Letters. Words. Sentences. Paragraphs. Finally! It all came to me. I quickly pattered away, archiving my faint ideas in stone. My typewriter, a dashing red IBM100 Selectric, usually lay dormant upon the rickety old desk I had fastened together with plywood I got from my old Somerville Lumber job. Oh how young and impressionable I was, wanting to become a writer after I read Charlotte’s Web and Catcher in the Rye while babysitting little Beverly Hopkinton down the lane. I’m older now. I’m stronger now. I want to make a difference. Just as I completed the title page I slid the paperguide aside and presented myself the odd offwhite sheet of cardstock I had concocted. It read: The Communist Manifesto 2, The Squeakquel, By Karla Marks.