Marsha Bloom’s bosom heaved for the fourteenth time that morning. John was coming, at last. She so longed to see the object of her abject desire with every fiber of her being. She knew he was a profligate rake and a faithless rogue, but her quivering, craven achings quiesced whatever vibrant misgivings she might possess.

Wistfully she absorbed her unblemished bounty in the full length mirror for the last time. Her sapphire orbs gleamed with an iridescent glow, bottomless pools of torment peering out at her from under a teeming thatch of sanguine, salacious tresses. The low cut bodice showed her exquisite globes to jutting perfection. One more dab of glimmering gloss on her succulent lips and she knew she was ready. The doorbell rang.

On a planet much like ours – well, actually, technically, it was ours – there was once a great writer named Lori Lewis. Nobody knew that she was a great writer. For light-years she’d been sending her manuscript to publishers who were too stupid to see how good it was. All they ever sent her back were snippy little notes saying, "Thank you for your interest, but your story does not meet our needs at this time." One of them was even mean enough to mention that she’d said "their" where she meant to write "there." This made Lori cry so hard that the snot ran down her nose and landed on the letter, blurring its harsh words.

(With no apologies to Tim LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins.)

Prologue. Or, if you prefer, “prolog.” From the conclusion of Leftovers: Nick O’Ley, saving us the trouble of coming up with four new pages to kick off this volume in the series.

Truck Gilliams (that’s right, this guy’s name is “Truck,” now try and keep up) was filled with despair, sadness and ennui as he saw the daycare/youth sports league wing of the Christ Evangelical Faith Protestant Resurrection Church. Of course, being an American he was a couple of healthy miles from ennui and a lot closer to despair and sadness, but nowhere near self-pity. No siree bob. Not him.