conversations.from: human
conversations.value: What could be a title for a book about Southern, California with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction?
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A title for this book could be 'The Junkie Quatrain'
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Junkie Quatrain
  Sam shrugged again. 'When I was a kid, I guess. I grew out of it.' He tilted his head toward the window. 'Besides, there's enough horror out there right now, isn't there?'
  Bradbury pointed a proud finger at the younger man. 'Good answer,' he said. 'To be honest, I was never a big fan of horror films. Nowadays I try to make sure everyone working here avoids them, too. The last thing you want to do is to have some movie clouding your judgment about what's happening.'
  A wide grin appeared in the director's beard. 'Excellent.' He rapped his knuckles twice on the desk. 'Now, forgive me for being melodramatic, but I have to ask this. Are you sure you want to know what we're doing here?'
  Sam looked over his shoulder. Hogan dipped her head in acknowledgement. His eyes dropped to the pistol on her thigh.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It had been, in Quilt's assessment, a perfect assignment, even when the client sent a second man to silence him. Just as there were certain types of targets, there were certain types of clients as well. Some believed in a Machiavellian need to eliminate an operative after a successful mission—usually the ones who'd never seen any sort of combat themselves. Quilt had broken both the man's arms and knees, slit his throat, and left him outside their public office building. Payment had been transferred to his Gstaad account the next day.
  He reached the office building at quarter of five in the afternoon the next day. The building was one of dozens in Los Angeles with a regular tenant rotation. Suites and whole floors were rented out to small movie crews and production companies. The landlord was thrilled to have a few tenants with permanent offices. Quilt made a point of contacting the man every seventeen months to argue about rent. Perfect tenants attract as much attention as bad ones, in their own way. He strived to be a mediocre tenant at all his properties.
  The bottom of one of the front doors was smashed in. From the lack of dust, he guessed it had happened within the past twenty-four hours. There were tracks in the broken safety glass that had almost been hidden by a body sliding through it. A few small cubes of material trailed off towards the stairwell and nowhere else. Whoever had come in had gone straight upstairs.
  He moved to the opposite side of the lobby, where the building's security office was located. The door was unlocked, which bothered him. While this was far from the most high-end office building in the city, an unlocked security office spoke of a certain lack of professionalism. He did a quick sweep of the room and sat down at the desk.
  Like most of the city, the building still had power. The computer was security protected, but a twenty-three second search of the desk found the password on an index card beneath a box of staples in the left hand drawer. It was, to Quilt, yet another sign of the lack of professionalism.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It was, to Quilt, yet another sign of the lack of professionalism.. The computer was security protected, but a twenty-three second search of the desk found the password on an index card beneath a box of staples in the left hand drawer.
  Like most of the city, the building still had power. He did a quick sweep of the room and sat down at the desk. While this was far from the most high-end office building in the city, an unlocked security office spoke of a certain lack of professionalism. The door was unlocked, which bothered him.
  He moved to the opposite side of the lobby, where the building's security office was located. Whoever had come in had gone straight upstairs. A few small cubes of material trailed off towards the stairwell and nowhere else. There were tracks in the broken safety glass that had almost been hidden by a body sliding through it. From the lack of dust, he guessed it had happened within the past twenty-four hours.
  The bottom of one of the front doors was smashed in. He strived to be a mediocre tenant at all his properties. Perfect tenants attract as much attention as bad ones, in their own way. Quilt made a point of contacting the man every seventeen months to argue about rent. The landlord was thrilled to have a few tenants with permanent offices. Suites and whole floors were rented out to small movie crews and production companies. The building was one of dozens in Los Angeles with a regular tenant rotation.
  He reached the office building at quarter of five in the afternoon the next day. Payment had been transferred to his Gstaad account the next day. Quilt had broken both the man's arms and knees, slit his throat, and left him outside their public office building. Some believed in a Machiavellian need to eliminate an operative after a successful mission—usually the ones who'd never seen any sort of combat themselves. Just as there were certain types of targets, there were certain types of clients as well.It had been, in Quilt's assessment, a perfect assignment, even when the client sent a second man to silence him
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Without taking any pressure off the knife blade, Quilt held out his hand. 'Please,' he said. It was a practiced word with no real request behind it. He was not sure if he had ever said it and meant it.
  The braided woman cursed him again, shook her head, and unbuckled her belt. She wrestled with the canvas scabbard for a few moments, then held it out.
  Quilt did not move. He flexed his open fingers once and turned the blade in his other hand just enough to catch the light. He was a true professional.
  She leaned forward and set the machete in his hand. Quilt's fingers closed over the scabbard and he felt a quick twinge of satisfaction. Another perfectly executed assignment.
  He took the knife away from Bernie's throat and was a dozen yards away before they knew he was gone. They did not shout for the guards. He slid through the barbed wire, over the barriers, and back into the city.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Bernie.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Without taking any pressure off the knife blade, Quilt held out his hand. 'Please,' he said. It was a practiced word with no real request behind it. He was not sure if he had ever said it and meant it. 
  The braided woman cursed him again, shook her head, and unbuckled her belt. She wrestled with the canvas scabbard for a few moments, then held it out. 
  Quilt did not move. He flexed his open fingers once and turned the blade in his other hand just enough to catch the light. Bernie did not tremble under the blade. He was a true professional. 
  She leaned forward and set the machete in his hand. Quilt's fingers closed over the scabbard and he felt a quick twinge of satisfaction. Another perfectly executed assignment. 
  He took the knife away from Bernie's throat and was a dozen yards away before they knew he was gone. They did not shout for the guards. He slid through the barbed wire, over the barriers, and back into the city.