“I have an idea.” Jim said. The last time he said those words I ended up waking up in a bathtub full of ice, a gangly looking old man held a razor poised over my naked side. My screams saved me that day, and I should have cut off Jim completely but I don’t know how to cut off someone without leaving a part of them on me.

  We sat across from each other in a local bar and when Jim said those words I peered over the rim of my glass of vodka at him. Giving him more than just the usual skeptical eye.

  “This idea of mine is good, it’s not like the other one.” Jim said, when he saw I hadn’t said a word he continued. “This idea doesn’t involve organ trafficking.”

  “I almost died Jim.” I said.

  “But did you?” Jim asked. “Did you though?”

  “When I woke up in that bathtub, do you know the first thing I did?”

  “Pissed yourself?” Jim asked.

  “Well, yes, I thought of you too and I told myself that the next time I see you I will kill you.”

  “Look, that guy told me to bring him a healthy human being and he would give me money. You were at the top of my list of healthy human beings.” Jim said. “You should feel honored.”

  “Well I’m not Jim, I’m not honored. In fact I feel the opposite of honored.”

  “You feel dishonored?” Jim said.

  “Well, no but you get the point.”

  “I’m not sure I do.” Jim said.

  “Anyway, what’s the next get rich fast plan that you have?”

  “That’s the thing, it’s not about money. You’re a writer, yes? You earn from it.” Jim said and barreled on without waiting for me to answer.” You know how porn has a specific place where you can view categories? Where you can choose: interracial, BBC, black bull, ebony etc etc?

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “Yes.” I said, quite put off with Jim’s porn genre specificities.

  “We do the same but for writing! Women are more into erotic literature than show of skin. Like, imagine a website where you write whatever the audience wants to read. They can check out erotica texts regarding various things. They can read also dark stuff, dark hideous stuff. They can also read things that can make them cry or feel something, every fathomable piece of writing is made readily available. What do you say?”

  “So you’re describing literotica?” I wondered.

  “Yes!” Jim said. “It’s more of a rip off of literotica because, and here’s the thing. You have that special talent of yours where you can mimic any writer. Say someone wants an erotic story about a lumberjack and a school girl—”

  “I don’t think anyone wants to read an erotic story between a lumberjack and a school girl.” I said.

  “Okay,” Jim opined. “What about an erotic story between a lumberjack and a princess?”

  “Does it have to be a lumberjack?”

  “Lumberjacks are sexy, they spend all day felling trees so their arms and abdomen have rippling muscles, plus you can start the tale with the lumberjack felling trees and you capture the way the muscles ripple and the sweat dripping from the brow. Women are turned on with things like that.”

  “Women are turned on by deforestation?”

  “Yes, and you have the ability to mimic an author’s style. You told me that yourself, whatever book you read ends up rubbing off on your writing technique and this makes you write like the author of the book you’re reading.” Jim said. He was so excited, he had this twinkle in his eyes. I remember recalling said twinkle when I woke up in that bathtub full of ice. Whenever I think about that day, whenever I remember how close I was to losing my kidneys… “Now imagine a woman who loves reading Stephen Hawking, right? And the woman wants a sex scene between a lumber jack and a princess, where will she get such work written for her?”

  I just stared at Jim.

  “It is you who would do it! You’ll go and read a novel by Stephen Hawking, then you’ll mimic the writer’s style and pen exactly what that woman needs to finger herself too.”

  “Jesus Jim.” I said. “First of all, Stephen Hawking isn’t an author, he’s that scientist who recently died, the one who was in a wheelchair most of his life. Second, I can’t write erotic stuff anymore, it was something I found myself inclined to do simply because I couldn’t comprehend what else to write. Now that my avenues are broad, I feel like I’m no longer that kind of writer.”

  Jim took a sip and looked at me for a while before inhaling deeply. “Fuck you.” He said on the exhale.

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