(Notice to publishers: There is likely to be a bidding war or even fistfights involved in acquiring the rights to this book. Please get your offers in early.)
When Brent Foxfire woke up that morning, little did he realize that he would soon be having the most exciting, most amazing adventure that anyone had ever had in the history of the world, or in the history of the other planets. It would be an adventure that would make “Moby-Dick” look like some stupid fish story, and “Star Wars” like some stupid outer-space story.
His adventure would be so exciting, so thrilling, that it would make other adventures look like something your doctor prescribed to make you go to sleep. It would be so gut-wrenching and heart-pounding that it would be a relief when you suddenly came to a page of advertising.
His adventure would take him to the top of the highest mountain, standing on tiptoes, and then to the bottom of the smallest mountain, lying down flat. It would take him across desert sands and through dense jungles, and also through some nice parks. He wouldn’t think twice about having lunch in Paris and then dinner in Istanbul. Or flying back to Paris if he forgot something.
He would have a secret identity, and even his secret identity has an exciting life.
He would be attracted to some of the world’s most beautiful women, through his telescope. Women found him fascinating. “How can someone be like that?” they would whisper to one another.
He would stroll into a swanky night club and order his favorite drink: “Anything with alcohol in it.” He always requested that it be served “in a glass—any kind of glass.”
He had a wicked sense of humor and would crack many jokes during his adventures—jokes that smart people would laugh at and stupid people wouldn’t get.
He was an expert poker player. But he would come to realize that other players were a lot better than he was, and that you could lose a lot of money playing poker.
Even though he would have to go to the bathroom hundreds of times during his adventure, he would keep that to himself, as he would all boring thoughts and anything unsexy. No detail would escape him. If he was planning to rob a casino, he would build a scale model of the casino, with little doors and windows that actually worked. Even the tiny roulette wheel would actually spin. There would be a little action figure of himself, with a grappling hook that would actually shoot up, through a spring mechanism.
He was a man of action. He would never just be standing there, doing nothing. At the very least, he would run and dive behind a log. He would drive his convertible at breakneck speed along swerving mountain roads, if he was being chased by henchmen or if he was late for an appointment.
He was always fighting things. He would battle big things and miniature things, but whenever he fought miniature things there were a lot of them, so you didn’t feel sorry for them. His main weapons were his gun, his knife, and his feet, which he used for stomping on the miniature things.
He was a killing machine and a lovemaking machine, and after a long day he would become a sleeping machine.
Danger followed him everywhere. Sometimes danger would get ahead of him and have to wait for him to catch up.
There was no telling when danger might strike. In the middle of the night, he might feel something crawling on him. Usually it was his cat, but sometimes it was something even more dangerous.
He would face a villain so evil, so cunning, and so twisted that any normal person would go, “What’s with that guy?” He would confront many evil villains in the course of his adventures, and he would go to work for some of them. But every evil villain knew not to pressure him too much, or he might just up and quit.
Most of all, he was a seeker of wisdom. He would learn that sex and violence are not the answer. But he would discover this only at the very, very end of his adventures.
Brent Foxfire stepped out of his bedroom and stood at the top of the stairs. Little did he know that in a matter of seconds he would be curled up at the bottom of the stairs, moaning with a sprained ankle. Did he slip on a cat toy . . . or was he pushed ? ♦
