Devon cleared his throat. "Yes, well, that's because the Christians and Ancient Greeks are so different. All the rest are pretty much the same. Boring." He explained. "Trust me, people want to read this. Tell me, Derick, are you an artist?"
"Of course! Why else would I be writing?" Derick was insulted.
"No, you're not! You're just trying to get rich quick and quit your shitty job at the factory!" Devon paused.
Derick was awestruck.
"I can help you with that. You and me. You'll be a very wealthy man by next year.
Derick was silent. Neither of them said anything for a few moments.
"Do as I say, Derick. I'll pick up the new manuscript tomorrow night." Devon said, taking his silence as an admission. Devon hung up.
Wealthy. Wealthy. Wealthy. By next year. Those were the only words rolling through Derick's mind like a giant marquee. It was as if he was hypnotized. He saw nothing but dollar signs as he clicked 'print' on his computer and went to bed.