Books which are written in haste usually end up as literary kitty litter. Somewhat less practical are those the author composes for purgative purposes. We should thus take a hint by heeding the disclosure that a major part of this work originates from ""a long rush of anger"" and that ""the typewriter steamed and rattled like a Manhattan sewer lid."" Why then this great need for lax-ative relief?. The inspiration stems from the author's personal frustration when the producers at Avco-Embassy used their right of final cut on his film version of Irvin Faust's The Steagle; they eventually had the last (and only) laugh with it by Auntie Maiming it into something called The Playboy. His product denatured by the fat cats of the motion picture industry, Sylbert was himself so burned by having surrendered his artistic ""moral right"" that he picked up his pen -- et voici. Better he should have taken a cold shower.