As I approached LaFlamme's hallway, I met with the clattering of the ribbon-wound Underwood within. I pushed at the door, already slightly ajar, and there was LaFlamme in exactly the same position as I last saw her several days before. The typing was deafening. I could feel the vibrations travelling through the hardwood table to the floor.

"Have you had any sleep since I left?" I asked.

"I'll sleep when I'm dead," she replied and continued hammering at the keyboard. I figured she was immortal anyway and would need a stake through the heart to stop her.

"There," she said. "Piece of cake." She ripped out the last page from the machine and simultaneously thrust a separate sheaf of papers my way.

"What's this?" I asked, a little fearful of her response.

"Book deal," she replied and filled two glasses with what looked like sherry but could have been anything. I gazed at the papers in disbelief. LaFlamme's self-help book, 'Help Yourself To Drink,' was going to be published as part of a five-book deal.

"Somebody needs to shake these losers to their senses," LaFlamme stated matter-of-factly. It was an interesting way of describing her readership. "It might as well be me."

My hopes of winning the Nobel Prize for splitting the Internet seemed hollow in the light of this. I felt an exasperation that I'd previously reserved for extraordinary pique.

LaFlamme sensed my irritation and handed me a glass. "It's my duty to relate the sum of the knowledge I've gained so far," she said sympathetically. "People need to wake up and realise there is a better way to live."

She paused. "Now drink up. There's something I need to tell you about your client."