†"Damien Walters Grintalis writes with a distinct voice, yet one which contains whispers of Sturgeon, Bradbury and Ellison."†
Jamie Todd Rubin, Writer and SF Signal Contributor
"At first glance, nothing made the man in the tailored suit memorableóno cleft chin, no razor-sharp cheekbones, no scars. An ordinary face, an unremarkable man, albeit dressed in an expensive suit and a silk tieóthe second-best part of being William, in his opinion. He doubted the previous owner, the real William, felt the same.
He moved with a hitching stride, a sort of low-slung walk as if unaccustomed to the fit of the pants. A far from ordinary gait. The city buzzed and hummed around him, but he paid it no mind; he had things to do.
Baltimore smelled of overflowing trashcans, stagnant water and dog excrement. Old, familiar smells, although it had been a long time since his last visit. He walked until he came to a row of brick buildings with darkened windows and a door with faded paint, a door a hundred passersby would never notice."
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