There was the Haphazard Troll, known for his butchering of the English language and nonsensical ramblings. A victimized author could spend hours tryin... to solve the riddle of his garbled words. There was the Yellow-bellied One-bomb Anon, an elusive creature that was difficult to track. That particular troll attacked without words. The only indication of his voiceless assault was a sharp decline in score numbers. And there was the Mocking Troll, whose sarcastic dronings could be heard for. "Flextime," they called it. It wasn't much, but it was something, and we were willing to take every bit of flexibility we could get. Her office and my editor didn't need to know whether we were working every minute or whether during our breaks, and sometimes most of the afternoon, I had her bent over the kitchen table as I fucked her, or she rode me outside by the pool. No, they didn't need to know that at all, and we never told them. Of course, by now you can guess that we weren't too. More

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