The Four-Hour Megalomaniac

I recently picked up a copy of Skip Serkiss’s runaway bestseller, The Four-Hour Megalomaniac. Actually, I didn’t so much pick it up as find myself regaining consciousness in an ice-filled bathtub in a seedy hotel in Guadalajara with a scar on my abdomen and a copy of the book perched on a nearby wastebasket.

With nothing else on my agenda (I’d already run through the alphabet twice in an unsuccessful effort to remember my own name) I picked up the book and flipped nonchalantly until I found a pen-and-ink drawing of a man in an ice-filled bathtub in what the caption confirmed was a seedy hotel in Guadalajara. This was promising.