A washed-up rapper named Juice flies to Costa Rica to disappear. The Djinn flies in too. Only one of them booked a return ticket.
Two shots of whatever that crackhead called Devil's Breath. Three cops with no shadows. One white fur coat that used to belong to his dead mother. One soul that packed its bags and left mid-argument.
This is not a comeback story. This is a soul contract with interest. Written raw from the other side of the worst trip a man has survived on record.













Amazon won't carry it. These will. Paperback shipped worldwide.