388 pages



If I were you, I’d stop reading right now at this very moment. There’s no reason to get involved with it all, because the ending will baffle you. You will see everything we have done and not like the outcome, not one bit. You might even feel moved to write me a long question filled letter expressing your perplexed frustration for us three and for our dismal futures, but to that just let me just say please don’t. I’ve gotten so many letters of late that I can barely keep up as it is. So my advice is to perhaps do something more constructive with your time and please if you must go on, look for the humor of it, because despite the good we had done and what we did was completely good, when I look back on the last three years what comes to mind is that while we were becoming legends, we had some good times. Of course that’s easy to say now, because we were always one step away from the grave throughout a 900 day trek that made headlines worldwide.

As you probably know, right now Herb, E.R. and I have some charges against us, but due to the unique circumstances surrounding those charges, we have become the new flavor of the month, the big news story of all news stories and they all want to talk to us: NBC, CBS, CNN, and FOX NEWS. In many ways that’s why I agreed to write this, to set the record straight, not to mention that this is all court ordered.

Right now in Times Square there is a huge billboard with all three of our mugs twelve stories high and a caption that reads: Guilty or Innocent? You can text your verdict for $1.50. I used to wonder who got all that money and since there have been over 40 million texts, a total of 60 million dollars in one day, the question is becoming more and more prevalent. By the way we are a resounding 95.5% voted innocent according to Reuters. I doubt we will ever see one dime of that money though, but I know we appreciate that number. So just put this down, besides you heard all this HBO-Movie of the week stuff before, booze here, fist fights there, liquor stores blowing up, cults being arrested, fugitives on the run, shoot outs, strip clubs, gang wars, reward money and all that Showtime Cable TV type ratings week programming. Only our story was no pay per view channel, this was our lives for nearly three years and the ending isn’t looking good. So you’d be best to put this down. Stephen King is to the right and Dean Koontz is likely not too far from there.

For the record, I have just started this opening paragraph in a jail cell. I am sitting on a cement bunk and typing this on an old school laptop. The angle at which I am typing this very sentence will only last for ten minutes if I am lucky, because by then the cement under my derrière begins to dig in. So I will be constantly shifting as I write this first chapter. If this does become a book, the rest of this has already been written long ago, as we set out and did our thing. The idea is that they will lash this opening introduction on top of the stuff already written, or so it would seem. Honestly, I think this part right here is just another evaluation tactic.

Whatever the case, I write to you now being monitored around the clock by a platoon of armed guards and as stated previously I am in a cell with one wall of bulletproof, two-way glass and I am being analyzed and studied like a lab rat by some serious Master Degree and PhD minds. I sport an orange jumpsuit and orange Croc shoes. I eat what they loosely call breakfast at 7:00 a.m., which they say is scrambled eggs and toast. At noon lunch consists of a meaty gelatinous, glutinous conglomeration I wouldn’t feed my dog and then there is dinner. I never, ever eat dinner. This is always some sort of some bologna/processed meat sandwich that seems to have saw dust in it. See Also: Salty Pete. Anyways, welcome to my world. The cell here is eight feet by eight feet of concrete and musty locker room underarm odor. A guard has just walked in and put down what appears to be Salisbury Steak and what looks like chopped carrots onto the end of this small table in which I am writing this opening salvo. He doesn’t say anything and leaves, locking the door behind him.

Judge Montclair, who was appointed to this case, ruled that I put all this on paper. He wanted me to explain things and write a brief description for public record. So for good or ill, this is said description.

If you’ve lived under a rock for the last year, my name is Miles Seymour Dane, but everyone calls me “The 1%-er.” I don’t like it much, but then again nobody can really choose their nicknames. My nickname is “The 1%-er,” for countless reasons and this book could also be classified as such in that it doesn’t really fit into any succinct literary genre. Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines “The 1%” as the following: 

The 1%/noun

  1. a rare segment of the population. a very unusual and unexpected event or situation. The top 1% of the population. The elite.

My last recorded IQ is 175 and the conditions I have are basically that one, I was born without a corpus callosum, which is the dissecting membrane between the right and left hemispheres of the brain. Only a handful of people in the world have this strange malady and I am one and I am also lucky as fuck, because most of the other 19 people in the world with this affliction cannot even tie their own shoes. The side-effects of this no corpus callosum thing include having two eyes that resemble a lizard of some kind, due to each eye rotating separately onto its own accord. It’s like my eyes are double jointed, if that makes sense. This would be yet another in a long line of reasons for the nickname of “The 1%-er.” Another would be that because of this condition, I have read more than most, due to each one of my eyes reading a page onto itself. Anyways as a result of the no corpus callosum thing, I have read many classic and contemporary novels, many pulps, not to mention hordes of magazines and have done so in record time. A perk though if there is one is that my eyes have also gotten me out of a lot of fights, mostly because bullies don’t get their fix beating up what they think is a weird relative of Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein, who also maybe possessed or just retarded. It’s too much to process so they just move on to the next would be victim.

And I also have a photographic memory.

At this moment someone pipes in through the speaker here and asks if everything is all right.

“Are you ok Miles?” the voices says.

I nod. For the past three minutes I have had my hands in my face and the PhD minds behind the two way glass don’t know what to make of it.

“I’m fine, just sharing my most personal of personal’s so yeah, for you it’s a cake walk, but for me this is a mind fucker,” I say to the glass and begin typing again…

Anyways in addition to the no corpus callosum thing, right about the time they were examining me at the age of eight, doctors from all over the world also discovered that I had a photographic memory. This isn’t as exciting as it sounds trust me and this isn’t a typical CBS Drama Made for TV type Special Detective malady that I can assure you. After more examinations and speculations and conferences and doctors visiting me from all over the world, the general consensus they conveyed was that my brain isn’t really hooked up right. People tell me I’m lucky, but to be honest, this condition is more annoying than my ex-girlfriend always talking over me. You know when you get a song stuck in your head? Well imagine that, but a thousand times worse and I’m not talking about just songs, but words, stories, articles, names, dates and every other chunk of useless information that you’ve come across and learned in your life. At all hours of the day and night, this incessant information flows through my brain like the Euphrates River. Fact: To read about the Euphrates River by the way, check out the Encyclopedia Britannica, Volume 5, page, 396. And don’t even ask me what kind of vegetables cure bad breath or what household products under your sink can make a strong acid or what fruits you can eat to combat cancer. For these answers check out Good Housekeeping Plus, Home Remedy Edition, July 2007, page 39 and Science Monthly, March 2002, page 92 and Healthy Living, August 2011, page 122. Or what about higher math? Let say it takes N gallons of water to fill the pool. If you have G gallons of water in the tank, how many gallons of water will be left over to water the lawn and how much of the 30 yard by 30 yard lawn will get watered? For this answer try Math Digest, September 1990, page 21. Then when you find the page stick a protractor in your eye.

Again, this affliction can be exhausting so my usual formula is this: Jim Beam on the rocks. Jim Beam came into fruition in 1795 by the way and so this is yet another reason for my nickname of “The 1%-er,” my alcohol tolerance is heroic.