The assignment was a simple one: consolidate the email subscriber lists into a single spreadsheet. Or at least it seemed simple. Three tabs of blotter acid and a fifth of Jack later, and it became clear that the swarming birds would never allow it. They were all over the keyboard, shitting and clack-clack-clacking away on the IBM Selectric typewriter I’d brought from home. Liz said to use Excel, but a laptop is the establishment’s computer—the machine’s machine. You gotta feel the ink on your fingers, suck down the fumes if you wanna stay free and connected to your craft.

Ask anyone who’s in business. One of the keys to success is a good firm handshake. It’s the difference between a boy and a man. A boy is weak and limp. A man is strong and firm. Here’s the problem: A lot of people know this, and thus a lot of people have a firm handshake. How do you distinguish yourself? What’s the difference between guy with a firm handshake #1 and guy with a firm handshake #2? How do you go from being just another guy who knows how to shake someone’s hand to THE guy that knows how to shake someone’s hand?

1. Fall in love. It should be noted that there are different versions of love, most of which include one person parasitically sucking off the other, stronger person, but this still can be used to the writer’s benefit. What you do is you label anything love that you can’t figure out, or when a person acts inconsistent—one day happy, one day angry (like father)—and you sleep with that person and you listen to their hopes and dreams and they never ask you about yours and you don’t care because deep inside you know this isn’t the real thing but the sex parts feel good and you really really really like their nose, but inside you know it won’t last.

I let the mayor’s plane buzz Chicago’s lakeshore twice before I reach into the cockpit with my mind and jam the yoke sideways. I fully expect Zooster to show up and fight me, but not before I execute a few barrel rolls and then land the plane in the middle of Grant Park. My name is Rogue Agent. I used to be a hero called Z-pack, Chicago’s favorite sidekick, fighting for order and justice.

Now all I want is to see a picture of the mayor’s wet pants on the front page of the Tribune tomorrow.

Morning… Jesus came down and said I could see him in French toast if I wanted.

I said, “Jesus,” addressing him directly, “that’s pretty god damned clichéd.” Jesus said that that hurt his feelings because he’d seen me in a pancake. He might cry special tears now.