Jason Hill
speaker
612 appearances
1 recordings
1 series
first heard Jul 2026
last heard 5 Jul
Jason Hill’s voice in public audio — every appearance, attributed to the second.
Trend
recordings per month · last 12 monthsRecordings per month over the last 12 months — 1 in all, peaking in Jul 2026 with 1.
Appearances
Didn't matter, though.
I could still put my fist through this bozo's face.
Except I couldn't, because in the B-side of the current universe...
I'd leave half his teeth on the floor only to find the Romanian police waiting for me upon arrival.
So, instead, I sucked it up and returned to my seat, where my snoring sleepmate still slept with her chin on her chest.
Once the plane had landed, I rented one of the new Mercedes-Benz 380 SLs in compellingly nondescript shade of grey, and drove to the address of Copeland's contact through a countryside that might have been a scene from a Cezanne painting come to life.
Lush, arsenical green fields paced the road for improbable distances and were beset by tractors and hay balers, barns, houses, and the occasional church sled past.
All set back from the road in neat, tactile pastures were not painted the same hard, clean, uniform white.
In the west,
Late afternoon sunlight coagulated over the cool blue ridges and folds of a jagged spine of mountains.
Copeland's contact was a man named Alexandru.
He was a thin, lean-jawed chap with enormous hands, which he kept folded in his lap most of the time he talked to me.
He occupied a run-down yellow-and-white farmhouse that was quietly sinking into the curve of a turgid river.
An old wooden wheel languorously turned the water and a satellite dish gleamed atop the crumbling roof.
Alien as some bizarre deep sea flora among the split shakes and rotted lathing.
Alexandru sat at a wide wooden trestle table chewing a pastrami sandwich.
He was stripped to the waist and awfully, awfully pale as if he'd gone overboard donating blood to the bank.
I sipped a sour local beer he'd fetched for me from somewhere deep inside the gloomy old house.
Untrimmed tree branches threw dark barber-leaf shadows through windows that desperately needed reglazing.
Rafters ripped the ceiling like the ridged palate of a dog's mouth.
Showing 341–360 of 612 · page 18 of 31
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