‘Poets always fuck up, but God likes that.’He longed to see Amanda too, and suddenly this bothered him. He still needed a woman, now that he relin...uished the idea of buying the Porsche, and Amanda remained the only person he really knew. He missed being in bed with her, her velvety skin like butter as they lay on their backs in the old South Orange home, his fingers roaming and tickling her breasts, her legs, her tired arms. He tried to mute these images of her, but they were past scenes that. His captors had shoved a black hood over his head and bundled him into a car. That hood had remained on his head as they'd drove and drove to a place where the hustle and bustle of city activity had faded away.Hours later and still blindfolded, Ken was standing with his hands tied behind his back. He didn't know where they were, but from the cool damp air and the echoes his footfalls made off a hard stone floor he guessed it to be underground somewhere.A roar erupted around him as his captors. More

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