Back in the summer of 2002, my car broke down in the middle of eastern Colorado. It was 3 am, and I was 90 miles from the nearest exit ramp. Just when I was about to have a nervous breakdown and jump in front of an 18 wheeler, Rod Wilks approached from the horizon riding a pronghorn antelope. He fixed my car and gave me money. But before he left, he killed the antelope, made a couple burgers, and grilled them on my engine. The burgers were so good that by the time I got to Denver, I had learned 9 new languages and could recite the United States tax code in reverse.