Forty-seven years ago today, Jimi Hendrix died. If you want to find out who killed him, you can read the below sample chapter from my novel Wannabes, available for much cheapness at the Amazons.
At Murmur’s leaving party, his drinking buddies from Souls Receiving filled him so full of harpy piss that when he teleported to an unoccupied toilet cubicle in New York’s Biltmore Hotel the next morning, his first act as a field agent was to vomit into the bowl. He stayed there for thirty minutes, groaning and listening to his acidic bile sizzle through the porcelain, before he managed to get his feet under him and stagger out into the lobby. He checked in under the name of Brad Pine—identity and reservations provided by the travel office—and flopped into bed to sleep it off.