The Jekyll Legacy by Jaye Michael & Levanah Greene Chapter One Let’s Make Believe

Victorian alchemy meets modern science and magic.
What could possibly go wrong?

 

 

Alas! Too evident, my discoveries were incomplete. Enough, then, that I not only recognized my natural body for the mere aura and effulgence of certain of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by which these powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me because they were the expression, and bore the stamp, of lower elements in my soul.

 — The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde — Robert Louis Stevenson

 

It could have been a scene from Father Knows Best, that iconic Fifties television sitcom starring Robert Young and Jane Wyatt, except that the situation comedy was set in the Midwest somewhere, whereas this was upstate New York, just an hour or two — , or three, maybe four, if it wasn’t three o’clock in the morning and the State Police were still enforcing the speed limits — from New York City, so the residents fondly believed that they were much more sophisticated than a bunch of hicks from Iowa.

A distinguished-looking man was sitting at an old-fashioned rolltop desk in the study of a strikingly-Victorian cobblestone house built in 1832 by his great-great-great-grandfather. The room was large, a perfect match to the high ceilings, ornate wainscoting, carved chair rails, and decorative crown mouldings that wrapped the room in a cocoon of the century before last. To say that he felt comfortable in it would be gross understatement, because he’d been born here, quite literally — it had been his mother’s second pregnancy, and when it came time to deliver, there was no time left for leisurely drives into the hospital, as his father had insisted, despite his wife’s gentle suggestion, screamed at the top of her lungs, that it was time to leave. At the moment, the distinguished man was reading a magazine with no pictures and quite a few tables densely-packed with numbers taking up the two pages visible before him. Annals of Sub-Molecular Biology the banner at the top of the page read. The facing page had, ‘September-October, 2035 - Vol 3x, issue 5’. He was about half-way through the issue, deeply engrossed in an article about experimental genetic therapies which took into account quantum effects upon the expression of the human genome. He was nodding in pleased comprehension as he scanned down the tables.

A boy, or young man, really, walked in and said, “Hey, Dad. Can I borrow the lab?”

“What was that, son?” Dr. Herbert Lanyon the Third, MD, PhD, took a moment to glance up from his research journal to see his son, Herbert Lanyon the Fourth, or “Hastie” as his friends called him. He was not surprised to find Jack Utterson standing beside his son. The boys had been inseparable since birth, having being born minutes apart, in the same hospital, although to different parents, not to mention the fact that the Lanyon family and the Uttersons had been closely associated for more than a hundred years, since before their families had immigrated to America from England, well before the Civil War.

“I asked if I could borrow the lab.”

“What for?” Dr. Lanyon asked, straightening his impeccably red Harvard bow tie and adjusting his tasteful tweed smoking jacket with the leather patches at the elbows. Dr. Lanyon was a stickler for what he called ‘good manners’ in the presence of company, even when the company was as familiar as Jack.

“Nothin’ special.” Hastie spoke with a light, unconcerned tone, but his eyes never made it to his father’s and his foot kept scuffing at a spot on the plush carpet that only he seemed able to see. He was an awkward, gangly sort of boy, but very muscular and not entirely unhandsome, with regular features, a nice square jaw, curly brown hair, eyes that varied between hazel and green, depending on the light, and he looked like he was up to mischief, as usual.

Mr. Lanyon narrowed his gaze slightly and sighed. “You know the lab’s not a game room, son. Just remember our agreement. You have the right to experiment in the course of your studies, but you have to be careful, and replace whatever you blow up if you’re not.”

“Of course,” Hastie grumped while Jack turned away and laughed into the back of his hand, but Hastie made sure the rest of his words were mumbled quietly enough that only Jack overheard. “Pop, you’re such a stick-in-the-mud.”

“Very well then, son, but I’ll need it again later this evening, so remember to clean up after yourself. Oh, and don’t touch the TSP device.” Dr. Lanyon’s attention returned to his journal as the two teens left, jostling each other good-naturedly.

Hastie was always disappointed that the lab was not in the corner of some dark, dank, dungeon with crumbling, moss covered stone walls and assorted parts of strange devices. In actuality, it was a spare bedroom in the Lanyon’s ancestral home in the suburbs, and while there was a sturdy table in the center of the room with a Bunsen burner, some chemical compounds and some flasks of different sizes scattered across the surface, the walls were mostly tall bookcases and assorted family memorabilia covering the last century or so. It was the closet that held most of the lab equipment when not in use and it was a big closet, stocked to the brim with enough gadgets and doodads to make your average mad scientist at least as happy and content as a large injection of an antipsychotic medication.

“So what do you want to do?” Jack asked as he dropped heavily into one of the overstuffed chairs in the far corner of the lab and let his feet dangle over the armrest while Hastie prowled about the room, poking through the books. Jack had a bulkier frame than Hastie and was more of a bruiser, which explained his position on the school football team as a defensive tackle while Hastie played quarterback on offense. Jack would have made a good model for an old Hitler Youth recruiting poster, blond, blue-eyed, solid muscle, and ruggedly masculine.

“I want a really great costume for the Halloween dance, that’s what I want.” Hastie was poking around the room, shifting stacks of papers aside and looking carefully at the dusty books on the sagging shelves, some of which were stacked in front of other books, some of which were simply covered with so much dust that the titles were obscure. Hastie’s mother wasn’t all that fond of housework, and tended to let it slide, especially in the ‘lab.’

“So why aren’t we at the mall or something?” Jack was confused. “I don’t see anything like a costume out here. Have you looked in the closet?”

“What I’m lookin’ for isn’t in the closet.” He kept browsing. “How about some help. Move that chair over here so I can check the very top shelves.”

Jack sighed and started to unwind from his comfortable position when Hastie impatiently climbed onto the table and stood up. A moment later he was shouting.

“There! There is it.” Hastie shouted as he pointed to the other corner of the room. “Push the table over there.”

“I’m not moving you while you’re on the table, you dope. You’ll kill yourself. Get down and I’ll move it.”

“Alright already,” Hastie complained as he got down. “Sheesh. You’re so darn cautious. I don’t think you’ve ever taken a real risk, have you?”

“Sure I take risks,” Jack laughed as he helped to move the table, taking time to disconnect the bunsen burner from the supply hose, which drooped limply from an outlet in the ceiling high overhead. “I take risks every day. After all, I have you for a friend and that’s risk enough. Now when are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?”

“All in good time, Igor,” Hastie responded with an abominable accent that he obviously intended to be Transylvanian, but probably owed more to Young Frankenstein than to the Carpathian mountains of Romania. “All in good time.”

Hastie yanked on a large old leather-bound book until it finally came loose from its place on the top shelf. Only Jack’s hand on his back prevented a fall.

Ignoring his friend’s sarcastic, “You’re welcome,” Hastie jumped down, placed the book on the lab table and flipped through the last few pages until he found exactly what he was looking for.

“This is exactly what I was lookin’ for!” he said with manic glee. He danced jubilantly about the room grabbing his friend and leading him in an impromptu waltz.

“ ’This’ is what?” Jacked pushed away and straightened his clothes as he muttered to himself, then demanded again more loudly, “What is it, already?”

“It’s my great grandfather’s formula… well, actually it’s the formula my great grandfather got from his best friend. I forget the guy’s name, but it’s at the beginnin’ of the journal, and anyway that’s not what’s important now.”

“So what is?” Jack tried peering over his friend’s shoulder but was having trouble making words of the cramped handwriting in the journal.

“This is the formula, modified by my great grandfather, for changin’ people into someone else. As I remember the story, the first formula didn’t work very well, but great grandpa fixed it. We’ve had this sitting here for ages because no one in the family wanted to try it out.” Hastie finally paused for a breath.

“So this… this ‘formula’ has never been tested?” Jack was incredulous. “I’m outta here. Are you going to join me at the mall, or what?”

“Relax,” Hastie smirked. “Don’t be such a ‘worry wart.’ I’m not gonna make you take any risks. You can watch me… and after it works for me, you can try it, if you’re not too chicken, that is.”

“I’m not a chicken, darn you. I’ve got more tackles than anyone in the league. If it weren’t for me, think how many times you would have been chopped meat, Mr. All-State Quarterback. I just don’t think this stuff will work and we still need costumes. There’s only two days left before the dance.”

“Tell you what. You hit the mall. See what you can find in the way of decent costumes. I’ll pull this together. Pop usually has enough chemicals and lab apparatus in stock here for just about anythin’ I’ll need. Let’s meet back here tomorrow after practice, okay?” As usual, he didn’t wait for an answer, but began reading and muttering as he tried to decipher the handwriting. Jack watched him for a moment, then just shook his head and left. Sometimes he wondered why they stayed friends.

“Man! I hate wind sprints,” Hastie groused. The two friends were still breathing hard as they walked to Hastie’s car after practice. Jack was limping badly, but Hastie didn’t seem to notice. They were leaving school after most of the students and faculty had left for the afternoon, so there wasn’t much traffic around the campus, and it was a sunny Fall day, not cold yet, but the air was crisp and cool, and the leaves on the oaks that lined the street were just starting to change into their fall colors.

“Yeah. That was one hellacious session.” Jack agreed as he slumped into the passenger seat of Hastie’s hand-me-down Mom-mobile. “I’m beat.”

Hastie just groaned his agreement as he started the car and headed for home. Neither boy had the energy to reach out and turn on the radio and the silence quickly became uncomfortable.

“So what did you find at the mall?”

“Not a lot.” Jack gently rubbed at a newly-earned bruise on his upper thigh. “The department stores only had kid stuff left. The novelty stores had some stuff for adults left, but who wants to be Richard Nixon or a wolfman?”

“Well, I wouldn’t mind being a wolfman, but who the heck is Richard Nixon? And we did agree to get something different — and something we could both do together. Besides, who ever heard of a blond wolf?” Hastie asked as he rubbed his friend’s military-cut hair. He always wore it so short that it looked a lot like peach fuzz.

“There was this one store….”

“Yeah? Give.”

“It was kind of strange — called ‘The Witch’s Familiar.’ ”

“So? What did they have?”

“Well, they had a lot of strange-looking stuff, almost like a dusty old botanica, candles, oils, crystal balls, mirrors, and an assortment of weird gimcracks. At first, I thought it was another variety store, like ‘Spooner Gifts,’ but choreographed by Mel Brooks. They had a couple of racks of costumes, but I never really got to see them.”

“Huh? You couldn’t walk to whatever corner of the store they were in?”

“No, O wise one. This whacky old crone all dressed up in black — but not like a Goth or anything, more like those people in Pennsylvania who live like it was a hundred years ago or something — came out of the back room before I was more than a few feet into the store and stopped me.”

“A big strong guy like you was stopped by an old woman?” Hastie smirked. “Extra! Extra! Read all about it. Big, hulkin’ center stopped in his tracks by an old fossil.”

“Cut it out,” Jack snarled in annoyance. “In the first place, she knew me by name for some reason, which weirded me out, because I'm sure I would have remembered seeing her. In the second place, what did you want me to do, arm wrestle her? Go two falls out of three? I stopped because I don't mess with girls, and she was so frail looking that I was afraid she might just topple over if I accidentally sneezed, much less touched her. Anyway, she told me that she didn’t have exactly what I was looking for anyway. You know, Hastie, sometimes you can be a real pain.”

“Sorry, guy. It just struck me as funny.” He stretched forward and turned on the radio and they rode in strained silence until arriving at Hastie’s house where they automatically sprawled out in comfortable positions in the den. Hastie grabbed the remote and started surfing channels on the television.

“So what did you come up with?”

“Huh?” Hastie had stopped changing channels. It was one of those barbarian from Hell action flicks, and he really liked the part where the big guy was blowing stuff up with a primitive hand-held grenade launcher.

“I said, what did you come up with?”

“I think it’s ‘Revenge of Selene.’ You know, the sword and sorcery flick with that blonde actress who married that other guy, Stallion or something.”

“I meant for costumes,” Jack didn’t quite snarl, but he made it clear he still wasn’t happy with Hastie’s comments about his unmacho behavior at that weird store. For once, Hastie, intellectual genius but emotional ignoramus that he was, caught on, and did his best to give a simple, straightforward, no-nonsense answer.

“Oh. Yeah, I made up a bunch of doses of the formula. It’s up in the lab. Come on.” He jumped from his chair and jogged up to the lab leaving Jack to decide whether to let the unending series of explosions bombard a soon-to-be-empty room.

Jack sighed and turned off the television, but not before one last wistful glance at the barbarian, who seemed to have found a beautiful buxom barbarian babe, now tastefully draped fainting across his left arm while he whacked away with his sword in his good right hand. He then ran and caught up to Hastie at the door to the lab.

“Whoa up, ‘Boy Blunder.’ You want to fill me in a bit about this formula before we use it?”

“Still don’t trust me, huh? Cluck, cluck, cluck, cluck,” Hastie teased as he made flapping chicken movements with his arms.

“Excuse me? Last year? The moon rocket? I remember being hard-of-hearing for a week after it exploded instead of taking off.”

Hastie started to indignantly correct his memory-impaired friend’s misunderstanding of the situation, but Jack waved him off and continued in a louder voice so that Hastie’s words were lost in his friend’s tirade.

“Then there was two years ago when you were going to transmute lead into gold based on an old family recipe. I almost lost two fingers when your concoction exploded and splashed acid all over.” He rubbed the still visible scars on his left hand.

“But….”

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m on a roll. Every ‘experiment’ you’ve cooked up has resulted in something going wrong, all the way back to when we were seven years old and you made gunpowder but couldn’t find any charcoal so you cleverly made some charcoal from wood chips and dumped it into the mortar — before the embers had cooled. Once again, ‘BOOM!’

“Well, it….”

“ ‘BOOM!’ is the outcome of just about every project we’ve done together, so yeah, I want to preserve my hide and get a bit more information about this formula before using it.” Jack finally wound down and dropped back into the stuffed chair.

Hastie stood, hands on hips, scowling, waiting to see if Jack was really done before responding. “So why are you still here if you feel that way?”

“Because you’re my best friend,” Jack spoke with as much sincerity as he’d spoken with anger before, but then he broke into a good-natured grin as he continued. “And besides, who else would stick around to save you when things go wrong?”

“Well, nothin’ is going to go wrong this time, damn it. It’s not even my formula.”

“Sure,” Jack sat back down, but he certainly didn’t sound convinced.

Hastie kept speaking as he jumped back up onto the chair and grabbed a bunch of test-tubes from the same high shelf that the book with the formula had been found originally and stuffing as many as he could in various pockets, so he didn’t hear Jack mutter about the formula for gunpowder not being his originally either.

“I did some research.” His pockets were full, but there were still a couple of test-tubes in his hand. “The original formula was developed by a physician by the name of Jekyll, that’s pronounced ‘Jeekuhll,’ by the way, to rhyme with treacle. He was best friends with my great grandfather, Herbert Lanyon the First, and gramps got the book from Jekyll’s estate.”

“Let’s save the family history. Our families have been close for so long, I probably know it almost as well as you. Wasn’t Jekyll the guy who wanted to temporarily change his looks so he could live a life of crime?” He looked skeptical.

“Sorry.” Hastie dropped down into the other stuffed chair. “I gotta tell a bit more, so please bear with me. You’re right about the life of crime, but it probably wasn’t his original intention, and he’s not the center of the story anyway.

“So go on already. I’m waiting….”

“Anyway, Hastie Lanyon the First, was a doctor also. It bugged him that his very good friend had died so suddenly. I know Jekyll had planned to use it for evil, but science is just science, and the first Hastie Lanyon realized this. He knew the formula he’d found was somehow related to the formula mentioned in Jekyll’s journal, so he started studying it, looking for a way to make it work properly, without the mental and physical degradation that eventually drove Jeckyll mad. It became an obsession for him, especially alone in his big empty house after his wife died. His children had long since grown up and left for lives of their own and that was an age when servants did not spend more time than they had to with their betters.

“Anyway, Hastie the First eventually found out what was wrong with the original formula and fixed it. This is the modified formula he created, exactly as he described it. No modifications. No substitutions. None.”

“Well, that’s good to hear, I guess. What does it do?” It was clear from Jack’s tone of voice that he was still leery.

“Damn! Still don’t trust me huh?” Hastie’s confidence had returned as he spoke of things he understood. “Let’s see, how to describe it. Okay, let’s try this. Remember that old Chalker book, the one about the truck driver who turned into a barbarian and fought evil in another dimension?” Jack nodded pensively. They both loved Chalker’s books, and you could buy them for a song online, since no one had bothered to renew the copyright, books with only words in them having long since been relegated to the dusty antique stores that also sold Edison Cylinder Phonographs, the ones with the big horn things instead of amplifiers.

“In one of the later books in the series, the barbarian is bitten by a small dog that’s actually a ‘were,’ ” Jack said thoughtfully.

“A what?”

“A ‘were.’ ”

“Where what”?

“Werewolf.”

“I don’t know. I don’t see any wolf.” Jack made exaggerated searching movements as he laughed.

“Right, and who’s on first?”

“Second base.”

Now they were both laughing.

“Anyway,” Hastie tried to control his laughter enough to continue. “You darn well know it’s ‘were,’ as in werewolf — like Lon Chaney.”

“Of course. That’s where I heard the name.”

“On a movie marquee?”

“No. The name ‘Jekyll.’ It’s from that book by Robert Lewis Stevenson. That explains why they never talked about him much in our joint family histories. Wasn’t my great-great grandfather his lawyer or something? What kind of fantasies have you been spinning for me here?”

“No fantasy.” Hastie glared down at his seated friend. “I told you I needed to give you some history. Let me finish the story already.”

Jack nodded and waited, albeit not that patiently, if his rapidly twitching foot was any indication.

“My great grandfather wrote that book under a — whaddya call it — pseudonym. I have copies of the original galley proofs here somewhere if you don’t believe me. Anyway, I told you that he’d gotten obsessed. With no family around, he also became somethin’ of a recluse. Didn’t go anywhere. Didn’t see anyone. If you remember from your own family’s history, our two families almost split about then.”

Jack nodded his reluctant agreement.

“He did try his modified formula once — and then died.”

“Oh great, so now it’s poison you’re selling here?” Jack said, but he was smiling as he spoke.

“No.” Hastie scowled. “He had plenty of time to report that it worked and how it worked before he was run over by a hansom cab at seventy-six years of age.”

“Okay, so how does it work?”

“For that we go back to that Chalker story we were talkin’ about earlier. The barbarian became a ‘were,’ but not like Lon Chaney.”

“Yeah, I remember. He didn’t become a werewolf, he became a were-anything, whatever he was closest to when he changed.”

“Exactly, and that’s almost how this formula works.”

“Oh oh. Here we go again. What exactly do you mean by ‘almost?’ ”

“Relax, Jack. Your feathers are showing again. ‘Squawk! Cluck, cluck, cluck.’ The difference is that it’s not what you’re closest to, but what you’re thinking of when the change occurs.”

“Side effects? Do I turn purple? Does my nose fall off? Do I have an irresistible urge to walk in front of a hansom cab?”

“Nope. No side effects.”

“Okay, what aren’t you telling me. There’s got to be something. Give.”

“Nothin’ damn it. It changes you into whatever the heck you think of after takin’ the formula. It’s based on Jekyll’s formula, which changed the emotions and then let the emotions, or spirit as Jekyll called it, change the body. Great grandfather reversed it so that the form changed and then the emotions, or spirit, changed to reflect the form.”

“I knew there was a catch,” Jack snapped his fingers. “So if I think of becoming a horse, I become a horse. Then I become convinced that I am a horse. Then I don’t know to change back to me?”

“Wrong. You become a horse and you get the reflexes and instincts of a horse, but keep your intelligence. In effect you become like Mr. Ed.”

“A talking horse?”

“Well, maybe not, but a very smart horse. You might be able to speak a bit, but I’ll bet that the vocal cords of a horse would make speech very difficult, if not impossible.”

“But how do you know that I would know I could change back or, for that matter, that I would want to change back? Horses aren’t known for wanting to become humans as far as I know.”

“Because that’s what great grandfather turned himself into, a horse. The family had a hell of a time, removing the scuff marks from his hooves the wood flooring so they could sell the estate and move to America. They couldn’t figure out what great grandpa had been doing with a horse inside the house.”

“Okay. Another question. How do you turn back?”

“You take the formula and think about being yourself.”

“How did old Hastie the First find a way to drink the formula if he was a horse?”

“He knocked the bottle with the formula in it off the table and onto the floor. Then he lapped up what spilled and turned back.”

“That means we need to have an easy way to change back. How many bottles of that stuff did you make?”

“Dozens. More than enough for any eventuality. Does that mean that you believe me?”

“No, it means that I’m reserving judgment, although I’m still leaning towards the idea that this is a really elaborate practical joke.”

“When it’s not April Fools Day? Come on Jack, we have a tradition to uphold,” Hastie responded indignantly.

“Fine. It’s not a joke. It works, and we’re going to try it out tonight, two days before the party.”

“You still don’t believe me.”

“Nope. I already told you that. Just assume I do and humor me. What is this going to turn us into for the party? Ideas?”

“Well. I was thinking about something mythical. A satyr or a centaur.”

“Nope.”

“Why not? We both like centaurs.”

“Sure, but they’ll never let us in. Remember your great grandfather’s floors?”

“The precious gym floor or a fantastic costume.” Hastie lifted one hand and then the other as if weighing his options, and then said ruefully, “Okay. Gym floor wins, huh?” He grimaced in distaste. “Okay, how about Batman and Robin?”

“Nope. Too common. Care to guess how many cartoon super heroes will be there?”

“Good point. How about rock stars. Old one’s that have been around so that everyone knows them, but as themselves when they were young?”

“Sure. I’ll be George Michaels and you can be Boy George.”

“I was thinking of something just a bit more contemporary.”

“Okay, how about you be Whitney Houston and I’ll be Shania Twain.”

“You’re not takin’ this very seriously.”

“Of course I’m not. Why would I?”

“Because it works, darn it. Try it. Or are you chicken?”

“Don’t call me chicken.” Jack was out of his chair and trying to loom menacingly over his slightly taller friend. “Give it to me.”

“So you’re going to try it out? Are you sure you’re not afraid?”

“Sure I’m sure,” he growled as he grabbed two containers from his friend’s hands.

“What are you going to become?”

“Not a clue. I know. I’ll become… I’ll become… a barbarian, like from that movie you were watching.

“I wasn’t watching it, I was channel surfing and stopped there when you started talking to me again.”

“Yeah, sure. Whatever.” Before he found another reason not to, Jack uncorked the small test-tube and swallowed the amber fluid inside. “Ugh. It tastes like scotch.”

“Shut up and think barbarian. You want to screw this up?”

“I’m thinking. I’m thinking.” He looked down at his body. Why aren’t I changing?”

“It takes a few moments. Give it a chance.”

“Right. Absolutely.” But Jack still squeezed his eyes closed tight and concentrated as hard as he could.

“Hey! I feel a tingling. It must be working.” Jack’s eyes opened wide with shock, and then he collapsed to the floor groaning and writhing.

“Oh, god. It’s not supposed to hurt.” Hastie dropped to the ground beside his friend, trying to cradle Jack’s head in his lap as his face became pale with fear.

Jack suddenly became very still, hardly breathing. Before Hastie could start CPR one eye opened and Jack laughed. “Gotcha. This is one practical joke that’s going to be on you.”

“You bastard. You had me scared to death.” Hastie pushed Jack’s head off his lap and stood up. Still laughing, Jack pushed himself back so that he could lean against a stuffed chair.

“I told you this was a crock. Now what’s the real plan for the Halloween party? Does it have something to do with the TSP device your father mentioned yesterday?”

“Sorry, Jack. That was the real thing, and I suggest you keep thinking about big bad burly barbarians — unless you want to be that centaur, or maybe you want to be the barbarian babe?”

“Now that was one good looking babe. Did you know that her bio on Wikipedia says that Selene’s exactly as tall as me. She’s a red-head in that movie but she’s usually sporting blonde hair. I wonder if she’s a natural blonde? I’ll bet she is. She looks like a blonde.”

“Jack. Don’t do this. You really need to think of….”

Before Hastie could finish Jack groaned and slid over onto his side, hands clutched tightly to his chest. As Hastie watched, his best friend’s twitching body slowly seemed to turn to Jello and flow into a new and different shape. Hair flowed out of his head, reddish blonde hair that kept coming until it reached below the shoulders. His arms thinned and the skin lightened a bit. His upper torso didn’t get smaller, but it did change shape with the shoulders and waist becoming thinner. His shoes didn’t fall off, but they seemed to wiggle about more as he continued to twitch.

Suddenly Jack stopped twitching and lay still. His eyes shot open as he sucked in a prodigious quantity of the room’s air and screamed.

Copyright © 2000, 2001, 2002 Jeffrey M. Mahr — All Rights Reserved

Copyright © 2012 Levanah Greene — All Rights Reserved