Disclaimer: I do not own the Bartimaeus Trilogy…but I may someday rule Stroud.

And so Bartimaeus lunged through the air, framed by the moon and resembling a mastodon even though he was in the form of a liger --- this being a cross between a lion and a tig

Stupid, stupid, thought Stroud. Of course we all know this. Delete.

Jonathan sat in his plush chair, the seat well eroded by the constant shifting of his backside. He drew his knee to his chin, glaring at the screen. A pen beat a rhythmic tattoo against his thigh as he thought of the final confrontation of Bartimaeus and a ham sandwich. A notepad was slung along his leg, held in place by Stroud's palm. He marked out Burn all copies of Napoleon Dynamite Kill Heder ??? Victory!!!

The phone rang. Jon hooked a finger around the receiver and spun it like a gunslinger would unholster a small child, and brought it to his ear.

"Stroud baby, we're going to make lots of money on this book." Jon's agent, Dr. Fiddlesworth. A cat of renown talent, but mocked openly in public due to its shorn flanks and its uncanny ability to talk. Cats don't talk much, you know.

"Who is this again?"

On the other side of the conversation, Fiddlesworth purred as he scratched a ball of yarn. "Stroud, you're growing too old or something. It's Fiddlesworth --- wait, is it? Secretary, is my name Fiddlesworth?" Pause. "Yes, Fiddlesworth. I'm your agent."

"Are you a…secret agent?"

"No. How is the Amulet of Samarkand? Last time I checked, Nathaniel's house was burning down."

"Who?"

"Nathaniel."

"Ah, Faquarl!" said Stroud, nodding.

"No, Jo. Nathaniel."

Bartimaeus was quite perplexed by this sudden intrusion; he had not expected Jenny Craig to show up at the child's doorstep, querying about the Amulet. He had no choice but to allow her entrance into his hole in the ground.

"You're very brusque today," Jenny said.


"Thank you, I just finished shaving." Bartimaeus stroked his stubble. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Stroud stared at the screen. Why had Jenny Craig arrived? Why has she come knocking upon my chamber door, as I sleep, nevermore, rapping at my chamber door. Rappers…I hate rappers. No, an author cannot give into stereotypes.

Then, an idea struck him as forcefully as Bartimaeus had been smacked by a harlot during the Fourth of July.

"NINJA FIGHT!"

Ninjas, they came in swarms, ululating like the belly of the beast and thrice as obese; and upon their gentle brows was the sigil of a flying carpet. Shurikens winked in the night, like a herd of will-o'-the-wisps, and burrowed into the

"Stroud, are you there?" Curses upon that Fiddlesworth!

"I was like, writing my masterpiece," said Jon.

"Now Jo, I know this is unprecedented but…Amulet of Samarkand has been accepted before its conception, which is pretty much unheard of when it comes to novels. You have gotten ten dollars and a ham san---"

"No ham sandwiches. Bartimaeus hates ham sandwiches." Then, he registered what Fiddlesworth had said. "It sold? For ten dollars? I could like, buy a pair of pants with that."

And he could. Oh yes, he certainly could…