“Then you should have paid for the deluxe hardcover,” the cyclops laughed. He raised a club shaped like a loading icon—a spinning wheel of doom.
Leo turned. A massive figure loomed behind him—a cyclops, but his single eye was a scanning lens, and his skin was pixelated. He wore a tunic made of old URL links.
The screen flashed white. When his vision cleared, Leo was no longer in his cramped apartment. He was standing on the deck of a wooden ship, salt spray stinging his face. The sky was a bronze color, and the waves were drawn in thick, scratchy ink lines, like a 1980s graphic novel.