As his official autobiographer, it falls to me to chronicle the life of Alex Grecian. But where to start? With the wild, month-long parties thrown at F. Scott’s and Zelda’s estate? His brief partnership with the sinister Lindbergh Baby and their plot to frame Fatty Arbuckle for a crime he did not commit? Or the weekends spent in a shimmering silver saucer, flying low over rural America. What about his magical summer in Mexico with Ambrose Bierce and the Dionne Quintuplets? His years of riding the rails, debarking in small towns just long enough to solve their problems, then moving on before they could learn his name? I look around me at the thousands upon thousands of journal pages accumulated during my travels with the illustrious Mr. Grecian and I am simply overwhelmed. Perhaps, then, I should start with the first time I laid eyes on him.