EXCERPT OF EMAIL TO KEVIN FANNING When I was like 11 I got some business cards for my detective agency (“Dietrich’s Detectives: Detectives, Spies, and Odd Jobbers” — I don’t remember if I was supposed to be Dietrich or what) and I wanted to run an ad in the paper advertising my services but my mom vetoed it. The minimum number of cards I could get was 500 so they haunted me for years, always popping up, being used as scratch paper, etc.

AND THEN THERE’S THIS I’m fast approaching my seventeenth birthday. The plan is to throw an intimate party at some sort of Japanese sex house. The proprietor convinces me that the whole thing would be much more intense if I hired 500 Japanese men to spy on us, and I agree. But there was an error with the paperwork? And so the 500 hired hands start showing up at my house, four per day, each with an insatiable sexual appetite? But they’re no longer just Japanese men but a wide range of people I’ve known, as well as a handful of composites and the inevitable semi-celebrity. And I’m getting stressed because I’m running out of money and my parents will be home in a few days.