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Book Title: Into the Gray Scale Author: Oge Mobuogwu Publisher: Reboshke Publishing Cover Artist: Rafael Andres of CoveKitchen Release Date: November 6, 2024 Pairing: MM, MMF Genres: Dark Fantasy, Mystery/Suspense, Paranormal, Urban Fantasy A sleuth crime dark fantasy based on folklore and physics Heat Rating: 3 flames Length: 305 pages Is it a standalone book and does not end on a cliffhanger. Buy Links - Available in Kindle Unlimited 
Dead men can’t catch killers. But maybe with the right help, they can bend the rules from the afterlife. Blurb Drug dealer AJ has just discovered he’s been murdered. Trapped in the surreal complexities of the afterlife, he realizes he’s still bound in service to his killer, the ruthless drug kingpin Governor Tyson. Meanwhile, homicide detective Maleek Shapiro is closing in on "skooches", an enigmatic and dangerous drug at the heart of the case. As Shapiro edges closer to proving the case against the governor, the investigation throws him into a maze of mystical experiences, unsettling encounters, and nightmarish realms where the boundaries between life and death—and dreams and reality—blur. Dead bodies begin to pile up as the untouchable governor storms towards his sinister goals without regard for consequences. Can Shapiro, with AJ’s help from beyond the grave, stop the governor or will they all be sacrificed at the altar of his personal ambitions? A poetic, spiritual and gripping exploration of the human psyche and the thin line between life and death, INTO THE GRAY SCALE blends dark fantasy with crime drama, unraveling raw emotions and surreal twists that challenge the boundaries of reality itself! Excerpt His space had become a numbing static, like the sound that came out of old television sets when the networks closed out for the day. It was like a sad score one heard whenever his mess of a life played out. The muffled sounds coming from the TV in the living room, the loud clicking of the old grandpa clock that hung in the kitchen for no justifiable reason, as if taunting him on how much of a waste of time his existence was, and of course the humming of the microwave, the only source of comfort in his life presently. Beep. His meal was ready. At the dining, he knew Michelle made every effort to ignore him. Her aloofness, in her nightgown, legs folded up on the sofa, playing with her hair while staring at the TV, had become a constant image for him. He knew exactly what he would find her doing every night, no matter what time he came home. He knew the posture and particular positions she took. He wondered if he would ever ask why she watched Jerry Springer every night, however perfectly the chaos from the show mirrored their life. He wondered how surprised he would be coming home one day to find her doing something else or better still, dead. It gave him comfort, thinking about finding her dead, maybe from a heart attack or a razor to the wrist or some freak accident. Who cared? He usually thought about her when he watched “A Thousand Ways to Die.” He finished cleaning the countertop and used area, then took the food take out pack to the trash. Very conspicuously placed in the open bin was an unwrapped used tampon. It was red and gorged with blood, sitting in the middle and on top on the trash. Clearly, she dropped them just when he was about to get in. He should have gotten used to it already but still, he allowed himself to get shocked every time. It was going to be throughout the current period. From his mental count she had a day or two to go. He was still visibly upset when he got outside with the trash, a lot with Michelle for being such a psychopath but also with himself and the situation he’d allowed himself to get into. As he smoked later that night in a private make-shift man cave behind the house, he let his thoughts travel far still. He thought about Tana and chastised himself for being so callous earlier that day. He thought about his eight-year-old marriage and how quickly it had deteriorated, about Michelle and her lack of forgiveness, and the tampon tantrum she threw every month. He still wished her dead, though. He needed to escape. Sometimes he envied those in prison for being so far away from it all. He wondered why it never occurred to him to take his own life, if he would ever get to that point or if he’d have the guts if he ever did but, in that moment, he hoped he would have the guts to shoot Michelle instead. * It had stopped being because he was horny, the frequency didn’t even allow him to get horny anymore. It was more a routine, an establishment of comfortable familiarity and most importantly, an exit point for stress. It wasn’t necessarily pleasure either. Okay, of course it was a bit of pleasure, but it was an important hand-picked routine to end the day. The last time he didn’t masturbate before bed, he did not sleep throughout the night and had a messy day afterward. As he stroked, he focused his mind on his wife, her nonchalance ever so defiant, on ASCHA and its deadness, his chaotic life that managed to stay uneventful at the same time, his disapproving father, Angela Blaine and her smirk-laced stupid face that seemed to say, “I’d have fucked you but you’re way below the pay grade,” and instead resorted to mocking him with her every gaze; on the ASCHA co-workers and their scheming, the inmates that bored him with their constant meaningless chatter, his dead neighborhood and the prison he found his life in. Eyes tightly closed; he ran these thoughts in his mind like a slide show, as his stroking became more vigorous. In his mind, the images and people stopped swirling and finally gathered into a pile, like rubbish, his own failures at the top on that pile. He spread his legs as if in a real simulation, stroking and breathing harder and ejaculated on top all the pile, letting out a deep muffled groan. As he steadied his breathing under the running shower, he allowed himself wonder if he wasn’t a psychopath himself, just like his wife. Maybe they were meant for each other after all. Was he the only one who got off on such images? But his was a ritual, a coping mechanism, and a way to say “fuck you” to it all. It was better than taking an assault rifle to Angela’s office. That thought only crossed his mind once. In the bedroom, Michelle lay backing his side of the bed, awake but pretending to sleep, deliberately leaving him little space as if she wanted to be asked to move. Standing by and staring at her, he in turn wondered if it wasn’t her deliberate attempt to initiate communication. Was she tired of her tampon tantrums? They actually hadn’t had a single conversation in two years. Not one. The house routine was so set they didn’t even need to discuss food or bills. They simply found their place and moved on. He took a pillow and walked out the door. After he left, she opened her eyes and raised her head to glance at the shut door.. About the Author Author Links Website | Facebook | Instagram | TikTok 
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