Why does this keep on happening to me? I get a brilliant idea for a novel, but am then unable to produce anything more than the first paragraph. I fear that history has repeated itself in my doomed writing of Lies, Cowardice, Greed, Power. It’s meant to be a gritty portrayal of life at the very pinnacle of international trade and death. At least this time I’ve managed to design a jacket for my would-be novel.

“I’ve been doing lines since the weekend. How do you think I feel?” Why lie? Duane knew that there was no way that Dynamax Corporation could fire him. He straightened his tie, turned around, farted, and walked off.