A sort-of interdimensional freelance hero finds himself in dangerousness. It is as dubious as it sounds.
There is a fine line between death-defying and abysmally stupid. It’s a truth that I’ve learned in all of my years, and it’s also why I’ve planned to leave a goodly sum of my earnings to a savvy publicist. A man’s obituary should never paint an accurate picture if he can help it.
Take, for instance, my current dilemma. I’m hurtling through nega-space in a piecemeal vehicle that is half-engulfed in flames. The captain and proprietor of the ship is cursing me and shooting at others without looking. A pair of large men made up mostly of back hair and questionable hygiene are shooting back. The radio is playing Jon Secada, I think, which pretty much sums up the state of chaos.
On top of all that, I think I actually managed to score a date, if I read my email correctly.
There’s all sorts of things that will explain my current state of affairs, and I would be more than happy to explain them to you (except for the Secada. That defies good common sense). It’s always best to start at the beginning, isn’t it?
But first, an introduction:
I’m the Archduke of Ithaca.
Danger might’ve been my middle name before I sold it. Hell, having a middle name like Danger might’ve been why I sold it.
Bad stuff sniffs me out. Apparently I need to find a new cologne.