By Travis Naughton

As the first rays of the morning sun filtered through the small room’s lone window, a crumpled heap lying on the dusty wooden floor began to stir. The heap, a man in his mid-40s with graying hair and a week’s worth of stubble on his face, was accustomed to waking up in strange places. In fact, it happened with such frequency that the citizens of Alexandria began referring to the old drunkard as Blackout rather than his preferred moniker Blackjack.

Read the first chapter in this week’s Journal…

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