Yes, I can write well. No, I've not written anything more exciting than academic essays and a few short stories for the amusement of my friends and family. My real talent lies in similar direction to the mechanic's: I haven't built any books from scratch, but I can take the book you've built for a drive and listen to the way the words rattle and squeak. I can open it up and tinker and tune it until it runs the way a good book should run.

My credentials as an editor should be the satisfaction of my past clients, not my lack of published materials.

However, I have observed that many players entertain the assumption that their opponents are "unqualified" to enter the argument. This seems to be brought on by a logical fallacy, i.e. that because one has built a career on a particular skill or has earned a degree in one focus, they are rendered incapable of acquiring knowledge of anything else (E.g. a real estate investor cannot possibly have any knowledge of biology or a doctor cannot possibly understand construction). It does not appear to matter that all the relevant information the chosen topic is available to the public. This causes many players to stray off-topic as they make vicious attempts to discredit their opponents for having too much knowledge.

In addition, many players appear to be confused as to which party in an argument carries the burden of proof, making demands for "citations" and "sources" rather than offering support for their own statements. This also results in many derailed discussions, as the player resort to throwing memes and gifs at each other in an attempt to smother opposition.

These unfortunate trends have caused the sport to lose it's luster for some players, however, they have drawn in another set that prefers observation over participation. Many of these obververs are silent, but some make themselves known with comments such as "Just here for the comments." or "The comments never disappoint!" Still others make their presence known through memes or gifs, such as the Michael-Jackson-eating-popcorn gif.

This story is my own original work, please do not share without proper credit. 

He had always been the first customer in the door, right from the day of the Aidoneus Café’s grand opening. There seemed to be an unspoken agreement among other customers that no one could take that position from him, though no one could say how he managed to hold it. He was never seen to be waiting at the door before the manager unlocked it, yet, the moment the door opened, there he was. The staff obsessively brainstormed new theories every day; the busboy suggested the most obvious solution first—that Customer No. 1, as the staff had affectionately dubbed him, simply waited in his car. But when Customer No. 1 entered the next day, there was not a single vehicle in the parking lot. Nor could any of the staff see any sign of a taxi or any other car dropping him off. The moment the manager unlocked the front door and turned on the Open sign, the bell over the door gave a soft jingle, and in stepped Customer No. 1. 

Customer No. 1’s routine never changed. He would go straight to the small table in the corner nearest the front window and set down his briefcase. From the case, he would produce a laptop that should have been in a museum, a yellow legal pad with a silver fountain pen clipped to the top, and a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses. He would plug in the laptop, close the briefcase, and walk briskly to the counter. He never had to order anymore, they all knew what he wanted, and Megan, the cook, would have his black coffee and the toasted Asiago cheese bagel ready before he reached the counter. Customer No. 1 would nod his thanks, pay—exact change for the drawer and a generous tip in the jar—and take his breakfast back to his table. The morning ritual completed, the staff would go about their regular tasks, and other customers would begin pouring in.

The staff, and some of the more observant regular customers, knew that Customer No. 1 would not move from his table until 12 pm, sharp. He would sit there, tapping away at the laptop keys, pausing occasionally to scribble names and dates on the legal pad, never looking up except to nod when someone came to refill his mug. The staff took it in turns to make the refills and receive their nod; none of them could explain the sense of satisfaction and uplifting that came with that simple gesture, as if the nod meant that not only was the coffee right, but everything else was right and would continue to be right. At noon, on the dot, he would stand and walk briskly to the counter to receive his usual lunch, black forest ham and provolone on rye, then he would return to his table and work until closing time. 

No one ever spoke to Customer No. 1, not since the first week or so, before his routine was established, neither had he spoken a word in the cafe once the staff had realized that his order would never change. There was just something about him that told you it wasn’t done. Not that he was frightening, oh no. There was never a man less threatening. He always wore an immaculate black suit, obviously bespoke and quite expensive, with a crisp white shirt and a perfectly knotted black tie. He was thin, nearly skeletal, skin as pale as Death’s horse, with dark hair that may have been thinning just a touch at the top. There was always a scholarly stoop to his shoulders and a mildly pleasant blankness of expression on his face that would have made him the movie-perfect librarian or musuem curator. Yet, he had an air about him that forbade unnecessary interaction. 

There had been that one day, when the café was just gaining popularity, that someone had broken that unspoken rule and invaded that sacred corner of tranquility. A jarringly boisterous customer, wearing an ill-cut suit that screamed of more self-importance than money, had flung the door open and sauntered in, talking loudly into a cell phone. He made his way straight to the counter, where he finished his conversation with much swearing and exaggerated gesturing, while the cashier waited with raised eyebrows. Ending the call with a loud sigh and tapping the corner of his phone on the counter, the customer surveyed the menu for several long moments, during which two more customers entered to wait impatiently behind him. The man finally made his choice, driving the cashier nearly to distraction with several complicated changes and substitutions, paid—with much loud grumbling over the price and no tip for the jar—then waited impatiently to collect his purchase. When the cook set his order on the counter, the man snatched it up with a barely muted complaint about lazy staff and turned to survey the packed dining area. 

The man’s eye fell upon the corner table just as Customer No. 1 finished the last bite of his lunch. With only the slightest hesitation, the man marched up to Customer No. 1 and boomed belligerently,

“Hey, pal, if you’re done, how about movin’ on so someone else can have a seat?”

The room went silent. The staff held their collective breath as Customer No. 1 brushed a tiny crumb from his tie, folded his napkin neatly on his empty plate, took a small sip of his coffee, and began to tap on the laptop keys again. He had not paid the slightest attention to the man looming over him. The man’s face flushed red. He seemed to feel all the eyes in the room resting incredulously on his back as his jaw clenched stubbornly. 

“Hey!” he boomed again. “I’m talking to you, jerk!”

There were several audible hisses of in-taken breath and eyes widened about the room as the belligerent stranger thumped his hand down heavily on Customer No. 1’s shoulder. Customer No. 1 froze, his thin fingers hovering above the keyboard. Time seemed to stop as every person in the room waited for–something. No one was sure what they expected, but it filled every heart with dread just the same.     

Customer No. 1 turned his head slowly to look at the hand on his shoulder. He studied it for a moment, as if it were some new creature he’d never before encountered, then his gaze followed the attached arm upward. As Customer No. 1 brought his eyes up, the blood seemed to flow downward from the belligerent man’s face, as if it were fleeing from the calm, thoughtful gaze. When Customer No. 1 finally looked up into the man’s, the offending arm jerked back, then fell limply to his side and he flinched back a step. He stood a moment, caught, pinned by the mild gaze. Then, as if he’d suddenly been released, he turned and nearly ran from the shop, his purchase crushed in his desperately clenched hands. 

Customer No. 1 looked after him for a moment, a slightly bewildered cant to his head. Then he turned back to his laptop and resumed his tapping. 

Everyone in the café released the breath they had not realized they had been holding. Conversations picked up again, softly at first, then rising to a normal tone, accompanied by the clicks and scrapes of cutlery and dishes. The manager himself went to refill Customer No. 1’s mug, collected the sandwich plate, and received a nod that finally allowed the whole staff to relax. The gesture carried both thanks and reassurance; Customer No. 1 did not blame them for the invasion of his privacy. 

The rest of the day carried on as usual. Customer No. 1 sat at his table until closing time, when he closed his laptop, placing it carefully in his briefcase atop the legal pad and the silver pen. Then he carried his mug to the counter, gave a parting nod to the cashier, and walked out the door. The busboy darted to the door, reaching it seconds after it jingled shut, and looked out. As always, there was no sign of Customer No. 1. It was as if the man simply vanished the moment his feet crossed the threshold. 

Who decided that foods should be divided into meal categories? Who had the gumption to say "These foods are in the breakfast category, these are lunch, here's the dinner food, and these sweets are only acceptable if you've gone through the other three meals first." What if you wake up and want to have steak and potatoes for breakfast, but cereal sounds good for dinner? Suddenly people wonder about your mental health! Why does it matter what time we eat which food? This is a form of petty tyranny and it needs to end!