“Please don’t kill me,” I whimpered to the man pointing the Glock at my chest. The Mega-Zlusheez that I’d bought at the 24-7 hit the pavement with a splat and oozed between my toes as I raised my hands in surrender. I took a step backward, reeling from the sudden rush of brain-freeze, frozen toe-jam and fear. I’d been working on my novel, struggling with a particularly difficult scene, when the urge for a Zlusheez had struck. I ignored the fact that it was 2 AM. I pushed aside the thought that danger lurks on the mean streets of Detroit – actually, just about any street in Detroit, especially after midnight – and slipped into my flip-flops, clattering down two flights of steps in my haste to satisfy my need for frozen cola-flavored slush. I justified the excursion by grabbing my pedometer at the last moment, knowing that the short walk would put me over 10,000 steps for the day. I deeply regretted my rash behavior, now. The gun glinted as the hand that held it motioned toward the shadows. My brain was slow to recover from its artificial cryogenic state and even slower to respond to the situation at hand; I’ve always been lousy in a crisis and this was no exception. I managed to move my head and in doing so I gasped, nearly fainting as I recognized my assailant. There was no mistaking the striking blue eyes, the bushy brows and muttonchop sideburns: the man before me was none other than Evil Editor, blogger extraordinaire and the most famous editor, ever. But I had been mistaken about the gun: it wasn’t a Glock, it was a Pertronix.
“My Jag died,” said Evil, gesturing toward a sleek E-Type V-12 with what I now realized was a timing gun, not a semi-automatic weapon. “Can you help me reset the timing?”