Lecturer by day, pony word peddler by night.
Nothing special here, move along, nothing to see, just ignore the lump under the sheet and the red stuff...
The hours between midnight and sunup belong to me. I've a stretch of road, a sense of duty, and ponies to fill the idle hours. Life doesn't get much better.
Does he even write stories anymore? Geez, what a flufflenugget.