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Mr. A lurks in the derelict grand hotel, a haunt of junkies and their traders, hustlers and runaways, petty bad guys. On a nights like any other, a guy, a notorious family-values politician, dies in the hotel's ruined lobby. Suspended from a splendid chandelier, your body is bound with duct tape as if for some sordid S&M landscape gone terribly wrong. The man has been disemboweled, intestines spilling from the gash in his stomach to the dusty floor. Mr. A is watching, watching. "You know, everyone seems to think that angels are these adorable little innocent baby-looking m*th*rf*ck*rs however the Bible details them very, very in a different way... Angels are furious, crazy and mean as hell. They may have four faces and only one of these is human. Their most important job isn't to save lots of our souls or help us find love. They prefer to kill and they're good at it." Who's Mr. A? Mr. A is fatality. Mr. A is salvation. Mr. A is love. MR. A MAY BE THE GRIGORI.
