Two writers decide to write a book together. They sit in the same room, nose-wrinklingly close, writing, trading pages, expanding each other's stories. But it doesn't take long before they start cutting up, mashing up and purposefully destroying each other's prose. They dodge and parry, gouge and eyeballs, bite. In moments of tenderness, they pet each other in the wounded night. Their narrative grows increasingly chaotic, linked only by harum-scarum leitmotifs and a mounting scatological lexicon. Still, just as when the universe cooled, matter solidified, so too did order emerge from the pandemonium of their prose. A single, unifying entity was born unto their pages. God? You wish. Instead Let There Be Fex: the time-jamming, history-tripping, Everydick who saves the Vichy Republic from the Nazis, vivisects the world's only talking dog, and unravels and reravels the Code of Life with the frenetic bravura of Colonel Clink possessed by the ectoplasmic demiurge of Moses Maimonides.