About This Book
Talk about your bad days...
Strangled nearly to death by killer plants, molested by rabid, media-crazed teenyboppers, jumped by ad agency hit men sent to sign me or kill me (not necessarily in that order) and having genetically engineered ogres ransack my house—all before lunch. Some people might call that a bad day. But when you're me, Zachary Nixon Johnson, the last freelance PI on Earth, you just call it Tuesday.
Today though, events were downright nasty. even by my definition. I was on the Moon hunting down the assassin of three top World Council members. Why did I suspect the killer was on the Moon? For one thing, the people on the Moon held a grudge against the World Council for refusing to grant them independence (and for storing all Earth's toxic waste there). For another, the Moon's head honcho, Boris Sputnik, had been scheduled to meet with the Council members hours before their deaths. Finally, Sputnik always traveled with chicly attired augmented gorilla bodyguards and a harem of sexy, blue-haired psi babes led by his exotic wife MeIda. his stunning daughter Lea, and his bombshell niece Elena. Each of these ladies packed more than enough wallop to decimate a small army. I put one and one and one together and came up with trouble.
Now I was trapped in a shuttle, hurtling to almost certain death. Plummeting closer and closer to the rocky terrain of the Moon, I couldn't decide what was worse—the fact that a gorilla had a crush on me, or that I was working pro bono.
