"This isn't my normal way to make deliveries," I shout above the roar of Ronin's motorcycle. He doesn't reply, as usual. It's like talking to a mime. I'm half-convinced I've had a psychotic break and have developed an imaginary friend. But I'm not exactly a creative person, and if I created an imaginary friend, he wouldn't be a gorgeous, muscled monster with a kickass bike. I'm just not that clever. I mean, creating Ronin... that's genius.

"Do you have to pay taxes per word?" ...