Mike Duron lives in a dark, dank cave, somewhere in Texas. He survives on a diet of pork rinds, pumpkin seeds, Busch beer, bologna, bread, and the occasional dollar burger from McDonald’s. Beyond that, how does one say what this author was, is, and may someday be? Will the great St. Francis de Sales intercede as a patron for this flagitious fiend of fiction? Likely not. Will the sad, raging beast, Grendel, return for his cave some spooky night while the author is tapping away at his keyboard? Perhaps. Still, the author will tap, tap, tap, tap away … as he tries to ignore the faint conversations of Nona, Decima, and Morta echoing in the darkness above him.