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his billions of dollars to look for love. Also there was this persistent rumor that he was even colder in the bedroom than in public, and that sleeping with him was kind of like a Pap smear that would last an hour. One day, though, he met this beautiful model and fell madly in love. He gave People interviews; she gave People interviews; they cuddled in public; it was awesome. This man was Hadrian Ellingham.
    But then Princess Nina got the lead role in a dark, gritty theatrical adaptation of Snorks , and she dumped Ellingham for her costar, a beefy MMA champion. Still, she needed to promote that movie, so she started sharing her impressions of her ex’s sexual performances and peculiar approach to intercourse. Her publicist did so under the form of a “Bad Sex Sloth” meme, which went viral, got copyrighted, spurred all kinds of ques tionable merchandise . . . and basically turned our already stiff hero into some kind of embittered Gargamel-like figure. I’ll let you be the judge:
     

     
    I know, right?
    So, like I said, the probability that Prince would want—crave—the slightest bit of intel related to Bad Sex Sloth’s latest victim was . . . high, to say the least.
    He kept swallowing and licking his lips, kneading his fleshy thighs with a white-knuckled grip. “How do I know you’re not lying?”
    “You don’t. But I guess you’ll see when he announces their engagement.”
    “En-engagement?”
    “Yeah, she had this big ring.” I mimicked a rock the size of an egg on my ring finger.
    He buried his face in his hands. “Oh . . . Jesus Christ ! ”
    I patted his back impatiently. “It’s okay, Prince, now just tell me how to get inside the clean room.”
    It took him a little while to recover—that and quite a few mini peanut butter cups—but Prince eventually managed to focus. A formal agreement was made that I would provide every single bit of intel I had on the mystery fiancée if Prince managed to sneak me into the room hosting Ruby’s servers. External risk factors were to bear no consequence on our deal. I swore to not only exonerate him, but also fulfill my end of the bargain, even if I went to jail.
    “We got two problems to solve here,” he began, lacing his fingers with a frown of intense concentration.
    I gave a firm nod.
    “First problem is that access to the stairs is restricted, and I don’t have control over the elevator. They’ve reprogrammed it so no one can reach the fifth floor without a key. I think only a couple of execs and the cops were given one.”
    “Okay.” So far, so bad.
    “The second issue is that, even if I could get you up there, I can’t get you inside the clean room itself. I still have access to the security cameras, but that’s it, I can’t unlock the doors. And”—he pointed to one of the screens—“the floor is basically empty right now, but there’s a cop guarding the only access to the room.”
    “All the other doors have been locked already?”
    “Yeah. Only rats and cops up there.”
    “Rats?”
    Prince shrugged, a move that caused his wide chest to wobble a bit. “In the air vents sometimes.”
    In my mind, a terrible idea formed.
    “How big are they?”
    He brought his hands together, mimicking a small shape in the air. “Like this.”
    “No, I mean the vents.”
    He seemed to read my mind. “You’re too fat—you’ll never get in!”
    “I thought those were designed so that maintenance technicians could crawl into them if necessary,” I snapped back.
    He blanched. “It’s . . . it’s different. They’re all little people!”
    I practiced my cold-killer stare on him, which I had learned from March. “Bullshit. How do I get into the air vents?”
    “It’s like, the worst idea—”
    “How?”
    Before my eyes, Prince crumpled for the second time of the day, sweat running down his cheeks and dampening the neck of his shirt. “You could . . . Jesus . . . We could cram you in the freight elevator—this one isn’t