“Well, Nigel,” I said as I eyed the restaurant’s sumptuous neon lighting and inhaled the aroma of rich fried onions and meat, “if you’re aiming to impress, you made a good start.”

He stood. He was skinny, he was pasty, he was wearing tweed. I’ll be honest—it felt a little on-the-nose for someone in the book biz to be wearing tweed. It’s like, why not toss in a monocle and a bow tie while you’re at it, you know? But whatever. So I started to give him one of my firm handshakes, but he and his fingers were so delicate and intellectual I was afraid I might crush them and miss out on my free lunch.

“Indeed,” Nigel said nervously, “sorry about that, we had to cut back on our expenses—um, why are you wearing sunglasses inside?”

I snorted in contempt. My “sunglasses” were Google prototype scopes with built-in Sony 3D LCD technology and night vision, allowing me to scan even the darkest recesses of this dark, fancy restaurant for potential ambush by my thousands of enemies. But I didn’t want to embarrass the dude, so instead I just said:

“I don’t know. Why aren’t you doing squats every day?”

“What?” he said.

I laughed and ordered the boneless wings, chicken wonton tacos, brewpub pretzels with beer cheese dip, and a double helping of Neighborhood Beef Nachos™.

“You, uh, must be hungry,” he said.

“Nope,” I answered.

“Doc,” he started, then paused. “Hey—what are you a doctor of, exactly? I’ve always wanted to know.”

“Right,” I said. “You and everyone else on the planet. Now, what’s up? My chopper is waiting.”

“Doc, I’m going to level with you. We’re in trouble. People just aren’t reading anymore. Shakespeare, the Bible, the Knight Rider paperback series—we’re publishing all the great classics, but no one cares. We need something fresh, something new, something electric to save literature. We need you, Doc.”

I think he said something like that, but I don’t know. I was too busy ordering the loaded chicken fajita plate with extra lime wedges, a full rack of double-glazed baby back ribs, and the double-crunch shrimp.

“Um, you going to eat all that?” Nigel said.

“Look, man,” I said. “I’ve heard it all before. ‘Blah, blah, Western civilization is nothing without you, Doc. Blah, blah, blah, you’re the Chaucer, the James Patterson, and the Dolph Lundgren of gaming rolled into one.’ I don’t have time to save your pathetic humanities, okay? I’m too busy soaring with the eagles, I’m too busy climbing the mountain of success to the tippity-top, I’m too busy—”

I paused briefly to order the riblet platter, the eight-ounce top sirloin (extra bloody, because I knew it would gross out Nigel), the balsamic chicken apple salad (because I’m a beast but not a fucking monster), and the Triple Chocolate Meltdown® for dessert.