"Those pasty white New Yorkers, Karens mostly, in the ivory towers that control print publishing are pretty cowardly as a group - hell, they're so afraid of the general public they won't even ask them what they'd like to see in book form..."

"I'm guessing if they ever had to read an author's submissions in full, they'd wet their pants," Marty agreed with a sardonic grin, tossing down the rest of his Scotch and soda. "But if you complain about it, they'll blackball you from ever being published."

"So how is it that they wanna keep fucking with mystery writers, Marty?" Dave pursed his lips as he stared down at his drink. "A bunch of intelligent people plotting evil, nothing but time on our hands. Don't they get that our stories require years spent thinking about dozens of ways to murder someone who pisses people off?"

Neither realized in the moment that an idea had been born... one that would linger until someone ran with it.