Blue-Collar Hell Hole

It's the late 1990s. Tucson, AZ. Before POD, before kindle. For Chance "Cash" Register the struggle to scrape together enough cash to get his beloved short story anthology self-pubbed continues. It's a year later, he's still in the insane asylum––aka smut warehouse––as shipping clerk, dealing with some of the looniest effing co-workers he's ever encountered (and he's known his share over the years as a cabbie in rat race LA).

So far he's only got half the bucks required to make his dream happen. Stress is a bi*ch and getting him down. Will he say F*ck it, and let the sh*t hit the fan, or––will he––persevere and stay with the nightmarish gig long enough to put the rest of the funds together?

He couldn't tell you. It's day-to-day, hour-to-hour. All he knows is that his nerves are frazzled and holding on to his sanity is as daunting a task he's ever faced.