There’s only one thing I hate about the Midwest: Summer.

The heat, the humidity, it’s like walking around in a dog’s mouth for three months.

It’s hot tonight, thunderbolts and lightning (very very frightening me, Galileo), ceiling fans’re cranked to the max . . . but there’s still no sleep, not even in the cool spot under my pillow.

I tried for a while, just starting to drift off into sticky warm dreams . . . then there was Dante, yammering in my ear about how Entrances to Hell had been featured on some cable-only show with a probable audience of thirty-seven people and he was going to be a zillionaire.

“How much do you know about e-commerce?”

“I know how to sell it to my clients. I know how to buy things.”

“Can you help me put something together real quick?”

Zounds. “How can you be a webmaster? Of a freaking website? I know more about this than you do, and I don’t know anything.”

“Are you going to help me or not?”

“No. I should be sleeping. Or writing. Or doing something else.”

“Yeah. Like your mom.”

“Nice.”

“I’ll split the profits with you, fifty-fifty.”

Well, now. “Pre-tithe?”

“Dream on.” Dante’s a cheap little man. “You in?”

Sigh. “Yeah. I’m in.”

So then I’m up, wasting time helping Dante put together a quick Cafe Press store. Not too hard, really. And now small children everywhere can realize their dream of owning a thong with the Key to Hell on it.

And now I’m done.

And now I’m going to bed.