No memory. No pulse. No clue.
The undead private eye everybody calls âBraineater Jonesâ has an axe to grind. Somebody plugged him and dumped his corpse in a swimming pool.
Worse yet, his memoryâs gone. He has no idea who killed him or why.
But heâs damn sure going to find out.
With a smartass severed head as a partner, Jones hangs up his shingle in the cityâs undead quarter. When heâs not solving cases (poorly) Jones is always looking to keep his flask full.
Prohibition is in full swing, and the dead need alcohol to function. Without liquor they become mindless, flesh-munching ghouls. (In a word: braineaters.)
Everything will probably be fine. The investigation into his own murder probably wonât point Jones toward the cityâs most important bootlegger.
And even if it does, itâs not like heâll risk cutting off the hooch just to seek justice for himself, right? No one manâs life is worth unleashing a cannibalistic orgy of violence. Right?
Cracking this case will be a tall order, but one thingâs for sure: whatever happens, Braineater Jones isnât getting out of this one aliveâŚ