Part one: a day in the life. It's a typical Thursday at work. The boss and I have already gotten our coffee and croissant fix. My partner just got out of bed, taking enough time to smooth down his hair and bless me for the fresh pot of coffee before settling in to write trip reports from his busy, no-sleep night. The oxygen guy has come and gone, his long locks flowing and his music blaring. The UPS man and I have done our usual cheery exchange while juggling boxes and signatures. And, struck with a moment of inspiration, and a mind full of musings, I am at my usual post: in front of Horton (my computer) with both coffee and radio readily accessible. That's when I get interrupted, mid thought process, by the guy with the title of "Dirty Harry." He comes strolling in to the room, his dirty hat perched on top of his dirty hair, one hand shoved in his dirty jeans and the other holding an envelope. His wide, toothless grin and squinting, watery eyes preceding the...