James Maxey lives in Hillsborough, NC with his wife Cheryl and a clowder of unruly cats. A lifetime of reading comic books has diminished his mental capacity to the point that he spends all his waking moments trapped in violent daydreams about colorfully clad superhumans and large man-eating, fire-breathing reptiles. Unsuited for productive work or the company of decent people, James ekes out a living by punching the keys of a steam-powered typewriter at random day in, day out. Occasionally, these meaningless streams of letters arrange themselves into something resembling stories, which he fleeces without remorse to the depraved subset of humanity known as ‘readers.’
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