Malcolm's 420 pounds, give or take, were not so much in his easy chair as they were of it. Like Michelangelo’s Pieta or the Iwo Jima War Memorial, he and his cushiony foundation described a sculptural triangle, bottom-heavy and untippable. Under the strain of Malcolm’s mass, the chair's padded arms tilted inward, its claw-feet splayed like the spindly legs of a loyal but frightened pack mule.

Malcolm was not in the mood to be interrupted by some email, because it was time for the Eleven O'clock News and a snack. They had eaten dinner a couple of hours ago, but that was a couple of hours ago. So Teddy prepared the egg salad sandwiches with mayonnaise on both sides, romaine lettuce—Malcolm was very precise about how one built a sandwich—and turned on the set.

"NBC?" he asked, while he unfolded Malcolm's TV table.

"I don't care. You know it's all the same nonsense."

But Teddy waited until he heard, "Yes. NBC," before putting down the remote.

Nibbling his own sandwich and tea by the computer on the kitchen table behind Malcolm's big easy chair, Teddy finally checked the new email. It was from j.posner@caa.com. Subject: Urgent need.

Urgent need. That had to mean mean porn. He was ready to hit delete, when Malcolm exploded in front of the TV.

"Groundhog day?" he hollered, "Children are performing oral sex acts on each other in elementary school bathrooms. Terrorists are drinking arsenic and urinating in our reservoirs. Museums are shutting down. Nobody reads anymore. Nobody can read anymore. Everyone, from the President to the postman, is full of...full of... it's outrageous. And you spend five minutes on Puxatauney Phil? This is insanity. Teddy, are you listening to this? Five minutes on a rodent? You scoundrels are...are..." When Malcolm got worked up, his language became as archaic as his Fantiques' inventory. As though he dragged his words out of an old trunk.

He was having his nightly argument with the TV anchorman, concerning the shallow grave being dug for modern society.

Which is why Teddy prepared for the worst when the next news segment featured Stevon Hedd, that pretty-boy actor from PowerGrid, and PowerGrid II: Overload. The clip showed Stevon fronting his band, "WonderBelly" at last year's Oscars. Malcolm's wrath was about to reach new heights. Teddy decided to retreat to his computer monitor.

Buh-Loop. Another email popped up, just like the first: j.posner@caa.com. This time, when he read the subject line, he double-clicked it, triple-clicked it, quadruple clicked it.

When he was done reading, and about to tap Malcolm on the shoulder, Teddy saw a very tan man on TV saying his client Stevon Hedd was taking the recent setbacks in stride. Because of Malcolm's constant interruptions, Teddy had a hard time follow everything, but he picked up "much needed rest…rehab...resting up... new projects." The man speaking was identified along the bottom of the screen in big white type: Michael Orleans, Creative Artists Agency.

Teddy looked back at the email.

This was followed by shipping, contact and billing information for Creative Artists Agency in Hollywood, California. Teddy looked at the TV again: Michael Orleans, Creative Artists Agency. For good measure, he reread the email's cc line: m.orleans@caa.com, shedd@wonderbelly.com. Then, while the news cut back to Stevon Hedd shirtlessly blatting into a harmonica in front of WonderBelly, Teddy cleared his throat and tapped Malcolm.

"Uh, Malcolm? Look at this."

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