Knowing you’re dying can be murder.

When Gage Adder finds out he has inoperable pancreatic cancer, things really start to look up for him. He leaves his soul-crushing job, joins a nice terminal illness support group, and takes up an exciting new hobby: Beating the hell out of bad guys.

Gage’s support group friends Jenna and Ellison don’t approve of his vigilante activities. Jenna says fighting never solves anything. Poison, on the other hand… When the three decide to team up and hit the streets, suddenly no rapist, pedophile or other odious criminal in the city is safe.

They are the sickest of superheroes. Their superpower is nothing left to lose. But what happens when one of them takes this power too far and puts at risk the lives of hundreds of innocent people? Where does one draw the line when dying to kill?


Sick to Death won a 2017 Independent Publisher Book Award (an "IPPY") for Best Adult Fiction Ebook. This is Greg's second IPPY award.  


What readers are saying about Sick to Death

Sick to Death is a tour de force dark comedy.”

–Craig Clevenger, author of The Contortionist’s Handbook and Dermaphoria

Sick to Death is a fast paced, cerebral thrill ride of a story filled with unexpected twists, and studded with Levin’s delicious, dark chocolate wit.

–Simone Mets, author of Very Christmas

“Greg Levin has done it again with his new novel, Sick to Death. As in his previous books, Levin weaves dark humor and a human touch into every chapter of this transgressive tale. Highly recommended.”

–J.R. Hardenburgh

Sick to Death is a comical, thought-provoking tale. Keep an eye in your rearview, Chuck Palahniuk. Here comes Greg Levin.”

–Angie McMann of the Miss Match trilogy





Everyone in the subway car gasped when the man with the shaved head slid off his seat and crumpled to the floor.

Everyone except Gage. He just leaned back with his head resting against the window, tapping the ivory handle of his walnut walking cane. As the train rattled around a curve beneath the heart of Philly, Gage ignored the panic and commotion, keeping his eyes on the supine skinhead and on the woman who was now frantically administering CPR to bring him back into the world.

The woman’s rescue efforts were futile. Gage knew this. He knew there was no coming back from the two hundred milligrams of sodium cyanide coursing through the skinhead’s body. How the cyanide made its way into the body, well, Gage knew that, too. And if all went well, he’d remain the only one who knew. And all usually went well. Gage was quite good at cyanide.

And ricin.

And arsenic.

Unfortunately, Gage was also quite adept at Gemcitabine.

And Oxaliplatin.

And Irinotecan.

Unless you’re an oncologist or the patient of one, you’ve probably never heard of those last three.

Over the previous six months, there was only one thing Gage had become more efficient at than killing… and that was dying.

But for now let’s keep things positive and focus on the former.

The skinhead was the second person Gage had murdered in three weeks.

It had been a slow month.

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