"And given the kind of vile crap he writes, the only readers he has are nut-cases who get off on seeing people who are actually creating stuff flayed alive for their failures. They egg him on -- ever see one of his letters columns? If he changed to actual reportage, telling the balanced stories of what was going on in the world, they'd jump ship for some other hate-monger. He's a lightning-rod for assholes -- he's the king of the trolls." Perry looked away. "What do I do?" "You could try to starve him. If you don't show your head, he can't report on you, except by making stuff up -- and made-up stuff gets boring, even for the kinds of losers who read his stuff." "But I've got work to do." "Yeah, yeah you do. Maybe you've just got to take your lumps. Every complex ecosystem has parasites after all. Maybe you just call up San Francisco and brief them on what to expect from this guy and take it from there." Once they were off the line, Lester came up behind her and hugged her at the waist, squeezing the little love-handles there, reminding her of how long it had been since she'd made it to yoga. "You think that'll work?" "Maybe. I've been talking to the *New Journalism Review* about writing a piece on moral responsibility and paid journalism, and if I can bang it out this aft, I bet they'll publish it tomorrow." "What's that going to do?" "Well, it'll distract him from Perry, maybe. It might get his employer to take a hard look at what he's writing -- I mean that piece is just lies, mischaracterizations, and editorial masquerading as reportage." She put her lid down and paced around the condo, looking at the leaves floating in the pool. "It'll give me some satisfaction." Lester gave her a hug, and it smelled of the old days and the old Lester, the giant, barrel-chested pre-fatkins Lester. It took her back to a simpler time, when they'd had to worry about commercial competition, not police raids. She hugged him back. He was all hard muscle and zero body-fat underneath his tight shirt. She'd never dated anyone that fit, not even back in high-school. It was a little disorienting, and it made her feel especially old and saggy sometimes, though he never seemed to notice. Speaking of which, she felt his erection pressing against her midriff, and tried to hide her grin. "Gimme a couple hours, all right?" She dialed the NJR editor's number as she slid into her chair and pulled up a text-editor. She knew what she planned on writing, but it would help to be able to share an outline with the NJR if she was going to get this out in good time. Working with editors was a pain after years of writing for the blog, but sometimes you wanted someone else's imprimatur on your work.