It's from the title of the novel I've written, Edward Teller Dreams of Barbecuing People. You can read the first chapter here.

In the vein of the television smash sensation Jeopardy, you must state your question in the form of a question.

It's a double pun. The first chapter makes clear one half of the pun, the other half is explained a few chapters later. The book makes no claim of access to Dr. Teller's id. It does, however, make fun of hippies, the public education system, and weapons of mass destruction.

It is unpublished as of now.

An alphabetical listing of every word mentioned in a book or work of writing. Concordances are often made of the Bible (for preachers to find verses pertaining to their next sermon), the plays of Shakespeare (for English professors to find lines pertaining to their next lecture), and the skits of Monty Python's Flying Circus (for socially inept nerds to quote endlessly at their next online chat session).

Not so far as I can tell.

Yep.

How convenient you asked:

Interstate highways are the veins and arteries by which crime circulates in America. Serial killers seem to float through them like blood cells, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. Crimes committed along interstate highways ought to be considered extraterritorially, apart from the normal rules of geography, and separate from a state's good name. These huge highways form a kind of fifty-first state of their own, a state whose flower is the deadly nightshade and whose state bird is the vulture.

— William R. Maples, Dead Men Do Tell Tales

Some day I plan on writing a book based on this quote. It will have nothing to do with serial killers.

This.

Suck.com was glibly proud of being one of the first Internet content site to accept advertising dollars, and indeed, they promised me two hundred fat dollars for my work. I never saw the check.

It happened so long ago, it's barely worth mentioning.

You really seem to want to know a lot about Suck.com. Perhaps you should check Wikipedia. I won't link to the entry for you. You can type.

They published a short essay I penned on Heavy Metal magazine.

They promised me fifty bucks for the thing. Unlike Suck.com, they got the check to me. It only took three clangy emails to get it cut and stuffed into a stamped envelope.

FEED was staid and had a grunge sort of attitude about it, kind of The New Yorker in a plaid flannel shirt and torn-up jeans, yet they at least kept up their end of the bargain. Suck.com loved to print pieces ripping apart the Dot-com Fantasyland, especially how the stiff corporate types up top consistently administered the Royal Screw-ola to the Joe Six-Packs in the cubicle farms. Two hundred bucks was hardly a screw job, but back in 1996 I was tilling rows in the cubicle fields, and as with the Silicon Valley corporations I slaved for, they left me holding the bag.

Not at all. Seriously.