He took their million dollar advance but now he owed them a book. Problem was that he was plum out of ideas and moreover, drier than August in Death Valley.
So out came the scotch - used to work in the past - but this time it only made him angry and suspicious. Even the clickity-clack of his vintage Underwood and dopey trip to the cabin where he wrote the first one didn't spark the juices.
When he saw his face on the cover of Entertainment Weekly, the mania grew worse and only after barricading for days in the back of a dark closet did the inspiration to type arrive:
"Despite writing well over 60 novels and countless short stories, Hank knew the beast he'd have to slay in his next adventure would be the one buried deep within the bowels of his demented soul."
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