Murder for Fun and Profit
Washington, D. C., March 2030
Cyrus kicked the beer can out of his way, tossed the empty wine bottle in the trash, then sat on the sofa, where he dumped the ashtray—complete with a mountain of crushed butts—into the trash bag.
He stared out the window at the snow falling, cursing the day for what it was. He hated snow. Life was s**t, just like the day, and he had to find a way to change that.
But how?
He thought he might have had something when the Memory Visors came out, so he waited until he was prepped, then put up a few memories for sale, memories of highs, of hiding from the cops, and other minor infractions. Nothing worked. Buyers flocked to the more dangerous or more thrilling memories.
He decided that he'd try something new. Tonight's the night.
Aft
