conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a story about Latham, Apocalypse, Watch entitled The Apocalypse Watch.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Apocalypse Watch: The plot concerns Drew Latham, a special officer for consular operations, who must discover why his brother was killed after a covert mission.\nHe impersonates his brother and uncovers a web of neo-Nazi supporters with members at high levels of theS.\ngovernment and its allies.\nLatham must stop the neo-Nazis\' plot to take over Europe through terrorism and biological warfare.\nA running joke concerns the inability of the French to pronounce "Latham" correctly.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for this story.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Apocalypse Watch
  I've rarely written a dedication longer than two or three lines. This current one is different, the reason self-evident.
  To my lovely and compassionate bride, Mary, of forty-plus years; and our children, Michael, Jonathan, and Glynis, who displayed strength, determination, and unfailing good humor (a mainstay of our family) throughout everything. They could not have been finer, nor could I ever express my love and gratitude sufficiently.
  To the brilliant cardiologist Jeffrey Bender, M.D. and the superb cardiothoracic surgeon Dr. John Elefteriades, as well as the surgical crew and all those in the CTICU of Yale-New Haven Hospital, whose skills and concern passeth all understanding. (Although it could be argued that I was a glorious patient—unfortunately, not very convincingly.)
  To our nephew, Dr. Kenneth M. Kearns, also an extraordinary surgeon, who puts up with his less than saintly uncle with a tolerance known only to martyrs. And, Ken, thanks for the "Listerine." And to brother Donald Kearns, Ph.D.-Nuclear Medicine. (How did I ever marry into such an accomplished family?) Thanks, Don, for your daily calls and visits. And to their medical associates Doctors William Preskenis and David "the Duke" Grisé of the pulmonary team. I hear you terrific guys, and I'm doing my damnedest to behave.
  To Doctors Charles Augenbraun and Robert Greene of the Emergency Clinic at Norwalk Hospital, Connecticut, and all those wonderful people who made a pretty sick stranger feel as though he might see another sunrise. No mean feat.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: And he clawed again, and kicked again... until he felt it. A thick, oily object that moved only with the movements of the sea. He could not tell what it was, but it was there and he could feel it, hold it.
  The rays of the early sun broke through the mists of the eastern sky, lending glitter to the calm waters of the Mediterranean. The skipper of the small fishing boat, his eyes bloodshot, his hands marked with rope burns, sat on the stern gunnel smoking a Gauloise, grateful for the sight of the smooth sea. He glanced over at the open wheelhouse; his younger brother was easing the throttle forward to make better time, the single other crewman checking a net several feet away. They were laughing at something and that was good; there had been nothing to laugh about last night. Where had the storm come from? The weather reports from Marseilles had indicated nothing; if they had he would have stayed in the shelter of the coastline. He wanted to reach the fishing grounds eighty kilometers south of La Seyne-sur-Mer by daybreak, but not at the expense of costly repairs, and what repairs were not costly these days?
  Or at the expense of his life, and there were moments last night when that was a distinct consideration.
  He closed his eyes, letting his hands soak in the rolling water on the deck. The salt of the sea would be good for the rope burns. Burns received while lashing equipment that did not care to stay put in the storm.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Burns received while lashing equipment that did not care to stay put in the storm.. The salt of the sea would be good for the rope burns.
  He closed his eyes, letting his hands soak in the rolling water on the deck. He wanted to reach the fishing grounds eighty kilometers south of La Seyne-sur-Mer by daybreak, but not at the expense of costly repairs, and what repairs were not costly these days?
  Or at the expense of his life, and there were moments last night when that was a distinct consideration. Where had the storm come from? The weather reports from Marseilles had indicated nothing; if they had he would have stayed in the shelter of the coastline. They were laughing at something and that was good; there had been nothing to laugh about last night. He glanced over at the open wheelhouse; his younger brother was easing the throttle forward to make better time, the single other crewman checking a net several feet away. The skipper of the small fishing boat, his eyes bloodshot, his hands marked with rope burns, sat on the stern gunnel smoking a Gauloise, grateful for the sight of the smooth sea.
  The rays of the early sun broke through the mists of the eastern sky, lending glitter to the calm waters of the Mediterranean. He could not tell what it was, but it was there and he could feel it, hold it. A thick, oily object that moved only with the movements of the sea. until he felt it...And he clawed again, and kicked again
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Washburn paused, looking out the window at the waterfront. "I was drunk," he said. "They said I killed two patients on the operating table because I was drunk. I could have gotten away with one. Not two. They see a pattern very quickly, God bless them. Don't ever give a man like me a knife and cloak it in respectability."
  The man sat forward in the chair. His open shirt fell away from his taut frame, exposing the bandages on his chest and stomach. He folded his hands in front of him, the veins in his slender, muscular arms pronounced. "Other than the things we've talked about?"
  The man leaned back in the chair, dark eyebrows below the dark brown hair joined in irritation. "Now it's the physician's judgment that isn't called for. I'm ready. What are you talking about?"
  The man got out of the chair with difficulty, pushing himself up with his arms, holding his breath as he rose. "It's also possible that you're reaching. You could be way out of line."
  The man with no name or memory went to the window and lowered the blind; the room was dark. Washburn snapped on the projector's light; a bright square appeared on the white wall. He then inserted a small piece of celluloid behind the lens.