title: The Accidental Executioner
author: Robert D. Furrow
description: Robert D. Furrow was raised on a ranch in western South Dakota and considered a career in rodeo, but World War II was on when he graduated from high school in June 1944. He entered the U S Navy on Halloween, liked the way he was treated, and stayed for 30 years. The first 10 years were spent as an Aviation Ordnanceman, working on aircraft machine guns, loading bombs, and flying as an aerial gunner and bombardier. He relished the excitement of flying from aircraft carriers in tailhook planes, and later with land-based patrol bombers making anti-submarine patrols. He changed his rating specialty to photographer, and retired as a Master Chief Photographer's Mate. His most notable duty assignments (among 18 ships, squadrons and stations) included Air Anti-Submarine Squadron Thirty-Two, Patrol Squadron Five, USS Wasp, the Atlantic Fleet Combat Camera Group, the Naval Photographic Center, Light Photographic Squadron Sixty-Three, and the USS Forrestal. They went on their honeymoon on a HARLEY, and he continued to ride with his wife, until he became a father and traded the bike for a car. Master Chief Furrow knew and admired the skill, ability and dedication of several friends that were SEALS. After retiring from the Navy, Mr. Furrow retired again after working another 20 years for the Navy as a Civil Service photographer in Norfolk, Virginia. When his wife passed away, he moved to Pennsylvania, with his son near his married daughter. When his son got married, Mr. Furrow decided to return to South Dakota, where he grew up, to be close to his brother and sister. He lives alone and volunteers three mornings a week for the local police department performing computer tasks in the administration office. He belongs to the Spearfish Writers Group, and with their encouragement, he used his experience with horses, motorcycles, guns, and the Navy, to write this novel.
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  _**MOMMY ISSUES OF THE DEAD**_
  
   _ **T.A. PRATT**_
  
  “It’s not an assassination, precisely.” Viscarro, the subterranean sorcerer
  who dwelt in the tunnels and vaults beneath the seen-better-days city of
  Felport, tinkered with an oddly beautiful contraption on his desk, all brass
  gearwheels and copper spheres on articulated arms, all together no bigger than
  a football. “It’s more that I want you to physically inconvenience someone by
  tricking him into putting high explosives inside his chest cavity. But it’s
  not murder, because Savery Watt is already dead.”
  
  Marla Mason propped her feet up on Viscarro’s desk, because it annoyed him.
  “I’ve got nothing against the dead. Dead people don’t bother anybody. You, on
  the other hand...”
  
  Viscarro bared his hideous teeth at her. “Do you want to engage in pointless
  banter, or do you want to find out about the _job_ , you insolent child?” He
  had the patience of a trapdoor spider when it came to plotting, planning, and
  sch