Merging with Monsters

By Joseph Eugene Green

Anita Powers struggles to move beyond the experience of a horrific attack and assume a leadership role in a major corporation. Sherry Malone has married a black man in defiance of family and friends, and engages in a desperate effort to save her troubled marriage. Grayson Malone is a man who loses a promotion to Anita Powers and embarks upon a dark journey toward revenge.

Julian Quintana takes the bold step of revealing his potentially career-ending secret to his new boss, Grayson Malone. But Julian's secret compares little to the truth behind the most risky relationship of his life. And Phoebe Jackson contemplates killing herself because she is tired of living with the devastation left behind by a bullet. But Phoebe fights to hold on because her boss, Anita Powers, needs her now more than ever.

Merging with Monsters is a blunt, shocking and highly entertaining examination of the personal battles waged within America's corporate culture.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jan 12, 2006
• ISBN: 9781462065660

Joseph Eugene Green

Joseph Eugene Green published his first novel as an undergraduate student at Stanford University. Hard at work on his next novel, Mr. Green also works for one of America?s largest corporations.

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Copyright © 2006 by Joseph Eugene Green

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ISBN-13: 978-0-595-33556-5 (pbk)

ISBN-13: 978-0-595-66969-1 (cloth)

ISBN-10: 0-595-33556-X (pbk)

ISBN-10: 0-595-66969-7 (cloth)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-6566-0 (ebook)

CONTENTS

Prologue:    1992

Chapter 1   2006

Chapter 2    God’s Punishment

Chapter 3    White Ravens

Chapter 4    Impromptu

Chapter 5    Monday

Chapter 6    Unspeakable Joy

Chapter 7    Bootleg Friends

Chapter 8    The Chocolate Moon

Chapter 9    Pseudo Cool

Chapter 10    Surface Tension

Chapter 11    Black Boys And White Boys

Chapter 12    Invisible Niggers

Chapter 13    Relentless Pursuits

Chapter 14    Souls Bizarre

Chapter 15    Quiet Cataclysms

Chapter 16    At The End Of The Day

For my grandmother, Truzella Rhodes

Acknowledgements

My thanks to the following people for their brilliance: Rudy Sanchez Jr., Joan Rhodes-Owens, Guadalupe Basulto, Laura Westbrock, Alison Sleight, Andrew J. Maikovich, Michele Eskins, Wendy M. Washington, Lee Richards, Leah Kersey, Shirley Greve, Michael Bourret and Frank Weimann

PROLOGUE: 1992

It is almost midnight and her world is spinning out of control.

"Shut the fuck up bitch and don’t scream,’" hisses the voice that seems to echo throughout the cavernous confines of the three-story parking garage.

Still reeling from the sharp blow to her right arm, Anita sucks in her breath and tries to make sense of what is happening to her. My arm! It’s broken! Oh, my God! This can’t be happening! It feels like someone has shoved her arm deep into the blue heat of a ravenous flame. Nerves made raw with pain fire repeatedly up and down the damaged limb.

It’s broken! Snapped like a brittle piece of wood! Broken!

Anita feels like she will throw up, fall down—just give up. But she has never given up. It isn’t in her nature to give up. She tries to scream, but it is impossible to get a sound beyond the hot hand clamped firmly on her mouth.

A few hours ago, Anita Powers gave a well-received speech to a group of minority high school students as part of a weeklong series of events commemorating Black History Month at the University of Denver. Few activities give Anita greater satisfaction than relating her success story to a youthful audience of black and brown faces. She enjoys telling them how in spite of all the odds that were stacked against her since day one, she is well on her way to becoming a doctor. Anyone, she told them, can find their way beyond any negative circumstance.

But my arm! Oh, God! It’s broken!

Anita parked her car in the garage located directly across from the auditorium and just beyond the well-lighted tennis courts. She did not park in the open lot adjacent to the auditorium because the evening forecast warned of a heavy blanket of wet snow.

Oh, God! Oh, God! I’ve got to find a way out of this!

A proud woman, whose remarkable beauty is well matched by her intelligence and drive to succeed, Anita is fiercely independent and dislikes having to ask people for help. This is why she didn’t give Derek, her fiancé, a hard time when he refused to attend her presentation so he could instead take care of some personal business. And this is why she declined her professor’s offer to escort her to her car in spite of realizing the evening’s event had extended well beyond its designated time.

Hot breath smelling of a corrupt mixture of onion, beef, and alcohol flows against her face. Thick fingers twist into her hair causing her scalp to burn and her skull to ache. You’re coming with us—bitch.

This can’t be happening!Anita’s mind continues the disastrous cries from a fire she is unable to extinguish. And her eyes water as the natural rhythms of her body make their acquaintance with an alien form of raw fear.

The muscular young man initially caught her and held her from behind, right before delivering the devastating blow to her right arm. But he now turns her. They are face to face.

Oh, my God, nooooooooo!

She tries to keep from facing him by forcing her eyes to the ground. If she cannot see him—if she does not look, then maybe the demon will cease to exist.

Still trying to resist her assailant’s advances, she catches a glimpse of the red and black pole he holds in his hand. It’s the automobile anti-theft device. Screaming thoughts crowd her mind again. The Club! I’ve been hit in the side of my arm with The Club—a steel bar!

Adrenaline flows freely, but instead of making her stronger, it has a sedative effect. She wants nothing more than to pass out and escape from having to understand and confront any of what is happening to her.

You’re coming with us, he says, further tightening his grip in her hair.

Oh, God, it hurts!

Anita summons the courage to finally look up and face the dark eyes of her attacker. He’s a black male who appears to be in his late teens or early twenties. Us? Who? She questions and receives no answers.

Viselike, a hand grips her right upper arm, causing sharp pain to radiate throughout her shoulder. Oh, my Lord, she whimpers, her eyes instantly watering up. You don’t want to do this, she pleads. You don’t want—"

She then spots the swirl of red and black metal as it slices through air on a path toward her face. The sudden pain she feels is excruciating and there is no relief from realizing he slaps her hard against the side of her head with his hand instead of the steel weapon. The sound of metal falling against concrete is faint and possibly imagined.

God help me! Please!

The fierce throbbing in her face is then supplanted by the force of another slap to her left cheek that is followed with more verbal hissing from the monster that holds her in his grasp. But she cannot understand. She does not understand what he is trying to tell her.

There is so much pain. Please make it stop. Oh, God! Oh, God! Make it go away!

Anita coughs and begins crying as blood leaks from her cut lip.

Don’t talk! Don’t say nothin’ bitch, her assailant hisses again. I don’t want to have to hit you again. You just gonna be still and be pretty—that’s all you have to do. Black holes mark the spots where some of his teeth are missing. He’s wearing a tight, dirty, gray T-shirt and blue jeans that appear stained with oil and dirt. Damn, you smell good.

Details, she thinks. If I can remember enough details, then maybe I can survive. She notices several bloody scratches on her attacker’s muscular, dark arms. Did I make them? Oh, Derek, she thinks. Where are you? Why aren’t you here with me now? How am I going to survive this? How does anyone survive this?

Anita summons the courage to fight. Sucking in her breath, her left hand becomes a claw ready to strike. She thinks she remembers hearing that women who resist their attackers during the first few moments of an assault have the greatest chance of getting away. Like a vulture, she will strike at his eyes, gouging them out like talons tearing away at rotting flesh.

Anita’s hand goes up and—slap! The monster’s fist connects with the left side of her face again, sending her tumbling to the ground where she promptly lands on her broken arm. Her unrestricted scream echoes throughout the parking garage.

Shit. Ain’t nobody around here is gonna help you. You might as well give up and enjoy the ride. And if you do that again, I’m gonna kill you. The monster kneels and picks up the weapon he has dropped and stands over her. And I’ll kill you quick bitch. He laughs and spits into her crying face, his spittle mixing with her tears and the blood leaking from her busted lip. His eyes, reflecting the light from the yellow fluorescents strapped to the ceiling above, are the moist, glassy red orbs of a comically made-up street demon.

Anita curses herself for crying and at the same time her soul cries out to God to get her out of what seems like an impossible situation. For the good Lord has rescued her from some seemingly impossible situations before. But nothing ever like this. Nothing ever as bad as this.

Oh, God! she prays. Please help me!

She fights back the tears, wondering how much longer she has before the unspeakable will happen. She struggles to fight off the steady waves of panic that constantly threaten to completely rob her of her senses, leaving her at the complete mercy of this monster.

Oh, God, please don’t let this happen!

Anita is a smart, young woman who has worked hard all her life and has always done the right thing. She’s been good when she wanted to be bad. She’s been responsible when it would have been perfectly within her right to be irresponsible. She’s been loving when it would have been well justified to be hateful.

On this night, she was responding to an invite by the University’s Minority Affairs department to be part of a group of inspirational speakers selected to address high school students regarding the benefits of higher education. Anita graduated from the University of Denver (magna cum laude) and plans to attend John Hopkins University School of Medicine.

C’mon, bitch, he commands, yanking Anita up from the cold concrete floor by the back of her head—and then he twists her left arm behind her back as he urges her forward to a secluded section of the garage’s second level.

Oh, God, please don’t let this happen to me!

The pain in her right arm repeatedly surges and then fades as it flops along as if her body is about to slough off the damaged appendage. The heels of her black pumps leave faint, barely visible skid marks as she briefly resists and quickly gives in to the commanding strides of her attacker. She spots her pearl green, 1986 Honda Accord off in the distance. Her mind looks for her keys and her soul desperately tries to start the engine.

Oh, God, please don’t—

His grip in her hair relaxes. And realizing that hers is the only car parked on the second level, and that no one responded to her initial and subsequent screams, she allows her knees to buckle, seeking one last chance for escape by attempting to collapse face forward onto the floor.

Initially, her plan works, and her attacker almost trips over her in his attempt to avoid falling on top of her. Adrenaline and panic brings strength, and this time Anita ignores the resurgence of pain in her right arm, spins around on her butt and tries striking out at her attacker with her feet. Her right foot makes contact with his groin and he grunts. Anita thinks she might have a chance to finally make a run for it.

The Club! Damn it! What if he still has the weapon?!

With another angry and desperate wave of panic sweeping over her, she tries twisting around to rise up and run. This is her only chance to run. But it comes too late.

You fucking, goddamn bitch! her attacker shouts at her, his voice booming into the stark and cold atmosphere of the garage. He does not seem to care that someone might hear—that someone might be on the way to rescue her. As Anita tries to sprint away, her one good hand frantically clawing for a grip on the cement floor, he grabs her feet, pulling Anita flat against the ground. The coldness of the concrete floor bites into the thin fabric of her dress, stinging her breasts. Her shoes are ripped from her feet and that’s when he appears—a young white man who Anita first prays is a student who might be coming to her aid. Instead, he motions to her black attacker. This way! he shouts. Let’s do it over here!

Fucking bitch! You goddamn, motherfuckin’ bitch! the black one angrily hisses again, having tired of Anita’s attempts to resist. He grabs her feet, drags her backwards several inches and throws her against the nearby cement wall.

It is all Anita can do to quickly bring her left arm up to shield her face and keep from banging her head against the wall. Her arm bleeds from the latest blow, and she tastes the black one’s sweat as a shredded piece of his T-shirt is suddenly forced against her mouth until it settles snug between her teeth.

Can’t stand my bitches when they get to screaming, he mutters.

Her head is roughly jerked up as if to break her neck as the black one uses his knuckles to jam the rag deeper into her mouth. In doing so, he snaps one of her front teeth.

C’mon, over here, the white one demands, continuing his approach, and Anita recognizes him as someone she saw loitering outside of the auditorium after the evening’s event, Empowerment through Diversity, ended. His blue eyes are radiant beneath the fluorescent shine illuminating the garage, and his dirty white shirt is revealed beneath an old, maroon bomber-style jacket.

The black one lifts her from her position on the cold pavement as if she is his rag doll. The bottom of her green dress rips, exposing her underwear and she feels the black one’s hand squeeze her buttocks hard enough for it to hurt.

Feeling her body react to his touch, the black one holds her head with his hand in a solid grip and presses his tongue to her ear and mutters, Oh, yeah, bitch. You’re gonna like what I do to this sweet, tender ass of yours. You’re gonna like it real good. His tongue is a slimy, cold slug performing a most vulgar intrusion.

Anita feels as if she will die many times over again and tries screaming again. But her cry of anguish exits her mouth in a muffled grunt accompanied by a few foamy drops of spit.

No longer capable of even attempting to stand up, her black assailant must accept dragging her along until he arrives at the entrance to the stairwell offering the option to either go up to the 3rd level or down to the 1st level.

Noooooo, she mutters, every nerve in her body lit up by extreme and final doses of adrenaline. She wants to pass out. She wants this to end. The white one opens the door and helps the black one shove her inside the stairwell illuminated only by a low wattage fluorescent bulb hanging high on the ceiling. It blinks once behind its web-like shielding of mesh wire as if about to go out, or perhaps signal what is about to take place.

Here, hold this bitch, the black one orders the white one. We gonna do this one right. He begins removing his belt with one hand while he holds Anita up by gripping the back of her head even tighter.

My head is on fire! she thinks. He’s going to tear my scalp off! And my arm! Oh, my God! My arm is broken! Somebody please help me! Just make it stop! Oh, God! Oh, God!

The white one momentarily appears less resolved than the black one, and Anita meets his eyes, mistakenly revealing her intent to try and make one last break for it when the black one releases her to finish pulling down his pants. That’s when the white one smirks at her, revealing crooked, stained teeth—and the intensity of his resolve. Before Anita can even begin to position the muscles of her legs for one last attempt at running away, the white one punches her in the stomach.

Dominos! he exclaims. His laughter is maniacal. Dominos! he shouts the nonsensical word again.

Anita nearly vomits from the shock, the pain and fear of choking on the cloth jammed in her mouth. She vaguely hears the white one repeat his triumphant cry of dominos as he strikes her again in her mid-section. And the black one has grabbed the back of her neck, before shoving her forward. She’s then falling into the white one’s grasp right before she gags on the cloth in her mouth, and briefly loses consciousness.

Oh, God, Anita prays. Please help me. Don’t let this happen. Please don’t let this happen to me. Oh, pleeeeeeeeeeease God! Noooooooooo…

Outside, the nearly deserted campus offers no sudden arrival of angels or heroes to combat the horrific exploits of demons. Above and high in the night sky, dark clouds sweep across the moon, blocking its light like a turbulent, heavy black curtain. Snowflakes swirl in the chilly wind, sparkling like stars belonging to the fluorescent filled universe spilling from the parking garage.

Some snowflakes drift far enough into the garage to eventually settle quietly on the windshield of Anita’s Honda Accord. And several fall to quick, watery deaths upon the not quite cold enough concrete floor, just outside the door marking the entrance to the stairwell from which no sound escapes.

Beyond the yellow painted, steel door, the black one turns Anita around, having stripped her of her clothing. He enters her again—this time covering her face with what remains of her dress. His body is hot and heavy as he bores into her, his fingers occasionally clawing at her breasts. Oh, yeah, he groans as he rams into her with such force that the top of her head bangs repeatedly against the heavy door leading into the stairwell.

And then the white one is on top of her. But he hesitates while anxiously looking into Anita’s defeated eyes as if searching for something he has lost. Turn her over, man, he says. Help me turn the sorry bitch over.

Having resigned herself to the fact that she has already died, Anita gives up praying to God and offers no resistance as she is rolled over. This time she does not even feel the cold as her bruised and scratched breasts are pressed into the hard, filthy concrete. She feels the pain, though, and summons the strength to cry out once again as the white one penetrates her from behind. But it is a silent and imagined scream—perhaps heard only by the good Lord above.

CHAPTER 1

2006

Sherry Malone wrapped her mind around the image of her husband, Grayson, walking through the front door and pulling her naked form into his strong arms. Her muscles would become rigid with the excitement generated by her and her husband’s sexual desire. And her nipples would react to the stimulation of being pressed against his strong chest, sending constant waves of pleasure and excitement throughout her body. They would kiss lovingly and passionately, as if they had just discovered their intense need for one another.

Sherry then imagined her husband’s lips and tongue traveling down the side of her face to lovingly explore the sensitive areas of her neck. His passionate kisses would eventually land upon the tips of her breasts and the sensation would cause moans of near intolerable pleasure to escape her mouth as she and her husband made love in a manner not experienced in over eleven years.

While gently rubbing more lotion into the soft flesh of her left arm, Sherry stood naked in the living room of their 3,000 square foot home located in Highlands Ranch, Colorado, enjoying her fantasy. She was satisfied that she’d done all she could to prepare for her husband’s arrival home from work. Her day had been dedicated to cleaning and preparing the house for a very special romantic encounter. There were flowers atop the living room table, scented candles were lit and appropriately spaced across the fireplace mantel, and the volume on the CD player was set just high enough for her to feel the syncopated rhythms of Gray-son’s favorite jazz artist. And even though it was near 90 degrees outside, the inside temperature of the home was set at a comfortable 71.

Sherry applied more of the sweetly scented lotion to her breasts, enjoying the feeling of her fingers brushing across her erect nipples, and more thoughts of intimacy with her husband. Recently, while listening to a particularly articulate doctor appearing on a daytime talk show, she had become more enlightened regarding the significance of sex in a marriage. The doctor had repeatedly stressed the importance of married couples reconnecting with the spirit of their physical relationship.

Unfortunately, the doctor had said, couples fail to pay the spirit of their physical relationship the respect it deserves—the attention that it requires. It is this spirit of shared physical need that ignites a relationship and must be relied upon to sustain it. The importance of maintaining this spirit throughout a marriage cannot be underestimated. For sex is one of the most important ways in which married couples can connect and demonstrate their commitment to one another time after time. After all, it is not uncommon that when the sex stops in a relationship, so does every other intimate aspect of that relationship. There is no discounting the very real impact that a healthy and enjoyable sex life has on the longevity of a happy marriage.

Sherry agreed with the doctor. After two children, a mortgage on a house they could barely afford and more than eleven years of having engaged in countless arguments (some petty and some serious) during which they had repeatedly demonstrated the darkest side of their personalities, she worried that she and Grayson might have suffocated the spirit of their physical relationship.

Whatever it takes, she thought. I will do whatever it takes to re-ignite the spirit of our physical relationship.

But her quest to save her marriage already seemed strained and somewhat hopeless. Even though she looked forward to some private time with her husband, she already missed the children and wondered if she’d be able to sustain her role as a seductress while worrying about their boys. She’d reluctantly left them in the care of her mother. She didn’t get along well with her mother and remained convinced that her mother still had a tendency to drink too much.

The children had been left in her mother’s care only once before when she and Grayson attended a company Christmas party two years ago and their regular babysitter had been unavailable. During the party, Sherry must have called her mother at least 10 times before her mother just stopped answering the phone. This had caused them to race to her parents’ home in a near state of panic, imagining a variety of horrible scenarios. What if Mom had gotten drunk and passed out? What if Mom had taken the children somewhere and lost them? What if Mom and Dad had gotten into a fight like the ones that used to scare me and my sister so much that we would hide in the basement closet? And although everything turned out to be okay, Grayson had insisted, because of the alcohol on her mother’s breath, that they wake the boys and take them home, cutting short the planned overnight stay.

Sherry’s decision to leave the boys with her mother would likely irritate Grayson, but she believed their marriage was at stake. Besides, her mother had promised that she was no longer drinking and she genuinely seemed to enjoy spending time with the boys.

What harm could come of mother spending a few hours with her own grandchildren?

Sherry glanced at the clock again and told herself to stop thinking like an over-protective mother. But it wasn’t easy. The children were a very important priority in their relationship. They both viewed raising children as a way of experiencing the type of carefree childhood that had eluded them both: Grayson had been raised by a single mother with a drug problem, and Sherry’s parents were alcoholics.

When Sherry became pregnant with their first child, they made a joint decision for her to be a stay-at-home mom. And fortunately, with Grayson’s promotion, his salary increase enabled them to continue living in the manner to which they were accustomed—a fact that Grayson never failed to bring up when they argued. And lately, it seemed like a day couldn’t pass without one of them getting upset over something the other had done, had said, or had left unspoken and open to interpretation. This was why she stood in the living room in her full naked glory awaiting the arrival of her husband.

Sherry applied more of the sweetly scented lotion between her thighs and on her buttocks. She was so ready for this—so very ready. And she had to concentrate harder on keeping her mind focused on using the element of surprise to seduce her husband.

Hurry up, Grayson, she muttered aloud. Hurry up before reality rushes in and we’re sitting at the kitchen table with nothing going on between us but the television news and the same old tired conversation.

But Sherry couldn’t avoid thinking of her children. Soft jazz beats and sweet smelling candles did little to disguise the fact that she was a married mother of two boys. She hoped they were behaving. Six-year-old Jason had a way of acting out whenever he sensed stress or disorder, and Sherry’s mother was the queen of creating an environment of stress and disorder. While growing up, she never knew what to expect from her mother’s varying moods.

C’mon, she thinks. Mother is a much older woman now. She has calmed down considerably over the years. There is no need to let concerns regarding the children ruin my special time with my husband.

However, like a roller-coaster repeatedly climbing the same track, Sherry continued re-thinking her decision. The chance was actually quite strong that Gray-son would freak once she told him the children were at her mother’s and this would ruin everything about the special moment she was trying to create. Especially, if the children started misbehaving, causing her mother to phone with any problem as Sherry had requested. And then she and Grayson would have to race over to her mom’s house to retrieve the boys—right in the middle of her attempt to rekindle the spirit of their physical relationship.

But the boys were well behaved. Grayson was a firm disciplinarian and although it disturbed her to witness how hard Grayson would spank the children when they failed to be obedient, she had to admit a growing allegiance to the adage of sparing the rod and spoiling the child. All she had to do was hint at filing a report with Daddy and whatever obnoxious behavior they were up to immediately ceased. At over six feet three inches tall and weighing more than 210 pounds, Daddy could be scary sometimes.

Yes, she told herself again. There is no need to let concerns regarding the children ruin my special time with my husband. I’ve made the right decision. I don’t have to worry. I worry too much about too many things already.

Sherry thought about her parents’ disapproval of their blonde hair, blue-eyed daughter becoming involved with a black man—and such a big, dark black man. However, she had welcomed the opportunity to engage in a romance that rejected the warped ideals of her parents.

During her freshman year, she had been instantly drawn to the charm and good looks of the sophomore who played on the University of Colorado at Boulder’s football team. At first, their romance had been largely driven by sexual lust and the whole forbidden nature of their interracial pairing. But theirs turned out to be a story of true friendship and love that only grew stronger during their years at the University. They married soon after she graduated and had their first child three years after Grayson obtained his MBA. And now, after nearly 12 years of marriage, she found herself standing in the living room of their beautiful home, ironically yearning for a past that had led her—led them, to what seemed to her a somewhat desperate and sad moment.

It was almost 6:45. Grayson would have left the office by now. He typically arrived at work 45 minutes early and left 45 minutes late. When he finally arrived home, he would be tired and anxious to complete his interaction with the boys. But he would be in for a surprise tonight. If all went according to plan, instead of listening to Grayson complain about work and his quizzing of the children regarding their day’s activities, she and her husband would spend the night reuniting with the spirit of their physical relationship. She almost giggled. It had been a long time since she felt like giggling. Lately, laughter seemed only to happen when Grayson was away and she amused herself by playing with the children.

When did Grayson start becoming the dark cloud sent to rain on my parade?

Like many people, Sherry was unable to think of the exact moment when her marriage had evolved into more of a job than a relationship. But she was now determined more than ever that her marriage would not be an unhappy one. And her marriage would not end in a divorce that would only bring smug satisfaction to her mother.

As for her father, he no longer complained of her marriage to Grayson. Life in the nursing home, while gradually succumbing to Alzheimer’s disease, had resulted in the depletion of most of the emotional ammunition that had served to keep her father a past, present and future stranger in her life. Ironically, the cruel disease offered rare glimpses of the gentle father she had always longed for while growing up.

6:48 p.m. Where is he? There is only so much lotion a gal can apply. She was starting to get a little chilly. Goose bumps marked the flesh of her arms and her thighs. She felt uncomfortable, but it was a pleasant kind of uncomfortable. She had worked very hard to feel this way and was determined to do whatever she could to make sure that both she and her husband enjoyed the fruits of her efforts.

Damn, she thought, wondering if Grayson had decided to pull another all-nighter. Or maybe he had to run and jump on a plane—off yet again to take care of something his boss, Michael Cael, had fucked-up.

Steadily

Reviews for Merging with Monsters

[mrsrj-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

When an author breaks new ground with a seemingly old story line, it is often overlooked by main stream readers and reviewers. Which I feel is exactly what has happened with Merging with Monsters. While it would appear, at first glance, the plot has been covered already - this assumption would be in error. Yes, it is true, discrimination has been the subject of many books. But never, like this.Joseph Green has painted a masterpiece, using a corporate merger and the employees vying for position within the company as his canvas. The characters are very real, three dimensional and flawed. Much like you and me. Each having been effected and changed in some way by that which they have endured. Anita, a woman of impeccable strength and character fights both her inner demons and the glass ceiling of corporate America. Her assistant, Phoebe, paralyzed by a bullet has dealt with hurdles of her own. While Grayson and his wife, Sherry live in a prestigious neighborhood in Colorado, they too struggle with ignorance and discrimination. Through out this novel I found myself stopping, momentarily to reflect upon my own experiences. So often we know nothing of the people we work with everyday. “You never know what is behind the smile of your co-worker,” has never been demonstrated in such a powerful and compelling way. From the highly controversial topics, to the beautifully written metaphors, this is one of the most engaging pieces of literature that I have read in quite some time. Whether you have experienced discrimination in your own life, or simply enjoy a good, suspense filled book - Do not miss Merging with Monsters. Joseph Eugene Green has delivered a novel that will leave the reader thinking and inspired to treat others with a deeper understanding.Happy Reading! RJ xx