Meet Mack Treacher, international tough guy.
Interplanetary, intergalactic, time-traveling freebooting soldier of fortune.
Needless to say, an ex-Navy SEAL.
But nonetheless a sensitive guy.
Hey, he plays the blues violin.
He likes to play the deep plangent dark-blue blues, the sad Negro blues of the black night of lost souls everywhere, and he likes to play them late at night in his lonely shack up in the Sierras.
Also Mack Treacher has, or had, a drinking problem.
And a teenage daughter who hates his guts.
And an ex-pornstar ex-wife who double-crossed him by sleeping with what Mack thought was his best friend, Chad Chadwicke, a former Navy SEAL and now an elegant international hit man. And then his bitch wife had screwed over both Chad and Mack by taking off with a traveling evangelist by the name of the Right Reverend Dr. Moses X. Moses.
The Reverend Moses had gotten dumped too, and then his wife had joined the San Francisco police force and risen quickly to detective and then to head of the Homicide Squad.
Only in Frisco.
Mack hated Frisco…
Mack Treacher had brawled and shot and knifed and clubbed his way through wars and insurrections and dirty black-op missions in thirty-two countries, six dimensions, four planets and a dozen different eras going back to the time of the ancient Romans (The Colosseum Caper) to the Seventh Interplanetary Walmart Reich of the 26th century (The Walmart Insurrection).
His bulky but muscular body was covered in scars, as was his tortured soul, on account of all he had seen, and done, and had done to him.
Mack Treacher was tired.
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