The Beijing Poker Club

Crime Fiction by Frank Sonderborg

I had all the equipment ready. My secure Cell Phone. My laptop, 16Gigs of Ram, a good Internet connection. I’d downloaded the Thor browser. I had my VPN, (Virtual Personal Network) working. So, all my net tracks were covered. I sat and stared at the laptop screen and jumped when I heard the tapping at my apartment door.

Griff Lingo came in and made himself at home. Opening the fridge and helping himself to a bottle of Californian Steam Anchor beer.

“Here’s to the King of beers.” Was his usual salute.

Griff was a legend in Brighton. An American Private Eye trying to make it back to the promised land. Land of the free. Home of the Brave.

Rehoboth beach, Maryland USA.

He sat on the sofa and said, “Are we good to go, were burning daylight.”

Considering it was 3am in the morning, I just knew it was another cowboy movie line.

“Yea Partner, let’s get them wagons rolling.”

He waved his Anchor beer in my direction and said, “You know kid, I’ve always liked you.”

“Griff, the player we are going to deal with is a very dangerous guy. If we fuck up, he will come after us.”

Griff just laughed at this. And showed me the holstered gun he was packing.

“Jazus, have you got a licence for that! This is the UK, not the fucking wild west.”

“Just get on with it. You get your story; I’ll get my man.”

I leaned into him and said, “No violence! That was the deal. I get my scoop for the nationals, and you get enough dosh to head home to the Black Hills of Dakota. Or wherever the fuck you come from.”

“That motherfucker is going down brother.”

“OK Shaft, let’s do it.”

This made him smile.

The man we were trying to contact and bring down went by the name of Kurgan.

He lived on the Dark Web.    

Only about 4% of the Internet is visible. 96% is the invisible Deep Net. And in here, amid the hard core sex sites, military hardware for sale, non-indexed databases, hides the Dark Web.

Where everything is for sale. Including murder for hire.

Griff’s background of special ops and undercover cops was entirely in his head. But his connections to EuroPol and the British version of the US FBI, the National Crime Agency, were real enough.

He had a girlfriend working at EuroPol and he knew some NCA guy.

His bread and butter were divorce cases, but every now and then he came up with the big one. As our paths criss-crossed, we became friends.

The Shoreham murder mystery was a case in point. It was the headline for all the national red tops and cable news. And even the more formal newspapers

Two nude bodies found in a ditch near the Shoreham airfield just outside Brighton. They were found by a dog walker. Very naked and very dead.

The airport had changed its name to Brighton Airport, after a plane crash during an air show.  A Hawker Hunter, failed to complete a lazy loop manoeuvre and crashed onto the cars below. The fireball incinerated everybody below. The pilot amazingly survived.

When the bodies were found, it was just more bad news for the neighbourhood. The theory was they had died elsewhere and were flown in and dumped in the nearby field.

A Chinese girl and a white man. It turned out the girl was known as a Brighton swinger. The white male was still not identified. Her Dad worked for a Chinese Hong Kong software company operating out of London.

He contacted Griff.

Griff, it seems, was well in with the Chinese Hong Kong crowd.

His brief was to find out how the daughter died and to get the bastard that did it.

I saw him out at the crime scene, sniffing the air. We agreed there was still a smell of petroleum and death in the air.

We decided to work together to get at the information. I would work the press scene, and he would get any information from his NCA contacts.

Then pool our knowledge. To see where it would take us.

It had led us down quite a few rabbit holes and finally it had led us to a Laptop sitting just in front of me.

One month previously:

“Alice is that you. It’s me Griff. No, I don’t need any cash. Just Information.”

I was sitting in Griff’s apartment in the aptly named, Imperious Mansions. With a great view of the sea. The salty smell of sea air mingled with the salty smell of dry rot.

The sound of a student party was throbbing through the walls. It’s all about the Bass, as the man says.

Griff was jotting down some notes as I drank his beer and looked around his life story.

Pictures of him on a strand playing with his mom. It just had to be him on Rehoboth beach.

His mom had taken him away from paradise and went home to London England.

He’s been trying to get back there ever since.

“OK,” he said, “listen up. They’re sending a EuroPol team over to cover these killings.”

“Why?” was my big question?

“The Chinese connection, why else.”

I’d been down at the local nick trying to get something out of the boys in blue.

Like, who was the nude man. But I got nothing from the local Bobbies.

They had put both faces on the TV news. To jog a few memories.

It had.

Griff was called up immediately by Charlie Wenhua, to say it was his daughter.

She’d gone missing and now had turned up dead.

Griff was given the task of finding out who had killed her. Then backing off to let Daddy do what grief-stricken Daddy’s will do.

I went with him to the London HQ of Red Dragon to interview the dad.

A firm that built mobile encrypted apps for blue chip companies and Governments. If you trusted the Chinese that is.

According to Griff they were like an exclusive Chinese card school. Watching you for your poker tells.

Charlie Wenhua met us in his enormous office in Kensington. Oak panelled walls.

A massive Oak desk. A large portrait of the President for life Xi Jinping.

Looking down on us like he was the main poker player eyeing up a sucker.

Mao Zedong was up there as well. The man who started the original Beijing Poker school rolling.

Griff was not at all put off by the occasion. Pumped up, full of the Griff as he called it.

Charlie came to meet him. “Griff, glad you’ve come.”

Griff nodded at me. “Mr Wenhua, my partner, Chase Rivers.”

“Mr Rivers, welcome.”

Griff added, “He’s a reporter.”

The look I got, was not friendly.

“I don’t do Fake News,” I said.

“He’s OK, I’ll vouch for him, we need him,” said Griff.

Wenhua sat on his Louis Vuitton sofa. And we listened to his tale.

His daughter was working in Bordeaux for one of the big Chinese owned Chateau’s.

She loved wine. Buying, selling, educating the grape on the vine to the Chinese mainland. She travelled a lot. Europe, The US, Hong Kong, Beijing. Always selling the brand. She also liked to party.

“Have you any idea who would want her dead.” Griff asked.

Wenhua was quite for a bit. Then said.

“I think she may have killed herself.”

Thought, wow!!! Now this was a curve ball.

Griff said, “How so?”

“Drugs, she was into party drugs. She liked to party big time, mixed with the wrong crowd.”

“So, you want to find the pusher?” said Griff.

“She bought that junk on the Dark Web. Find that pusher and leave the rest to us.”

We headed back to Brighton on the train.

“The Dark Web,” I said, “sounds fucking scary.”

But Griff was deep in thought, looking out at the rolling English countryside.

Then he turned quickly to me. “This is the usual twisted Chinese bamboo riddle shirt.”

“The riddle what shirt?

“Chase, I’ve dealt with the Chinese. And they are some of the slipperiest characters on the planet. And they play a mean hand of poker. You’ve got to realize everything they say and do, has double meaning and consequences. And a lot is just not true.”

I gave him my best, what the fuck look.

“The facts are, you’ve been hired by the Dad of a murdered girl, to track down her killer or pusher or whatever. You have the keys to her apartment in Brighton and Paris. What’s the problem? Let’s go find out who she was. Check things out, then we can make a better assessment.”

Griff was still worrying. This is a man who believed Stanley Kubrick had filmed the Moon landing on the London set of 2001 a Space Odyssey.

Of course, he believed they went to the Moon. But Nixon wanted more bang for his bucks than grimy images from the Moon. So, Kubrick was hired to Hollywood the whole moon site landing.

Griff was one of life’s, ‘Show me the holes, show me, the fucking holes!’

“I’m telling you Chase, we’re going to get royally fucked over.”

“Listen, I countered, as long as you get paid and I get a great story, I don’t give a damn who gets fucked over.”

Griff looked out the window and said, “Dead men tell no tales.”

And just for a minute I felt that icy feeling, of a shovel of fresh earth hitting my coffin.

We headed for the Grand pub just outside Brighton railway station for a beer.

It had a secret upstairs room where the freaks and loopers of Brighton hung out.

We climbed the stairs to join the crowd. Griff was still depressed about the case.

I was more upbeat and started asking the denizens about the Chinese girl who called herself Molly Wu.

She was known and liked. She had a steady supply of good expensive shit. But her target audience was the affluent homosexual brigade, who flooded Brighton at the weekends. These guys and gals had the dosh in the bucket load. And they wanted to party. They wanted to party hard, all weekend.

We were chatting with Alex Lazar. Dressed head to toe in some sort of Afghan robe. More effeminate than gay. He seemed to have his finger on the Brighton clubbing scene.

As we sat and listened to the house band the Altomatics going through their list. He told us tales of weirdness and debauchery among the Jet set of Brighton.

I was disappointed, as I couldn’t get any of this into print.

I’d be sued from here to eternity.                                                                       

“Molly Wu said she had got a hold of something really special. And it would revolutionise the party scene.”

This got us listening. What was it, who was she getting it from.

He didn’t know. She called it, ‘Rhino Rush.’

We left and went back to my place in Hove. Still Brighton but more civilized, less students, bass, and dry rot.

I searched the Net for Rhino Rush. And got zilch.

Griff was using his phone to text his squeeze in EuroPol.

He said, it was a no go there. She never heard of Rhino Rush.

She also said Charlie W does not have a daughter.

“Fuck, your right, “We are getting stiffed.”

Griff said, “Charlie W is working for the Beijing Poker School. So, we are now, officially agents of a foreign card game.

“No,” I corrected, “just you.”

“Then at £1024 per day plus expenses. I will be the best damn agent they ever had.”

“Maybe they won’t kill us after all.” I said, not too convincingly.

We headed out on the town. The hotspot of the moment in Brighton was Rave-N.

A throbbing pulsating many limbed monsters of bodies gone wild.

Every night and double so on weekends, when the hordes from London town,

invaded Brighton to party snort and play.

Rave-N was one of the newer all you can eat Bi clubs. A swinger’s club for the ultimate swingers, loaded with the very best in Black Platinum Bank accounts.

One sweep and heaven was all theirs. Griff knew half the bouncers and I knew the club’s owner. Vinnie Poe himself. The Club was dark and dank, built in the image of Edgar Allen Poe’s poem, ‘The Raven.’

We pushed through the crowd of gyrating half-naked boys and girls and headed for his office.

Vinnie was standing looking over his empire through his Alice in Wonderland looking glass. It took up most of one of the walls in his office. His pet Raven, an evil looking shit called Jacko, was loose again, pacing around the room.

Poe, a small bullet-headed wannabe gangster. Dressed in his trademark Victorian styled suit.

He was at his most dangerous when he gave you that half smile.

His bouncers let us through, and we stood with him and looked at the heaving mass. The Rave Beat, pounded through the wall. He turned a switch, and the music faded into the background.

“Mr V, nice to see you again,” I said.

“Chase, Griff, what can I do you for,” he said, never taking his eyes off the crowd.

“Molly Wu, she was here recently,” I asked tentatively.

He turned angrily and said, “You know this for a fact?”

Griff jumped in, “Cut the crap Poe, she was a player, in here, pushing her shit,

Pushing the latest designer drug Rhino Rush.”

“And now she’s dead,” I added.

He gave us his Poker tell, the half-smile, “She was one crazy bitch. She didn’t need to be pushing anything.”

“Then why?” I asked.

“She loved the Buzz, the chase, and she indulged in her own merchandise.”

“Never a good career move,” said Griff.

Down in the crowd, I spotted Alex Lazar, bouncing around with a couple of energetic bimbos. He turned suddenly and looked up. Straight at us. Spooky, even though, I knew, all he would see was a giant mirror reflection of the heaving sweaty crowd.

“Listen, she was loaded and connected. She never would say where she scored her shit. Last time I saw her was the night before they found her. She was all fucked up. Sweating, moving like a madman. I told her to go home and sleep it off. She had a bagman with her.”

“Bagman?”

“He collected the dosh.”

“He maybe her naked companion,” said Griff, “have you told this to the cops?”

Poe just gave us a look and turned away.

We were escorted out of the club and back onto the streets of Swing City UK.

Griff hailed a cab. He directed it to the morgue.

“I know a gal that works nights there.” Was all Griff would say.

***

Being in a death house is a sobering place to be, before the Sun has risen.

The stench of cleanliness is overwhelming.

Sandy the transgender morgue girl embraced Griff and said, “I suppose you’re here about the Chinese girl.”

Her voice was extremely high tuned effeminate, for a woman.

Overcompensation with the Thai vocal cord tweaking, sprung to mind.

“She’s very popular,” Sandy said, with a touch of envy.

“How so?” I asked, even though I had an idea of the answer.

“Cops, reporters, and some very shady looking oriental dudes.”

This woke Griff up from the doldrums.

“Orientals? You had Orientals in here. What did they want.”

“Same as you, I suppose, how did she die?”

“And how did she die?” I asked.

“That is classified.”

“What! Who the fuck says?”

“MI5 it seems. Did I not say, they were here as well.”

“Fuck!” Was all we both could manage.

“Nobody seems to be interested in her companion.”

“What about him.”

“Well, he was murdered.”

“And her?”

“I can’t say.”

“Sandy, you owe me,” said Griff.

Thought, a clip job in Thailand? I need to ask Griff about this sometime.

“Leave the papers take a leak, the usual.”

She gave a very effeminate sigh, then dropped some folders on her desk and said, I need to take a pee. I’ll be back in a sec.

Griff took Molly Wu’s folder, and I took the John Doe.

His neck had been snapped. He had heavy bruises on his arms and chest.

Defensive wounds. Crushed rib cage. A blow from a heavy instrument or a kick.

He had a series of old shrapnel wounds. Was in exceptional physical condition. An ex-serviceman?

Molly Wu’s bagman slash bodyguard. Possibly a foreign Merc?

Griff read his bit. Molly died from complete exhaustion. Her heart literally exploded. They were still analysing the chemicals found in her system.

There were odd scratch marks on her back. But no explanation as to what they were.

We used our smart phones to make some copies and left before Sandy came back.

Back at Griff’s pad we went over the evidence we had.

Molly Wu was pushing expensive shit. Then came across the ultimate party drug. While pushing it she annoyed somebody, who snuffed her and her bodyguard.

Why, was the big question. And who wanted her dead.

She got her stuff via the Dark Web. So, the connection must be there.

I said I saw that guy Alex Lazar at the club.

“Yea,” said Griff, “me too, let’s shake his tree and see what falls out.”

He lived out near Shoreditch beside the Airport. Coincidence or what.

It was a big spooky house set back from the road. The sign at the entrance said, “Welcome to the commune.”

He let us in, unsurprised to see us.

“I knew you’d want to talk with me again, eventually.”

He was dressed as usual in his Wizard gear. A flowing robe covered in star signs.

Did the sixties never fucking end? He was about thirty, so he would have got it all from YouTube.

Griff started right in. Molly Wu was getting her shit from the Dark Web.

Who was she in contact with, there?

He looked scared, then he said, “Promise this will not get out to anyone.”

We nodded.

Thought, fat chance of that. If the cops want it, I will sing like a canary.

“Have you heard of the Luimnoch gang? No, well they’ve been stealing Rhino horns from museums worldwide.”

I started, “What the fuck has Rhino horns got to do with….”

“Stay with me. An ounce of Rhino horn is worth more than an ounce of gold.

In Asia its priceless, they use it as a sex drug.”

“So Miz Wu, was buying Rhino horns on the Dark Web.”

“Yes, from a player called Kurgan. He seemed to have all the contacts to the Luimnoch gang.”

I thought, clever bastards, raiding very low security museums for a high prices item.

“Yea, I said out loud, “fucking master minds.”

“So,” I said to Griff, “job done.”

“Something does not fit here,” said Griff, “did you buy Rhino horns from Kurgan. For your quack practice here?”

“I buy lots of exotic stuff for my practice,” and waved his arm around at his collection of books.

“Harry Potter stuff then,” I said.

Griff got up to leave, but turned and asked, “Kurgan on the Dark Web, how do we contact him.”

“You don’t. Leave a message on Telegram and he’ll contact you. Just say, Area51Afghan sent you.”

Back again in my pad I tried to get Griff to contact Charlie W.

“Just give him the fucking name. he will deal with it. Case closed.”

“No, someone caused the death of Molly Wu, and she deserves some closure.”

“And the bagman?

“Fuck the bagman.”

We headed for Molly Wu’s pad just outside Brighton.

It was an old hotel, converted to apartments with a great view of the sea.

Was it part of a crime scene, who knows.

We entered the apartment and started looking around.

Books everywhere on esoteric topics. Books on Bordeaux, books on esoteric Magic, books on Rhinos and exotic Tattoos.

The long table with ingredients for making small amounts of shit you could sell at clubs was evident. We found a reference to RedGal88. And worked out it was her Dark Web name.

A big poster of Che with his iconic beret was on the wall. Along with David Bowie and Duran Duran. Legends of the gender bender clubbing scene.

Well, maybe not Che.

Griff called his EuroPol squeeze. Nothing. They were locked out of the case. MI5 were in charge.

Griff then called his NCA contact and told him where we were.

I listened in as Griff described the apartment’s layout.

He agreed it didn’t look like a big-time pushers hide out.

He did have some news about the bagman. An ex-legionnaire called Marcus Schulze. German by nationality. Tough bastard. Very handy with his fists.

Griff added, “Not that handy it seems.”

Jeff, his NCA contact, said he’d see if there was anything more, he could dig up.

We once again had more questions than answers.

It was the right moment to contact the Dark Web.

Present Day: 4am:

We logged on. I was shit scared. Of what, I could not say.

Lazar had told us to install the Dark Webs favourite encrypted Message App, Telegram, on our phones.

Rumoured to be completely untraceable. The FBI was not a great fan of this app.

We searched for Kurgan and sent a message; we wanted to know about Rhino Rush.

We said Area51Afghan had told us Kurgan could help.

Then we waited.

He came through almost immediately.

He dismissed our request as amateur hour, explaining that the horn trade isn’t something to joke about.

We explained we were looking for information about drugs. In particular, Rhino Rush, and a buyer called RedGal88

Kurgan expanded; his material was black Rhino horn, pure keratin, hunted in Namibia. He had a full warehouse ready to sell. He knew nothing about any Rhino Rush. He’d no need to deal in drugs. A kilo of Rhino Horn was good for $100K. RedGal88 was buying Rhino Horn not drugs. He didn’t do drugs.

Then he disconnected.

And we were back where we started.

We sat and drank beer and tried to work it out.

I had an idea where she was killed and explained it to Griff.

“OK, its somewhere to start,” he said, “let’s confront him.”

Then we headed for The Rave-N.

Poe was sitting behind his desk. A pile of papers stacked up in front of him. The safe behind him was open.

He laughed and pointed at the pile of papers. “Unhackable, who would have believed paper would become the hacker’s nightmare.”

I said, “You killed her didn’t you.”

“And Schulze the bagman,” Griff said a bit too unconvincingly.

“Fucking Muppets, both of you. No, I didn’t kill her. I tried to save her.”

“You wanted a cut of her profits, she resisted so you killed her,” there, I thought, all sorted.

“I loved her, the crazy bitch. I wanted her to stop pushing that shit she had.”

“She was mixing the Rhino Horn with her shit and charging a fortune for it, and you wanted a cut.”

“She wasn’t charging for it, at first. She was giving it away for free.”

This knocked our theory out the window. “We were told by a source that she charged a premium.”

“By who. Not Mr Area51Afghan himself, Lazar?”

“Wait a minute,” said Griff, “she was paying a fortune for Rhino Horn and mixing it with her own stuff, and then giving it away for free! What the fuck!”

There was a noise from outside the office. And the door opened, and four very tough oriental gentlemen entered.

Griff turned to meet them. I looked at Poe, then at the four oriental guys and the penny dropped.

They were dressed in black suits and white shirts, like undertakers.

“Mr Poe,” said undertaker number one, “where’s our formula?”

Three of the undertakers had blades, the fourth had a Glock 17 with an attached silencer.

 “And these guys are?” I asked Poe.

“The North Korean delegation. Come to collect their pound of flesh.”

Griff was studying them, “you’re the oriental guys from the morgue.”

The silencer came up to cover him.

Undertaker one said, “Gentlemen, we can do this the hard way or the very hard way. Now, where is the formula?”

Poe started talking, “Molly Wu was field testing a new wonder drug for her Chinese masters. And where better to test it but on willing western victims.”

“What type of drug,” I asked.

“A Night Hawk – Modafinil mash, for military use.”

“Super-soldier stuff,” said Griff.

Poe nodded, “And the Rhino horn was to cover the tracks. And make it as sexy as hell to the punters.”

I said to the main undertaker, “You’re working with Lazar, the mother fucker.”

Lazar entered on cue and said, “Working, isn’t a very Hippie Woodstock word. We had a deal Poe. You hand over the formula. Job done.”

Poe continued, “China was manufacturing these pills in Bordeaux. The greatest chemists with the greatest laboratories in the world, making pills for the Chinese Army. Right under the nose of NATO. But Molly loved swinging, so while field testing, she started indulging herself.”

I turned to Poe, “You then stepped in and paid for the extra Rhino Horn.”

“The North Koreans were offering a King’s ransom for the pill’s formula. It was chump change,” said Poe.

“She died here,” I said. “The odd scratch Mark’s on her back was from Jacko jumping around on her naked body.”

He looked puzzled, “No, she panicked when they came in. She swallowed a handful of pills. Then went into convulsions.”

“Stop wasting time,” said Lazar. “Give me the fucking formula.”

Poe looked desperate, “I don’t fucking have it.”

“The Koreans killed the bagman? I said to Poe.

“The Koreans will kill you all, if we don’t get the fucking formula,” said Lazar.

It reminded me of an old Spaghetti Western. Lazar in his silk warlock poncho and a line-up of quietly eerie, Fistful of Koreans.

Three of them carrying blades and the fourth pointing his pistol at Pope. The sound of Duran Duran, came pounding through the walls, singing Rio.

Griff was standing sideways, right arm raised, scratching his nose. Poe had both hands on the desk.

I had my hand over a metal ashtray. Thought, death indeed can be fatal.

And then things started happening.

One of the Koreans head exploded as a mini-skirted Sandy entered the room shotgun blazing.

A frightened Jacko jumped onto the Korean shooters arm and started pecking away. His Glock was spitting silent bullets, punching holes through the Alice glass wall. The room flooded with the sound of Duran Duran and strobe lights. The glass wall slowly started to shatter.

Lazar launched himself at Sandy. And they tumbled to the floor in a mix and mash of ponchos, muscled legs and miniskirts.

Griff pulled a well-practiced fast draw and was pumping rounds into the Koreans. Then leapt through the shattering glass wall.

I threw my metal ashtray at the execution squad. Before following Griff out through the shattered glass.

We both landed in a jarring heap on the empty wooden floor.

“What about Sandy,” I shouted. As we ran after the screaming crowds, for the exit.

“Sandy will not be alone,” was all I heard.

We pushed free through the panicked crowds outside, before the boys in blue turned up.

Back in my Pad, he went all PI and filled out some of the details.

“Sandy, our morgue gal is MI5. With the Koreans in town. They must have suspected more bodies would start turning up. So, they activated her again. Poe stopped Molly Wu giving the shit away for free and started charging. When he found out what it really was, he done a deal with Lazar and the Koreans.”

“For the formula,” I said.

“Then he manipulated Molly Wu to steal the formula. But she couldn’t or wouldn’t.”

“She did,” I said. “She stole the formula and hid it where no one would think of looking.”

“Where?” Said Griff.

“The scratch marks on her body. They weren’t from Jacko the raven. They were a tattoo.”

“A tattoo of the formula. Clever girl.”

“A dead clever girl,” I said, “and the bagman?”

“Must have worked for Poe. More a minder than a bagman.”

Griff added, “MI5 will clean up the mess and no one will be the wiser.”

“And the Beijing Poker Club?”

“We tell them everything and I get paid.”

“What about me? I can’t print that story.”

“Tough,” said Griff, “should’ve been a PI.”

“Sandy, I asked, what did you do for her?”

“I knew Sandy when she was a Special Air Services operative. When she went to Thailand to get snipped, I took care of her dog. She loved that dog.”

Griff’s phone started buzzing.

It was Charlie W. Griff listened. Then the phone went dead.

“What did he say?” I asked nervously.

“He said, ‘Thanks, I’ll get paid. And we’ll live. He also said they’ve taken Molly Wu.”

And one other thing. Our photos have been wiped from our phones.”

“I checked my phone. Everything had been deleted. “Fuck,” I said, “The Beijing Poker Club, have been listening in on everything?”

“Everything, the clever mother fuckers. Probably alerted MI5 to save the day.”

Griff just looked at me and we both started laughing with relief.

“Let’s get a beer,” said Griff, and the first round is on the Beijing Poker Club.

---

Bio: Frank Sonderborg was born in Dublin, Ireland, Shares his time between the UK and Spain. And does his best to write interesting stories. His stories have appeared in: Action: Pulse Pounding Tales 2:, Noir Nation 3: Noir Nation 5:, Pulp Modern JFK Issue #6, Pulp Alternative, Shadows and Light:, Thrills, Kills ‘n’ Chaos:, ShotgunHoney, Twist and Twain. The Yard Crime Blog, Punk Noir Magazine, Talkingsoup.

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