Lots of travel and drive time...

Buffalo to New York to Bangor to Princeton, ME...and I'm brain dead. So just a bit more of the chapter...

-------

Simon checked around the corridor and saw Paley standing over near security, talking to one of the guards. His voice back under control, he said, “Look. Look at his face. His jowls. His skin. How he...he...he’s even got bitch tits...” 

“What?” she snapped. 

 That made Simon chuckle. He was feeling more in control, now. “Moobs, if you prefer. The way his nipples are more like a woman’s than a man’s. It’s not as obvious in that uniform shirt, but...” 

“How do you know this?” She was all but disparaging. 

“I showed you. He was in a tight athletic t-shirt. A wife-beater. Granted, a lot of him’s deep in shadows, but you can still tell his muscles...they’re blown up like balloons. I have the feeling if I stuck them with a pin, they’d pop.” 

Dillon forced a chuckle. “C’mon, man, don’t you gay guys go crazy for muscles? And you did approach him.” 

“It wasn’t his muscles I liked. It was the picture he made. The way he was standing...the image...” 

So lovely. Light rushing down from above, a bit behind him. Gleaming over the rear of his head and his back and ass. Highlighting the flow of them. With his profile in silhouette against that soft mist. A mist gently lit, just the other side of him. The rest of him in shadow. That moment. So still. So perfectly composed. That was what had stopped Simon. While he’d seen Paley’s moobs and puffy jowls in the store and had shown no interest, seeing him posed like that...with those things hidden by the streaks of darkness holding him in beaty and grace...he’d wanted to capture it in pen and ink. That was why he’d snuck a photo of him when he exited. That was why it was still on his phone. 

Yes...it was... 

He opened it and went into photos. Scrolled through to find the damned thing. Right there, looking so elegant and welcoming and he should have just used that instead of asking him to model and... 

“You showing us that, again?” 

It was Dillon’s voice, and it startled Simon. For a moment he’d forgotten where he was, and in truth he hadn’t wanted him to see it. But too late, now. So he gave slight nod. 

Elissa also saw the image and in her sneering voice said, “Small wonder you were thinking of ravaging him.” 

Simon sighed. No surprise she was resorting to stereotypes to make a point. “If you had done research about me,” he said, “you’d have seen I’ve done a number of illustrations for book jackets and this would’ve worked well, as one.” 

Dillon almost chuckled. “Book covers? What about this?” He held up the printout. 

Simon only murmured, “This is why people like you should never try to discuss something about which they know nothing.” 

That made the man almost growl. “We can still use this artwork against you.” 

Elissa smiled. “They show inclination and maybe even intent.” 

Simon looked at her in awe. He had actually thought she was the smart one. Instead, she was proving to be the worst aspect of a team player. She knew what they were doing was wrong, but Dillon had made his decision and she would back him up. Like a dutiful wife or victim of abuse. 

Simon said to her, “I’ll give you a list of the work I’ve illustrated. They’re on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Books a Million, and available for order through your local independent book dealer.” 

“You’re pretty cavalier about what these could do to you, in that courtroom,” Dillon said. His voice had an edge to it. He had finally caught on that his attempt at intimidation wasn’t working. 

“Again, pay attention. My name is on that coloring book and listed as illustrator for a dozen titles. Google me as a writer and the first one that usually comes up is The Best Way to Make a Straight Man Gay. It’s been banned a few times. People thought it was a how-to manual.” 

Elissa tried to keep her voice snotty and mean, but he could sense surprise behind it. “It’s not?” 

“Another reason you should read the work for yourself.” He turned back to Dillon, smiling, “I’ve posted some of my shorter poetry on the gay sites, as well. I just wrote one little ditty that would fit you perfectly. How’s this?” 

Big bad boy Paley decided to gloat

That he’d seen how Dillon would quietly dote

On him walking by, so he sneered a quote,

“Y’know, it’s not sex if I cum down your throat.”

Dillon stiffened and snarled, “I’m not gay!” 

“If you say so.” Then Simon slid his laptop and portfolio into his backpack. 

“Simon,” Dillon said, his voice low and growling, “if we don’t deal, here and now, I’m aiming for jail time.” 

“I still would prefer you address me as Mr. Halloran.” 

“I mean it. Six months, thanks to the special enhancement. Thousand dollar fine.” 

Simon rose and slung the backpack over his shoulder, saying in a voice that was almost sad, “It amazes me that you graduated from Harvard Law, never mind passed the bar exam. Even taking into account you were a legacy entrant, that school has lost all respect I had for it. Courtroom's open. I'm going in. I prefer you both stay away from me.”

Busy, busy...

Too much running around getting ready for my trip, tomorrow and the one for Sunday to do any writing. But this section of MQM is fairly close to how I want it, so here's a continuation from yesterday's post...

---------

“...Then you’d have seen the artwork I do is not of men who are muscle queens but are simply well-built. With hair on their chest, legs, arms and belly. Between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. Good strong features and a thick mane on their head. Paley is a juice junky, and not once in all of my artwork have I ever drawn someone like that.” 

“He’s well-built.” Now it was snottiness from Elissa. 

Simon cast her a cool glance. “He shaves the hair off his body. Including his pubes...” 

“How do you know that?” Dillon asked. “Are you going to claim he exposed himself to you?” 

Despite himself, Simon’s expression became incredulous. “I showed you the photo I took, of him. He was dressed in a white wife-beater. One that was probably a size too small for him. It was easy to see the stubble on his chest and no hair under his arms so...” 

Elissa cut Simon off with, “That doesn’t mean anything.” 

“His beard does. It was dark scruff. And what hair was on his head was thick, except for that little tuft he has in the center. He also has some on his shoulders...the trapezius, I think it’s called...and at the nape of his neck, where he can’t reach with a razor. There was more stubble on his forearms. I despise that. It’s as if he wants to be seen as a little boy instead of an adult.” 

“Then why did you bother taking a photo of him?” 

“Look at the shadows. They hid a lot of that. I only saw it when I approached him.” 

“But you did approach him.” 

“Is it illegal for one adult male to approach another adult male in public?” 

Dillon shook his head. “Simon, you called him a juice junky, which he does not look like. And besides, steroids are illegal, for muscle enhancement...” 

“Oh, I am certain the law will stop it.” 

Elissa circled around in front of Simon and... 

And Doyle was doing the same in his dangerous mode, just before lashing out, and... 

Simon jolted, shaken. He hadn’t thought about that time in years and to have it slam headlong into him, now, when... 

“Why do you think he uses them?” It was Elissa talking, and her voice seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere as she continued to move around him in that way Doyle had... 

Simon had to close his eyes so he couldn’t see her. In his mind he knew it was nothing deliberate on her part, but he was still falling into a growing sense of panic remembering... 

Arriving home... 

Doyle knowing he liked to keep an extra key taped on top of the door frame, just in case and... 

And then he...then he...

No! Simon, no!

But how? How had he found his Houston address? Had he followed him? Had someone at the bookstore given it to him? It made no sense that Doyle was there in his apartment grabbing at him but...but... 

No!

Fucking no!

Simon fought the memories. He could not let himself be kicked off center, not at that point in time. No way. No!

He forced his eyes open, pulled a ballpoint pen from his backpack, pulled the cap off with his teeth and dug it into the palm of his left hand. It hurt like hell...and it was still a fight to kick away that chaos...but it jolted him enough to where he could let himself breathe, again. 

Let himself breathe...

Finally, he looked at Elissa. She had seen it all and was studying him. Like he was a insect. He shifted his gaze to Dillon and found an expression of wariness and some confusion. An odd notion slipped into Simon’s mind...that neither of these people saw him as human. That he was just some mongrel they had to deal with. As if he were wild or rabid and needed to be put down. Which almost made him smile.

Because at that particular moment, he couldn't swear that he wasn't...and didn't.

A sort of flowing...

Now that I'm letting Simon lead, the story seems to be coming together. Today I worked up the first pass at a real opening...which still needs work to make it readable enough. So here's more of Simon's first day in Court...

------

Dillon continued with, “We should talk before the trial.” 

That suit was even better-looking, up close. He’d spent some money getting it tailored, and it was begging for a compliment. But all Simon said was, “It’s Mr. Harper. We’ve been over this.” 

Dillon hesitated then forced himself to smile. “Very well, Mister Harper. Now, I think you should know...” 

Simon cut him off, deeply irritated at the attitude seeping from him and barely keeping his voice even. “Are you withdrawing the charges?” 

Dillon jerked a little, probably startled at Simon’s direct question. “We....um, we have no reason to.” 

Elissa piped in with, “We now have a pair of witnesses and...” 

That made Simon frown. “No one else was round.” 

She rolled her eyes in a way that was almost comical. “Two police officers in a patrol car were driving up Lincoln and saw your interaction with Officer Paley.” 

“You’re telling this now? Immediately before trial?” 

That made her blink. “We...um, we only just learned about them and...” 

Dillon sat next to Simon, “Of course, we’re open to a continuance to give you time to interview them.” 

Simon managed to keep his voice level. “Are they here, now?” 

“Um, no. As Ms. Manville said, we only just learned...” 

“So the whole point of you coming over to me was to tell me I’ve just driven nearly four-hundred miles and paid for two nights in a hotel room for nothing.” 

“That is not something we are obligated to take into consideration,” Dillon sighed, all but forcing himself to take a weary yet sympathetic tone. “We’ve also done some research. I didn’t realize you were a...well, let’s say poet as well as an artist.” 

Oh, for God’s sake, Simon almost groaned. “If you Google my name, my work comes up, rather quickly. It’s no surprise.” 

Elissa seemed taken aback. “You Googled yourself?” 

He just looked at her. 

Dillon cleared his throat. “Simon, what we found was some rather...intense work. At first I thought it was a mistake, you’re such a laid-back kind of guy, and your name is not exactly unusual, so...well...it was surprising.” 

“Is there a point to this conversation?” 

Now Dillon glared at him, shifting to stiff and cold. “You produced a coloring book with some poems. Illustrations. That tell us very interesting things about you. Gangs of men kidnapping heterosexual men. Tying them up. Raping them. The suggestion is, some of them are even killed.” 

“Did you order one?” 

Dillon blinked. “Excuse me?” 

“Did you order a copy?” 

“No!” Elissa chimed in with, “Some pages were posted online.” 

Which made Simon almost smile. “It sounds like you’ve been perusing Gay Portal. You have to be a member, for access. Was it smart of you, to sign up?” 

Dillon stiffened even more. “We didn't. I...I have a friend who's gay and he recognized your name...” 

“Recognized it?” 

“Yes. He's an attorney and I was sounding him out about your case and he realized he knew of you. And...and he showed me some of your work.” 

“A fellow gay man helped you gather information on me. How nice of him.” 

“He’s a very up-to-date kind of guy...” 

“Up to date? What does that mean?” 

“I just mean, he’s not...he’s not some innocent or unaware dude and...and even he was freaked out. Said it all got brutal in the...how’d he put it...non-con area. He told me about this one...” 

 He held up a printout of one page. Ray Who Was Taken. Simon noted it was a pen and ink sketch he's done of a young man being jumped by an older man, in an urban area. It was only the first part, since it had spread over nine pages.

The hour was late before Ray headed home

From the party his best friend had held at Le Dome.

The blues and the blacks of the night's monochrome

Made him feel so easy, he thought he would roam

Since he had a condo that wasn't too far.

But he didn't notice when that silver car

Pulled out of the parking lot next to the bar

And quietly followed. Its back doors ajar.

He passed his street and as he started to turn

For the park, the car pulled up. Now too late to learn

The four men inside of it each had a yearn

To force Ray to join in their weekend sojourn.

 Dillon continued with, “It made me wonder if you planned to get Officer Paley back to your hotel. Drug him. Abuse him.” 

Simon sighed and closed his laptop, saying, “That idiotic comment is why you should have purchased a copy of my coloring book...”

I'm just along for the ride...

Simon is taking over the writing of himself, and sliced away plot points he doesn't like, such as his dick having a birthmark or tattoo or something. He thinks it's ridiculous, unbelievable for his character, and just plain superfluous. So, as he and I come to terms, here's a continuation of yesterday's post:

--------

Of course, Simon’s father had stopped talking to him after he learned his son was queer. Stopped even acknowledging him. Unlike his mother, who made it her mission in life to scare him straight by ranting about being subject to eternal damnation for going against God’s plan. He’d had to cut off contact or kill himself. So he’d chosen the former. 

Even though the latter still liked to make itself known, now and then.

Looking back, it was no surprise they'd reacted the way they had. No loss, really. Being the youngest, he had never been as close as his brothers and sister to his parents. He was like an afterthought. 

He smiled to himself at remembering the time his mother had said she thought he was homosexual just to get more attention from them. Like it was some familial path to acceptance. Very strange. 

But...he also found it curious that Paley in that uniform was reminding him of his father. That was a bit creepy. 

Simon merely walked past the three of them without even a nod and sat on a bench across from Courtroom Three, to await the grand opening of the double-doors. He took a moment to glance around and note it was a fine older building with a nice-looking corridor of polished wood. Probably oak stained to look like mahogany, which had once been a very big thing.

He had the sense that it had been constructed in the Thirties, probably under the WPA; it had that Art Deco feel. But would they have stained a lesser wood to achieve this look, back then? That might be something to research. Sometime. Or maybe it wasn’t so lesser, because the wood was intricately carved and well-polished and complimented by floors that were glazed slate. Giving off the sense of no money spared.

Church-like arches crossed above, with plain white plaster or sheetrock between them. He never could tell which was what. Overall, it was not so much intimidating as inviting respect. Peace. Perhaps even a hint of comfort instead of installing fear. Something he never thought of as coming from a courthouse. 

An older, once-attractive guard in a green and tan uniform stood before the double-doors, at parade rest, eyeing everyone with full suspicion or malevolence. He had that Marine stance and cut on full display. Simon had little doubt the man actually had been a jarhead. 

The bench he was seated on was also polished and a bit slippery thanks to it, but was close enough to the wall that he could lean back. So he pulled out his laptop and connected with his phone’s hotspot to fire up some WiFi. The building may have its own internet service, but he doubted it was at all that secure while his phone was. 

Not that he was being paranoid or anything. Oh, no. 

An old leather file portfolio held his documents and details, and also served well as a tray to rest his laptop on. So he was neatly set up to log in and scan his folders. The Word file of the vicious little story he had written about Paley, Walstead and the Judge was positioned near the top of the screen, making him smile. Writing that had let off a lot of steam so maybe he could make it through this fiasco after all and... 

“Good morning, Simon.” 

He jolted and looked up to see Dillon standing next to him, Elissa one step behind him. They must have snuck over, because both were very still and standing nearly at attention...like robots.

Simon goes to trial...

Reworking this bit, just before Simon's trial is to begin, to set up the time and place...

--------

Simon parked in a far corner of the designated lot, paid for the full day, and was waiting at the light to cross a very busy avenue to the courthouse when he noticed a bank was on the corner diagonal to him. And it had an exterior ATM. So he crossed to that, instead. 

It warned him there would be a five-dollar service charge for his withdrawal, but he just sighed, accepted it, and took three-hundred dollars from his savings. He wanted cash on hand in case the clerk refused to let him use his Visa or debit card to pay the fine. If applied. He knew it was a pessimistic assessment, but he could not shake the sense that those little shits with the DA's office would be better at presenting lies than he would be at defending the truth. 

He slipped the money into his wallet, slipped his wallet into his backpack, then deliberately waited at the corner for the walk sign before he crossed to the courthouse. He wanted no one to have any excuse to go after him, right now. Not even for a jaywalking ticket. 

Security was straightforward. The two sets of doors opened into a foyer where there was an x-ray scanner next to a table. He had to put his backpack on it and push it along to be inspected by an already very bored guard. Another motioned him through the scanner. 

He’d added his keys, glasses and everything else that might set off the alarms to the outside pockets of the backpack, so no problem arose there. Nor was anything found within the backpack that might be dangerous. His name and case number were on a list of people attending court proceedings, so he was allowed to continue. 

 Dillon Walstead and Elissa Manville were already standing in the corridor outside the courtroom, both crisp and fresh in appropriately tailored suits. While hers was navy-blue-neat jacket and skirt, probably straight off the rack at Macy’s, his was seriously sleek and stylish. And perfectly fitted, almost as if it were bespoke. Made him look even more like a male model. 

In addition? While she held the typical briefcase that was slightly worn with hints of the faux-leather peeling away, his was finely crafted and well cared for. Not something an assistant District Attorney could usually afford, so apparently his parents were helping him, financially. 

Or grandparents. One never really knew.

But that made it was fairly obvious that Elissa was totally on her own.

They were talking to that son-of-a-bitch, Paley, who was wearing the sharpest cop’s uniform Simon had ever seen. Shirt that still looked starched and pressed. Pants that were almost too tight, but not quite. Black belt and shoes polished to gleaming. And a full array of pistol, handcuffs, taser, pepper spray, body mike and camera, all polished as much as his badge. He was really emphasizing the stereotype of a police officer whose only interest is to serve and protect. 

He had also shaved close and tight, and his hair had been recently cut into what Simon’s father had referred to as whitewalls. Meaning next to nothing visible above his ears or on the nape of his neck. 

When had he heard the man call it that? Wasn’t there a more precise designation? Marine cut? Military? Jarhead? Something along those lines. He’d been very disdainful of anyone who wore it without also having the stick-up-your-ass gait of a true Marine. 

 “Buncha pussies actin’ like they’re real men,” he’d snarl under his breath. Usually with some sour beer on it as he rubbed the stubble on his head. 

Before he’d died, he’d almost seemed to prefer men have the long hair he’d so disparaged during Vietnam. It was more honest, in his opinion. Now the quasi-military style was making yet another resurgence in fashion, exacerbated by the police joining with ICE to become part of America’s gestapo. 

So predictable.

Whiplash...

Sat down to write up what I posted, yesterday, and instead wound up doing the whole lead up to Simon's first courtroom bit, with Dillon and Elissa doing their best to scare him into taking a deal and not appreciating he's too stubborn to go along with them.

What's fun is, in frustration Dillon yanked in some info I wasn't planning to bring up until their second session in front of the judge. And asked for a continuance to investigate this new information further. Which even Falwell was unsure about.

"It's a misdemeanor," the judge says.

"With an enhancement," Dillon responds, "making it a class A..."

Then Simon pipes in with. "According to what evidence?"

Seems Dillon's used to people accepting that the city planning office has it on file that the spot where Simon was arrest is within 600 feet of a school, and Simon wants a copy of that. So they have some back and forth in front of Judge Falwell over Dillon not providing anything under the rules of discovery. Which causes Falwell to allow the continuance so that can happen.

That's 26 pages. 5000 words. In one day.

So...now what, Simon?

A workable ending?

I'm working around a conversation that will take place at the end of MQM, between Walstead Sr. and ReShawn. One that I hope will encapsulate the whole of the story.

It's a Saturday and ReShawn's taken his son to a Little League game (he's on one of the teams) when Walstead comes up to sit by him. He's brought his grandson since Dillon is busy and his daughter in law is helping her mother with something or other. Still working out the real structure of that.

I want it to come across as them having a nothing conversation, like a couple of supportive parents on the bleachers. During which, it comes out that Dillon is leaving the DA's office to join his father's law firm. Not as good for a political career, but more lucrative. Judge Falwell is retiring to spend more time with his family. And nothing will be done about Paley, Garisov and Corelli.

The State AG knows those three killed Simon, but he doesn't have evidence enough to convict and doesn't want to run the risk of trying the three cops for murder then having them found not guilty. The only positive thing about that is, there is no statute of limitations on murder.

What it will boil down to is...Simon is dead and justice is only for the living. Possibly even for ReShawn to feel better about not having properly protected Simon after he was released from jail.

That observation will sting, but ReShawn is not dumb. He understands Walstead is merely giving him a heads-up. If he pushes for the investigation to continue, the outcome will not be what he wants and his career will suffer. Not overtly. But he will achieve nothing in exchange for everything he has.

And I pretty much think that is where the story will end...justice blinded, not blind.

Connections...

I've connected Simon and his memories in the bathtub, after being released from jail, with him being kidnapped by Garisov and Corelli and taken to Paley, to be killed. It's just a first pass over it. and includes him dealing with a local podcaster who accuses him of exposing himself to a child, but it's coming together.

I haven't fully written the ending, yet. I thought I might have...but the whole idea of the cops and DA's office in Barrington hunkering down to protect themselves from blame in Simon's murder is just too necessary. It finalizes the corruption of our system of justice and will, hopefully, detail how self-interest and stupidity overcome truth and honor.

Or maybe self-interest and arrogance. Maybe.

Of course, I still have a lot of the first half of the story to write. Hell, the first 2/3, really. I haven't found the opening, yet...at least, one that I wholeheartedly like. I've got four possibles...all rather run of the mill. I wonder if I should work up a prologue or introduction, like I have for Dair's Window. That lays out Adam is dead and telling the story, which I think adds a lot of interest to it.

I don't know. I'll deal with this part, right now...and truth is, once I do write up the rest of the book, the ending may change, again. I have a few different possibilites for that, as well.

Never trust me when I say I am doing something until after I've done it.

Psycho Simon...

Simon is proving to be difficult and demanding...and will not let me compromise on him questioning himself...or exposing himself.

This comes after he was raped...

--------

His sketches had grown furious and violent after that. His favorite artist changed from Tom of Finland, whose joy in male on male sex was evident in every one of his drawings, to Etienne, who revelled in the rape and destruction of hunky men in myriad ways. 

Especially if they were married. 

And circumcised. 

With a resemblance to Robert Conrad, whose numerous moments of bare-chested bondage on The Wild, Wild West had captivated Simon’s inner beast, as a boy.

Kidnappings. Anal and oral assaults. Murders, Burials. He built up a fair-sized portfolio of death after pleasure to satisfy his prurient needs. Gave him a semblance of control over his existence.

Then one night, after having been fucked long and hard by an amazingly handsome black man, in a fit of joy he’d burned them all. Set up a barrel in the back of his apartment building, made sure a hose with a spray nozzle was ready to use, and one by one had turned every one of them into ash. 

The fire department had not been happy, and had fined him for starting a burn within the city limits. Cost him forty-five dollars. But he was glad to pay it. 

Until the black guy never came near him, again. Oh, Simon invited him back, over and over. Even went to where he worked...and was brutally warned never to return. So he slunk away like an abused hound.

That happened twice more. Once with a long lean cowboy from Lubbock; once with an Army PFC from Fort Sam Houston. Both of whom reacted negatively to his dick and only took his ass...or let him use his mouth to satisfy them.

That was when he began to write short stories instead of sketching. Usually good-looking men being forcibly used in the ways he had been. Killing some, but not all. And he built poems...ditties, as he called them...like this:

To show just how warped I can be,

If I walk down the street and see

A man who’s gorgeous, roaming free,

I think the only way for me

To have fun is to tie him down

And then, despite his cry or frown,

Strip him to show skin golden brown

And stroke his dick until its crown

Has grown so full and rich and fine

My lips demand I make him mine

As my hands grasp his ass divine

Till his cum and my spit combine.

Then who knows what next I will do?

I don’t, and I admit it’s true

That all I take is what I’m due –

Complete control of him, in lieu

Of kisses and the soft caress

His fingers might leave on my chest

In nights of loving without jest.

This shows you why I am not blessed.

Now he was wondering if murder on the page was as monstrous as the actual deed, itself. He had brutalized men like Doyle in so many erotic fantasies. But could that be seen as just as bad as actually doing it to a living human being?

Was it the same manifestation, spiritually if not physically? Were the nights he pleasured himself...pretending he was both rapist and victim...would that on the same level as him actually forcing another man...a man in the same mold as Doyle...to submit to his own satisfaction? Had he, throughout his life, been building up a reservoir of pain and anger and brutality behind a dam of simple silence to the point it was now planning to give way and drown whoever happened to be in its path?

Like that bastard cop, Paley?

Had he actually intended to let loose of all his fury, that night? Do far, far more than sketch him?

Had the fates sensed it and stopped him before he did the unacceptable?

Could the honest answer to all of that be yes?

Could he have really become that much of a monster?

Probably.

Life will tell you, dammit...

Off the topic of MQM, I just found that while some of my books are being carried by the Buffalo Public Library, their titles are input incorrectly into their catalogue. The only way you can find them is by my name. A Place of Safety-Derry is okay, but New World For Old and Home Not Home are entered into their system as A Place for Safety!

And they have 3 copies of The Alice '65 entered as The Alice of '65. WTF? These books have Library of Congress Catalogue listings that could be downloaded without issue. Don't even need to input them, manually.I'll need to get that corrected.

On top of that, I placed an order with Amazon for a DVD. I don't like ordering from them for a number of reasons but I couldn't find it anywhere else...so ordered a book and another DVD I wanted, as well...and somehow the package being shipped to me got turned around. Marked as undeliverable and being returned to sender before it even got to Buffalo. No reason offered.

And do you think I can get any information out of Amazon about this? No. On one page, they claimed they tried to deliver it three times but I wouldn't accept it. Which is ludicrous. Their own tracking information contradicts that. All I can do is wait for a refund or see if it's reshipped...in 7-10 business days.

When I dealt with KDP for print and ebooks, I ran into the same issue. If things are going fine, it's great. But if something goes wrong, it's fuck you. No help. Nothing. Which is why I shifted everything to Ingram and Smashwords. 

And now those two are becoming just as bad.