As always, this is for entertainment purposes only. There will be no wagering. And the house gets the standard ten percent.
Time for a little diversion as I work toward the Fin on this stinking carp I call a novel.
This typewriter was one of a kind, like the author who pounded away on this gaudy relic. He created a canon that I, a wide-eyed kid, read completely. Later, intoxicated by his fictional adventure, I volunteered to go places where I could have been factually killed.
They shouldn't let stupid kids read books. They're too dangerous.
One last clue? If I hadn't read these books, I probably never would have written Beneath A Panamanian Moon.
Take your best guess.