 Blackstone Publishing presents The Guilty Dead, a monkey-wrenched novel by P. J. Tracy. This book is read by Sarah Borges. Prologue. Hollywood Hills, California. Gus Risken sipped from a bottle of water as he surveyed Trey's living room. What he saw infuriated and disgusted him. The priceless Persian rug beneath his feet was filthy, pockmarked with cigarette-burns and littered with the cast-offs of a desolate life. Pizza and take-out boxes of indeterminate age, now housed skittering colonies of roaches, empty beer-bottles and martini-glasses, had drooled out their meager remains, leaving crunchy spots on the expensive silk pile. The paraphernalian detritus were scattered around the room like grotesque confetti. Something, somewhere, was putrefying. Or maybe the whole house was so fetted with human decay, both physical and moral, it had permanently saturated the air. None of this was his problem, but he still found it deeply offensive. Okay, gussie-boy, let's bang! Trey's voice was croaky and manic as he bounced into the room on spindly, skeperous legs, his margarita glass sloshing more effluent onto the rug. He sank into a sofa, drained what was left of his drink, then bent over the coffee-table and snorted a hearty noseful of coke from a snowy pile. He let out a pleasureed sigh. Then his waxen face twisted into an expression of warped mirth. One last party before spin dry, right? Guss smiled, wondering if Trey was asking for validation or just stating a fact. What could it hurt? Let's make it a good one, hey, you sure you don't want a drink, a bump? No thanks. You're a clean liver with a clean liver, guss. He laughed at his own bad joke, then rubbed his fingers together in a frenzied, greedy gesture. Gimme gimme, Mr. Sandman, whatcha got for me tonight? Guss tossed four glass-eyed packets of heroin onto the coffee-table. Something special for your last party. Trey fondled one of the packets with shaking hands, scrutinizing its contents. Looks good. That's south of the border street, shit. I wouldn't do you like that, man. This is pure number four. Just came in this morning. You don't even have to heat it up. You're the boss. Sample complete. Ready to continue?