Dear Reader. You have a choice to make! Can you take it, or will the books break you? Put away your phone and experience the power of the Feeder World. Fill your glass to the brim and light it up. I will see you on the other side. — JFK Løvlien John Martin was not happy. Seventy. Norwegian. Trillionaire. Chablis at breakfast in a glass mansion above the Oslo fjord. Lucky Strike between his teeth. Bored. He flies to Amsterdam to chase an old flame and smoke something called Synthetic Black Snake Mamba. He wakes up tied to a barstool. Two starved Pit Bulls circling him, LSD coming on hard. A voice in the dark wants to know where the Nexus is. What John does to those dogs with a bottle of Lagavulin, a Ronson lighter, and a full bladder, you will have to read for yourself. Just know that he climbs out of a bar window with the Pit Bulls still burning, runs into a forest in the rain, and meets a tall black woman holding a red balloon. She does not speak. She leads him to a well that should not be there, down a tunnel that does not obey the rules of distance, and out into a train station in Amsterdam. Tell me you have read a thriller that opens like this. A hitman called The Brander is hunting him. A Swedish farm boy who learned to love the smell of burning flesh and now injects frozen poison through a calling-card brand on the necks of his targets. He nearly takes John's eye in room 666 of the Hotel Okura. Months later he climbs through John's bedroom window in Oslo. What John does to him in the Cabin's eight-meter industrial grill is what he does. He mails the ashes to the man who hired him. The note: I am afraid I grilled him a bit too hard. His daughter Lela walks alone into a Bilderberg ceremony at Maison de Maître wearing her father's old snake-eats-its-tail ring. From a railing above an underground chapel hung with stolen Goyas and Picassos, she watches ten masked people carve the planet up like a Monopoly board. She shoots her way out. His son Leif drives a candy-red Tesla through a blizzard to a private resort owned by a redhead named Elisabeth Warden. She has spent her life hunting the lost diary of Francis Barret. She bought it from the Paris bookstore where Jim Morrison read it in 1971. She wants Leif's blood. She has a chalk circle, three silver chalices, bat blood laced with Covid, and Latin older than the Reich. She summons the demon. He comes through the portal as a green hand grasping a golden crown. He calls himself Jim. Architect of the Red Pyramid under Pharaoh Sneferu. Reborn as the Count of Saint-Germain. The man who broke Casanova in 1774 Venice. The voice in the head of a young American boy who grew up to stand on a stage and scream The End. A Brazilian CIA agent births a virus-demon in his skull in a Helsinki lab. A two-hundred-year-old shaman called The Magus binds its soul into a red diamond John will wear for the rest of his life. The wedding is in Jamaica. Yo-Yo Ma plays Cello Suite No. 1. A bullet hits the Ronson lighter in John's pocket and ricochets sideways. Someone close to him dies in his place. Then John Martin does what John Martin does. A starved Pitbull named Leroy. A frozen human head over the Atlantic. An English prime minister handing over his fifteen-year-old daughter at gunpoint. And then John walks into his garden in June, kneels in front of his new wife, and reminds her exactly who he is. Real figures in the shadows: Jim Morrison. Casanova. Hemingway. Francis Barret. Aleister Crowley. The Count of Saint-Germain. Sneferu. Margaret Thatcher. Henry Kissinger. David Rockefeller. Yo-Yo Ma. The Bilderberg Group. For readers of Wilbur Smith, Ian Fleming, Robert Anton Wilson, Ken Follett, and Hunter S. Thompson. Power. Blood. Desire. The deep state isn't a theory. It's a bloodline. Read in publication order — Feeder, Alien AI, Goldblood, Luxe Rage.
