“Intern,” I called. “What?” he snapped. Clearly in no mood at all. “Why do you think we worship Steamboat Willie?” The paintings were endless, all of them of old cartoons, King Kong, Dracula, and Sherlock Holmes for some godforsaken reason, all locked in battle with Steamboat Willie. In the center of the room, erected in his honor, was a statue of the glorious mouse himself, sailing his little steamboat over the bodies of his enemies.
