the attack, I'd barely been able to make it over to my friend Steve's apartment the next day.

His place was only a few blocks from mine, but it might as well have been a thousand, the state my head was in at the time. I think I'd wandered the streets in a daze for hours, before finally arriving at my destination.

Steve and I had keys to almost all each other's major local possessions, like cars and places. I even had my own room at Steve's place, where I often spent the night. The reasons were complex: a mixture of business efficiency and flexibility, security, and personal convenience, among others.

Basically I used Steve's guest room: but lots of Steve and mine's local mutual acquaintances were led to believe we were both living there full-time.

To give one example of our reasoning, Steve kept a huge stable of lady friends. And it sometimes made certain situations simpler if he could use my place rather than his own. So we'd switch for a night or two. Heck, for years I maintained a lifestyle whereby I could live for several days out of a small backpack's worth of belongings. This made it easy for me to pull up stakes and move at a moment's notice. The fiction that Steve and I were splitting his apartment also helped him fend off the possibility of live-in girlfriends, who might possibly put a crimp on his playboy lifestyle.

Whenever we weren't busy with work, Steve and I sometimes accompanied one another on recreational ventures too. We'd been best friends since high school and college, and at times could have been considered adrenaline junkies. Together we'd raced cars, climbed mountains, explored caves, and lots, lots more. Of course, with unpredictable work schedules and other time pressures, it was easier to link up for such junkets if and when we knew a lot about each other's commitments.

But work was the big thing keeping us closely-knit now. We were often neck deep in the same corporate or government intrigue together: a situation where there were periods that spending too much time apart might compromise ongoing matters, due to us not having our actions (or stories) suitably synchronized. Stuff like that. You wouldn't believe the level of scrutiny and cross-examination you could be subject to in certain big executive meetings of the time. Imagine being a TV game show contestant where a single wrong answer could have you immediately thrown in jail, or fined a decade's pay. And all you could possibly win was the right to continue working yourself to death for another 24 hours. Steve and I had both been playing in precisely that sort of masochistic metaphorical game show for about a year now.

Of course the pay was decent, and the work sometimes intriguing and almost always challenging. On the other hand the enormous stresses, chronic lack of sleep, and sudden dispatches without warning to faraway places for no good reason, weren't much fun.

Ahhh; the paradoxes of the American pressure-cooker, circa 1990.

My unpredictable stays at Steve's place also had the benefit of making it tougher for thieves to rob him blind. Something which unfortunately tended to happen quite frequently to Steve, when he lived alone. Not least because he was so often away on trips, both business and recreation-related. On various occasions the poor guy had been robbed of thousands of dollars worth of expensive clothes, and a fabulous music collection on CD-- neither of which I think he ever got around to fully replacing.

Steve happened to be out of town again this very moment.

I was looking forward to his return. Because I figured he might be able to help me figure out what had happened to me. If I decided it was all right to tell him in the first place, that is.

For the last year, Steve and I had both been involved in a good sized project of his. It wasn't exactly his usual type of operation. Of course, come to think of it, what was a typical operation for Steve? In my experience each one had turned out to be wildly different in some way from all the rest-- often to the extent that I was astonished Steve believed I could help in a particular new venture. Officially, we were now building a new set of manufacturing lines for a major automobile company to assemble electronic ignition modules. But unofficially, there was a bit more to the deal.

The task was large enough that we were able to conceal a second track operation inside it. On one track were the engineers doing the part for the auto line. On the other was the 'black' operation.

This particular job had been my first for Steve in maintaining a dual track project though. So I'd been under a bit more strain than usual, on this contract.

In a way, Steve and I were splitting the biggest chore of this operation: making sure that both tracks somehow ran smoothly-- without anyone else involved coming to find out about its dual nature.

The main difference was Steve herded all the executives and managers, while I herded everyone else.

This sure hadn't been easy, as the auto line was a first-of-its-kind robotic operation, and the black parallel project was kinky as hell.

I believe Steve had the tougher job by far, due to what I witnessed in the handful of meetings he had with top brass where I sat in, and sometimes participated. But maybe Steve thought the same of me-- as my end often required allaying the suspicions of certain supervisors and engineers with lots of high powered and plausible technical and bureaucratic explanations. To do that, I'd had to put in several extra hours every day just studying the technologies and various regulations ostensibly involved in both projects. Virtually everybody there was aware I was among the first to arrive and last to leave every day. If I left at all, that is. Ugh! Going for days at a time without sleep is only somewhat fun the first few times you do it-- and it helps if you're still fairly young, too.

I admit I'm good; damn good. But these two simultaneous projects and all the deception involved had been breaking my back. And Steve knew it.

Steve himself of course seemed to thrive on such stuff. I mean, I saw him laid low many times by various setbacks along the way, but unlike the rest of us mere humans, he'd somehow pick himself back up and charge straight into the monster's maw again-- sometimes only minutes after he'd been chewed up and spit out before. Wow!

Fortunately, we'd strained and pulled and pushed for most of a year already, before my personal mind benders showed up. So both project tracks were well past the 90% complete point, when the bastards jumped me. So I didn't feel quite so guilty about coming apart at the seams now.

The projects were winding down; needing me a whole lot less now than before. Steve was wrapping up the black side with a ribbon for his secret client.

There was still plenty of work to be done, but the voltage gauges weren't pegging out any more, and most of the remaining tasks could be easily handled by subordinates.

But I digress.

At this moment I was mainly concerned with the abduction thing. It was perplexing. If the whole thing had been a little more playful (and Steve and I less burdened than we were at present), I'd have suspected Steve himself of masterminding it. Because he had an unfortunate love of off-the-wall pranks. I think one reason for this was to keep his own faculties of deception and intrigue sharp. Another was to constantly test and probe his closest associates (and worst enemies) for spots of weakness and vulnerability. Such information in either case could be valuable to him. And it kept both groups on their toes and mistrusting of the other. This made it extremely difficult for Steve's enemies to indoctrinate any of Steve's inner circle as a double agent. Because you never knew if that guy offering you a quarter mil for information was real, or just a plant from the green thumb of Steve himself.

But Steve's sometimes irksome shenanigans just didn't fit my abduction.

The set up was perfectly clean of anything to indicate its source as anyone I knew.

Since retreating to Steve's apartment I'd made some calls (in my more lucid moments) to various contacts I had at certain data banks, asking them to look for telltale clues among their info that might shed some light on the situation. But my captors had left no traceable data prints behind them. Except of course for the tremendous load of bullshit they'd somehow packed into my head.

At present, it appeared the huge mass of false memories they'd planted in me was the only thing I had to go on. Head games extraordinaire. I hated head games. They reminded me of my own struggle with Edgar. That hideous, gigantic freak-of-a-thing created by people who really should have known better. He'd scrambled my brains so badly that I almost didn't survive that round. But I knew Edgar to be dead and gone. Thank God.

However, the bizarre memories I now found myself filled with smacked loudly of Edgar's handiwork. But the recollection of Edgar's immense and very dead body at the end of our one and only encounter ever, comforted me.

It couldn't be Edgar. But could it be another like him?

No! The thought was too awful to contemplate. Besides, the government had learned its lesson there (I hoped). All the main scientists involved were dead, their records destroyed. There couldn't be another Edgar.

But if not Edgar-- or his brother-- then who?

My only hope of solving the mystery seemed to lay in examining the fantastic memories which now occupied a large portion of my brain. I figured that by looking at what someone somewhere obviously wanted me to see, I might possibly be able to determine its origin. And after that, what to do about it.

But it was a bewildering tangle of misinformation. After many hours of mentally probing and picking at the mess in random fashion, I realized there was way too much there to quickly and easily comprehend that way. The best course seemed to be to recall and document it according to its own embedded chronological order of events, to have any hope of unraveling it in a coherent fashion.

After my initial breakdown years ago, my psychiatrists had made me start keeping a personal journal, to write about the things which were driving me crazy. Amazingly enough, the practice had worked. Helped me to pull myself back together, and maintain a balance of sorts thereafter.

So it'd become something of a habit with me after that. It was the only tool I had for dealing with some things in fact, since the secrecy involved in much of what I did made speaking of it with others often impractical, or even dangerous.

(There's quite a bit you can get by with in this world-- so long as you never ever tell anyone else about it.)

Unfortunately, I had to destroy much of my journal content almost immediately after creating it. The sensitive portions, I mean.

The new memories were hopelessly obvious deceptions, planted to confuse me. Or something. They proposed to invalidate part of my college memories. But those were unbroken. Or, at least were as continuous as one would expect after all these years.

The new recollections had been craftily dovetailed into my memories of life at college. A period of time now eighteen years removed. They presented a supposedly 'missing chapter' in a relationship I'd had with someone back then. Well, not really a relationship; because she'd left town before anything real had taken place. Ha, ha. What a joke. The whole thing we did have was about as un-real as you could get!

Uh oh. Suddenly I was unsure exactly where my original memories ended, and the new ones began. This was not a good sign.

But the sleight-of-hand work in my head was not perfect. The new memories were too crisp and clear and unbroken, for one thing. Compared to true and untampered-with recollections, I mean. Before and after the particular period the false memories claimed as their own, my recall was fogged heavily by the weight of intervening years.

This comparative sharpness was a sure sign of planted memories, if ever I saw one.

I'd learned this the hard way, dealing with Edgar. That bastard could turn a person into a single-minded assassin or suicidal maniac with such techniques. Make you 'remember' seeing someone slowly torture, rape, and kill the person you loved most, so that you'd not rest 'till you'd killed that someone. And not a bit of it would be true.

Despite its telltale flaws to someone like me with previous experience in such matters, the new memory set was still a superb piece of conditioning. It only stuck out like a sore thumb in my mind because so many years had passed, slowly fading out the weaker, naturally written memories surrounding it.

The new foreign memory group sat there like an eternally young plastic cup, amid an otherwise decaying organic background.

Mind pollution, I thought distastefully.

Goddamn, but I hated head games. And this one claimed to reach back into my relatively untainted and innocent youth! I'd been an exceedingly naive and trusting soul back then, knowing precious little of what I did today. And now someone wanted to desecrate that part of me!

It wasn't enough for all the twisted souls I hob nobbed with nowadays to split me into a dozen fragile shards; no, they now wanted to despoil my youth too!

The false memories told a convoluted tale of abduction and brainwashing that supposedly was visited upon me eighteen years earlier. And further seemed to indicate that 'now I'd finally know the whole story'.

And what was the whole story?

Well, the sheer mass of the information made it incomprehensible in any quickie examination. All I could really make out clearly at the moment was the beginning and the end. But even these nibbles were too fantastic to be taken seriously.

Who were they trying to kid with this lame plot? And why?

Unfortunately, I had only the one horse to ride through this dilemma: I'd have to examine the fiction itself for clues to the perpetrator and their purpose.

So I saddled up. And rode into the little make-believe drama somebody somewhere had gone to a lot of trouble to cook up for me.

What happened next? Something different

Boston's Back Bay: the neighborhood where Steve and I lived in 1990

The pic above shows what a pedestrian near my apartment in 1990 might have seen by looking up from an alleyway behind various townhouses.

The front door to Steve's Back Bay townhouse looked a lot like this. He rented the top floor.

Copyright © 2004-2011 by J.R. Mooneyham. All rights reserved.