It was at 02h33 just this morning when Dead American Writers cut through my sleep. I reached out to grab my ringing cellphone, my senses still dulled and drugged by the heavy slumber I had been so rudely pulled out of. Who the hell would call me at that hour? Was it my colleagues, about to breathlessly announce that we need a story chop-chop? Were the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse upon us? Had Nelson Mandela finally passed on?