Nightmaria

PROLOGUE

“What the hell is it?” Martin asked.

Jack sighed, burying his face in his hands. “It’s a painting, Martin.”

“Really?” Martin scoffed. “You could have fooled me.”

Jack looked up from the floor, into the eyes of his viscous employer. “Do you have a problem with the painting, then?”

Eyes still focused on the canvas, Martin nodded. “You’re goddamn right I do.”

Again, Jack sighed. “You’re not helping me, Martin,” he paused, then added. “Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated.”

“It’s shit,” Martin said. “I mean, I hate to sound like a child, Jack. But this painting is unsellable. Amateurish. Now let me tell you why,” he finished dryly. He looked over the painting. It was of the city, New York, early in the morning. The use of color was nice, but … “What is this Jack? What were you trying to do?”

“I was trying to paint the city in the morning,” he answered, “I guess I failed.”

“No, you did that,” said Martin.

Jack was getting confused and frustrated and felt more than a little short on patience when he found his work criticized like this. “What’s the problem, then?”

“Jack,” Martin started. “What you are trying to do here is to –locally—sell a painting of New York in the morning.”

“Right,” Jack said.

“You know what else I could do?” asked Martin.

Jack didn’t bother to speak; he knew the answer would come shortly.