John Gartland was committed.
He wanted to publish my book under his own publishing house.
Say good bye to my royalties.
He wanted to co-write the book.
He had only days, not months, to live, so I wasn't so excited about that.
He had an ending.
And he was honored to be able to play with my words.
It was a real honor.
How the fuck could the dog have an ending of a book he had never read, let alone edit?
Maybe he was a fucking clairvoyant.
I thought maybe he snorted up a line of ketamine and was comatosed.
'Nope, I was wanking to your cute voice, I've always been drawn to rough trade.'
The sick fuck.
As I said, I never wanted an editor.
I even told him so.
'But you just don't know how good I am.'
How good?
'I'm the best writer in South East Asia.'
So you are better than Jake Needham and Lawrence Osborne?
I think that reviewer for the Nation was taking the piss.
Having a bit of fun.
And you fucking fell for it.
FUCKING LOSER!!
