We’ve got a big push tonight, a big plan. We’re going to build a mission in the Caribbean. All those heathen Rastafarians. The grand plan looks something like a hospital, a church, a school, and a “retreat”. The retreat is what we’re most excited about. Fucking Club Med for the God crowd. Yeah, most of it’ll be straight-up legit, seminars and workshops and wholesome activities, all that, but there’ll be those bungalows, that stretch of private beach, the Holy of Holies: private residences for me and Artie. His Dad will have one too. A big house for the staff. The Lord’s got so much work to do there, I figure we’ll be spending at least a week per month on the beaches, doing the broadcasts and everything from set we’ll build right on the grounds.
      My plan, of course, is to bring Victoria with me.
      We’ve considered the tax-shelter opportunities, but we’re thinking that the best plan for the long-haul is to not even bother with it. Taxes aren’t that big a deal anyway, since we’re a church and all. And I can’t stop dancing today, shuffling my feet and kicking my heels and looking like an idiot but I can’t care, not today. We’ve got enough capital to break ground, and the five-year plan’s budgeted to get us there, but we want it now. We’ve been drawing it up coming on two years and tonight we’re going to announce it as though God told Artie right there standing on stage that this is what He wants us to do. The groundbreaking’s set for a week from today, right after Artie’s birthday, we’re all going down there for it. Announcing it right at the last minute then going right ahead and doing it will make it look like He put a big old Hand right in there to clear our way. The real big hand is a friend of Artie’s who bought up the land for us and got everything in place to start a resort, so all the records on the site to date have this other corporation holding all the assets. The guy started up the machine to drive himself under about six months ago, so everything’s set for us to take it over.
      Ephram’s modified his light trick for maximum effect, and right before we start in on the usual Friday routine, we’ve scheduled a big glitch in sound. There’s going to be a short and two of the big speakers on either side of the stage are going to blow—not hooked up to sound, we installed them last night and packed them with explosives, so it’s just going to look like a glitch. Then we’re cutting all the lights. As the backup incandescents along the edge of the stage fade up Artie’s going to collapse. Then the backups will fail too. That’s when we’ll cut the feed, make it look like we really did shut down. Hold it ten seconds with a Please Stand By on everyone’s screen—broadcast by us, of course—and then cue Artie. See, this is where the Lord’s talking to him direct. Then we make the announcement.
      “Satan: Ephram.”
      “Ephram on line, Artie.”
      Artie pushes my hand away, I’m working on his eyes. “Ephram, sound all go? You set?” Artie’s delegated some extra control to Ephram.
      “All systems go, Artie. Redundant systems in place in case of stage one failure. No way it’s not coming off.”
      “Good to hear. Sit tight, son, we’ve got fifteen to live.”
      “That’s a roger, sir. Good luck.” He wishes me the same and signs off.
      Artie closes his eyes so I can finish them. “Taking it to the next level, dollface. Maybe we’ll do Paris next.”
      Heavy liquid eyeliner today, set to run when Artie hits his eyes with a little saline when the lights go out. The bottle’s next to monitor 3, where he’ll be when he collapses. All he has to do is squirt into each eye, close them for a second and give each a quick rub. This cheap shit’ll run everywhere and make him look burned from inside, scoured by epiphany. Fiber-optic filaments in his dress are going to give him the subtlest of glows. There’s a battery pack right by his microphone, a little rheostat to fade it up after he squirts himself. We’ll all be on stage with him, but when the lights go out we’re going to clear off, so when everything’s back up it’ll just be Artie and God. Funny thing is we did this back at the beginning, on our grand tour of those two cafés. Back then it was stupid, too over the top. Now we’re wondering if it’ll be enough. Guess we’ll know in about twenty minutes.
      You’re here too, checking the fit of the new prosthetics just arrived yesterday. I’ve only seen you once other than now since Fusillade, and that was just a couple of minutes while you stood by the doorway of my dressing room talking on the phone while your assistant checked my measurements against the records. I haven’t changed since the last fit, so it took probably less than a minute. Artie’s the one took more time, he’s gotten kind of trim in the last few months, so with him it was a total reconfigure; me just a new order of the better materials. Say what I will about you, you do good work. My new tits, not quite stripper material, are the most believable set yet. Look and feel. Valerie Gaspar’s in her 40s, and she’s had a couple of kids, so playing with her boobs isn’t quite as much fun as it might otherwise be. I could go strapless or scooped with these, if I wanted to wax my chest and back. They’re lighter than the last set and the adhesives are stronger by a factor of ten—you said they are anyway. I just slip the prosthetics in my bra, so I don’t have to worry about the glue. I don’t know if I trust you enough to actually glue them to me. I’ve got this suspicion that maybe there’d be some problem with the solvent you gave me to take them off. Sure, it’s non-toxic, you say it’s all natural, but I still don’t have any kind of handle on just what you’re up to, so I’m going to play it like it’s all-natural acid or something in the bottle, set to melt my nipples right off. I’d be cool with paying out a big settlement just to get my revenge, and I don’t even want any. You, you do, and no way you haven’t thought the same. So I’m still a high-neckline kind of girl. I’ll be a grandmother soon anyway, my oldest “daughter”, “on mission” in Uruguay’s set to deliver in a week (coinciding, strangely enough, with the groundbreaking in the Caribbean… so funny how things work), so with all that in mind, it’s best that I look the part. You say you don’t care one way or the other how I wear them. I’m a tertiary concern here. No idea what the secondary one is…
      But I don’t have the energy or time to wonder about you today, and no matter how dire your future threatens, I’ve got this bright Caribbean overlay kicking down enough hope I figure anything’ll be worth it so long as I get my toes in that clear blue water. Everything can come crashing down after that; so long as our Armageddon is set to dub it can have as many horsemen as it wants.
      We’re all flying out on Artie’s birthday, so Kat and I scheduled the party for tonight, after wrap. Me and Artie are set for a little pool at the bar next door after work, Ephram too, the rest of the staff’s high-tailing it to Artie’s house once we’re out the door. My orders—and Artie’ll kill me for it tomorrow, but that’s tomorrow—to everyone were to wrap up nothing, to put nothing away, just drop everything and get the hell out once we round the corner. I’ll accidentally leave my comlink in, and when Artie notices it I won’t have anywhere to put it. It’s good up to a half mile, and Janie’s set Satan to broadcast on a secure channel to a remote hookup at Artie’s house, which is a far more elegant setup, I’m thinking, than having a set time or some staged phone call to clue them in to our arrival. My car’s going to break down in the parking lot—Kip’s disconnecting my alternator right now—so Artie’ll have to drive me home, and then Kat’ll call and ask Artie to pick up some dog food ten minutes after we leave the bar… okay, so maybe it’s not the most elegant plan, kind of really complicated, but it’s how Kat wanted to do it and no way was I going to argue anything with her. Anyway, my P.A., Danny, will be at my house, Kip at Ephram’s and while Artie’s getting the dog food—he has to drive five miles in the wrong direction to get to the store that sells the organic crap they feed to Muffy the Rottweiler, so that’ll give us another twenty minutes or so to get in place—Kip and Danny will drive Ephram and me over to Artie’s house. I guess it needed to be that complicated, since we don’t tend to hang out at each other’s houses all that much. Not really ever. Me and Artie, I mean. Not Kat, since she tends to show up at my house all the time.
      But I haven’t even seen Kat since after Fusillade, we’ve done everything by phone and it’s been actually kind of nice. She threw herself into the planning and hasn’t had time for anything other than quick, businesslike calls. Things, I must admit, have been pretty good.
      Which, of course, cannot continue. Cue the damn danger music. Artie brightens all of a sudden and goes to the door of his dressing room, where Kat’s standing. Smile smile smile and kiss kiss kiss, she’s not supposed to be here. Oh the rapture of love. Shit.
      George, the guy works the teleprompters appears at the door behind Kat and asks Artie could he come check something real quick. Artie leaves and it’s just me and Kat in the room with ten to live.
      “You should be at the house,” I say.
      “Fuck you, jerk, happygood to see you too.”
      I try to say something about the party, but she cuts me off. “Everything’s ready, don’t worry.” She’s all happy and now I’m nervous about it. Happy Kat was a good thing, on the phone, away from my apartment, away from me… Happy Kat here across the room from me, that’s not. “I want to show you something.”
      “This can wait.”
      “I’m here now, so I won’t wait.” She’s pulling up her shirt.
      “What the hell are you doing?”
      “Shh, it’ll take just a second.” And there’s her bra. I’m a little envious of her bra, it’s so much nicer than mine. Mine are big ugly matron bras. “I got it pierced.”
      Kat’s breast and Victoria’s ring through the nipple.
      “Come on, touch it.”
      “No.” Oh god, no. No fucking way. I want it back. I know I’ve got pliers in my dressing room, if I can get her there I can get the ring back. Kat pouts, traces her nipple with a finger and it’s just done, all red and swollen. She looks down at it then back up at me, the tip of her tongue touching her upper lip. She’s all porn and I’m a mix of revulsion and arousal. I’ve got this Kat/Victoria hybrid/girl-on-girl action scene playing out on a kind of delusional retinal heads-up display. I ask if she did both.
      “You only gave me one ring.” She’s about to say more, she’s moving closer, but George’s coming back, which means Artie, so she puts her breast away.
      “Baby,” Artie says, “we’ve got six to live, so we got to set. You go up to sound and watch, all right? It’s going to be one hell of a show tonight.”
      Kat kisses him, coos, both her hands on both his cheeks. She presses her cheek to the side of her head, puts her eyes on me and makes sure I know she’s making a line from my face to my crotch. “I have so much to do, I can’t stay.” She says, to me, though I’m the only one that knows it, “I’ll see you later. I have great news for you.” That there, what she just said, that’s an omen. OED-worthy definition.
      Kat leaves and to me it looks like she’s dragging a beach with her. My beach. My bungalow. My Caribbean. My everything. I’m thinking Kat’s not short for Katherine, I’m thinking it’s short for Contingent. I’m thinking I’m her bitch, whatever continent I’m on… I’m her bitch in Europe, I’ll be her bitch in Asia, her bitch down under. I’m going to tell Artie now. I don’t care if I lose the beach, I don’t care what happens. I can’t do it anymore.
      “Artie…” the words right behind my teeth, all he’s got to do is turn around and they’ll come.
      He walks. “Time to set, dollface.” Three to live. What bullshit. I’ve been on the whole time.
      Everything goes off perfect. Lights out, we clear, then Artie enraptured. God tells him what to do, and Artie passes it on. He’s saying it’s a monumental task, but with God’s help everything is possible, you know; he makes like a call comes in, he’s praising the lord ‘cause there’s some billionaire on the line going to fund the whole shebang. And there’s the audience all uproar, all jubilation… but wait: it’s God again, and he’s got something to say. And Artie gives the lowdown.
      “Eye of a needle, children!” he shouts, the fiber-optics pulsing and Artie straight out of Heaven. “Far easier to fit a camel through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to get into Heaven.” Enraptured audience silent. The first phone does its first real ring. Some of the core understand. Stupid for the most part, but quick on some kinds of uptake.
      “Our Lord wants you to share in Grace. He forbids us to take the easy path. Why should one man find salvation, why should the rewards of Heaven be denied you because of one man who has his reward here on earth?” More phones. Our server’s probably jammed up too. I can’t watch anymore. I’m not going to get my beach. I go to my dressing room and take off my tits.
      I’m going to tell him after wrap. Fuck the birthday party, fuck my job. I’ll get some other job. I don’t know what, since this is all I’ve ever done, except dishes and picking oranges, but there’s something. God’s going to kick down with some more technical difficulties after Artie solo rants it for another hour, so I don’t have to go back up for close today.
      I’m washing my face and the door opens and Kat, who did not, in fact, after all, leave, comes in and locks the door. She’s still locking the door with her right hand and already her left’s pulling up her shirt.
      “Kat, I can’t do this anymore.”
      And Kat must be magic, since she’s suddenly right next to me, a vise grip on my jaw and she’s telling me that I am, in fact, going to do this anymore, and especially right now. I’m going to kiss her nipple. I’m going to appreciate what she’s done for me and adore her for it.
      “I’m going to tell him, Kat.”
      She says maybe I didn’t hear her. She says I’m going to adore her or she’s going to kill me. And that’s a new one. Guess I should have seen it coming. I did, after all, escalate. It’s my fault. Still the vise on my jaw, she’s moving my head, brushing her nipple with my teeth. “Come on, faggot, kiss it.” Her nipple’s bleeding and I can feel my body shutting down. It happens sometimes, and it’s never been a good thing. Things get too intense and I shut off. Like that kid in that Private Idaho flick. Just like that, only I don’t pass all the way out. Which would be better, right now anyway.
      “You want to tell him?” her nails cutting my cheeks, “let’s tell him now, let’s go right now and tell him.” She’s dragging me by my face across my dressing room, she’s going to go right on stage and do it now. None to live. We’re on.
      I grab her waist and turn her and kiss her breast. And then her hands, so kind, fingers in my hair, tracing my ear, she tells me I love her.
      “I love you,” I say to her nipple. Victoria’s ring between my teeth again, “I love you…” and I’m crying. Over and over I don’t shut up and Kat’s got everything she wanted except I’m not talking to her.

Artie so jubilant. Ephram ecstatic. Everything according to plan and Artie wants to know why I’m not more excited. Kat left when I stopped crying. She thought it was sweet. I make something up, tell them Victoria was supposed to meet up with us, but she canceled and I’m just a little down, I was going to tell her, I was going to step up… “I’m fine,” I say.
      “You know,” Artie’s arm around my shoulder, your new breast pressing my arm, “it wasn’t easy with me and Kat at first either…”
      I don’t mean to, but I tell him I don’t want to hear about him and Kat. I say it all curt, too loud. I immediately apologize, then make something up about me being on edge, so much riding on today and I’m just still a little wound up. That’s all.
      I can still have my beach. Bitch or not, I can still have my beach. “Give me five to pack up and then we’ll grab a table and I’ll kick your ass in 9-ball.”
      Artie and Ephram leave and I hook up my comlink, hoping nobody noticed I wasn’t wearing it a second ago. It’s small, so maybe Artie won’t even notice I have it on. And maybe I don’t need an editor, maybe what I need is that ghost writer since I don’t think I’m going to play this too well. “Janie, you on?”
      Janie’s hooked up remote, on her way to Artie’s house. She left as soon as Artie hung up his com. “Got you, I’m about three miles out. I’ll hit the estate in about five.”
      “Roger that, honey,” trying for charm, trying to play it like expected.
      “Line’s open, don’t say anything you don’t want me to know.” Janie’ll be listening but I won’t be able to talk to her direct once I’m out of the room. I’m thinking now this is a really bad setup.
      “I’m going to tell Ephram you have a crush on him.”
      “How did you know?”
      “I didn’t.”
      “Keep your mouth shut or there’ll be hell to pay.”
      I’m just kidding, but at this point I’d take anything. I try to remember the acting classes me and Artie took when things started moving, worked up a face and stance appropriate to the situation. One breath, two, three… I’m already on the way to the lobby.
      Ephram’s blushing by the door, Artie telling him again how pleased he is with how everything panned out. Ephram leans into the crashbar as I approach and I flow through, clapping each of them on the back and telling them to just leave their pride right there in the lobby, just so nothing gets damaged.
      “Open that other door, Artie, we gotta get his head through.”
      “We’ll have to use the back entrance to get in the bar…”
      I chime in, “Laugh all you want, honeys, laugh while you can. It’s going to be all tears from here on out.”
      My head makes it through the front door and Artie just holds up three fingers to the bartender—which means three whatever, we don’t have a usual anything—we pick up cues and take the third table, the one with the heavier felt. We don’t like too much motion on the balls, we all tend to hit too hard, so the thicker felt compensates for our sucking at pool.
      We get right down to it, no chit chat. Me and Ephram first round and I take it pretty quick, missing my first shot but then running it easily when Ephram leaves me in a good position after knocking in the 1 and scratching on the 2. Then it’s a draw with between me and Artie—a draw because I took about half and then Artie finished it then scratched on the 9. I know that’s a win for me, but we don’t count them unless you win straight. No defaulting.
      “Chrissy says if you win this one she’ll show you her tits.” That’s Janie, in my ear. Everyone’s listening, apparently.
      I win easily and Janie’s in my ear again telling Chrissy to keep her top on until I get there. Then a bunch of cheers; they’re drunk already and we’re not going to show for at least an hour yet. I tell Ephram to go on and break.
      He’s trying to line up and I’m chalking, Artie off to the bar for a round of something else. “Hey Ephram, what do you think of Janie?”
      Big laughs on the com and Janie: “Shut up, shut up, shut up…”
      “Janie on sound?”
      No, I say, the poodle-grooming Janie. “How many do we have? Of course sound.” I was trying to mess up his break, but he gets the 3, 7 and 8. The cue ball skirts the edge of a side pocket, but doesn’t drop.
      “Wouldn’t mind if she was a go-go girl, you know?” He lines up for the 1.
      Janie wants to know what the hell that’s supposed to mean, but I can’t answer her directly. “Hot pants or corset?”
      Artie’s back, “Janie’s got a great ass. I vote for hot pants.”
      Ephram nods, picturing it, and Janie in my ear’s ordering everyone out of the room. There’s some grumbling and whining, but I hear it quiet down. “Artie thinks I have a nice ass?” still talking to me like I can answer.
      I try, “Yeah, she does have that… you think you have what it takes to get Janie the go-go girl?”
      Ephram drops the 2, then the 4. “You got Victoria, and I’m ten times more charming than you, especially on Thursdays…”
      Janie: “He’s right, you know.”
      Me, to both of them: “Fuck you.” Ephram misses the 5 and I run the rest. “Now you’re a charming loser. Step up, Artie.”
      I take the break and don’t sink anything. Ephram’s drinking and wondering out loud to us if maybe he should make a play. I tell him that I have it on good authority that his efforts wouldn’t go unrewarded. Ephram wants to know whose authority.
      Janie: “I’ll wear hot pants. Tell him I’m a great dancer.”
      “She’s probably got hot pants, and she’s a great dancer.”
      Ephram wants to know how I know that. I tell him I caught her dancing alone one time up in sound. He buys it. No reason he shouldn’t.
      “I don’t know if I really want the go-go girl.” Artie drops the 6 then scratches. Ephram does an Elvis-pointing thing at him then starts up again, “Don’t laugh at me, but I’m kind of a romantic…”
      Artie and I laugh.
      “It’d have to play out naturally, you know? A couple of awkward conversations, maybe squeezing past each other backstage, and her breasts would just barely brush up against me, and even though that’s not really anything I’d hold on to that for weeks and I wouldn’t be able to talk to her because I’d keep wondering what it’d be like to hold her, thinking how nice it would be to just hold her hand while sitting at the museum and waiting for some stupid art film to start…”
      Janie: “I love him.”
      “Maybe at the…” and Ephram almost slips, I know what he was about to say, he was about to say Tonight at the party. He recovers and Artie none the wiser, “Maybe tomorrow I’ll bring an extra coffee, offer one to her… just happen to have an extra…”
      Janie: “Black, two sugars.”
      Artie hits me with his cue. “You want to shoot already?”
      I miss, “You don’t even drink coffee.” Ephram says he could start.
      Janie: “Did I mention I love this man?”
      Artie finishes and Ephram steps up. Artie holds up three fingers again, another round of whatever. We’re going to be trashed if we don’t slow down. We’ll end up calling for cabs and that’ll wreck the plan. I’ll have to cut it short if we’re going to do this.
      Artie asks how things are with Victoria. And I’ve still got something like hope, still think it can all be pulled off somehow, if I can just find some way to get Kat onto something else. I eye Ephram, thinking maybe a sacrifice. No reason he should find happiness and not me. Okay, maybe there are lots of reasons he should and not me, but all’s fair and all. And with Kat, it’s kind of both. War and the other. I say, “I’m going to find her tonight.” And I act like that means something.
      Ephram drops the 9 on the break. “You’d have tall children.”
      Janie: “Do men normally talk about this kind of thing?”
      I chalk my cue, I finish my drink, I think about it. About the process of making them anyway. I ask Artie does our insurance cover that kind of thing? Artie just shrugs. Most likely it does. Ephram offers me the break and I get the 2 and the 6. I don’t have a clear line to the 1, so I’m going to try for a jump shot. “You and Janie’d have those creepy blond Villiage of the Damned kids.”
      “I never saw that.”
      Janie: “Good looking kids…”
      “I didn’t either, but I see the cover at the rental store all the time.” I miss the jump shot and hit the bar for our last round. When I get back Ephram’s cleared most of the table. “Now Artie here,” I say, “him and Kat are going to make little demon transvestites.”
      “No we’re not,” Artie says. And it’s the way he says it that stops us, me and Ephram. Cues butts to the floor and we’re just looking at him, waiting for an explanation.
      “Okay,” I say, “maybe not transvestites, but you’ve both got that kind of Asian thing to your eyes on top of chiseled Aryan features and dark hair…” I slow down at the end of the sentence, not sure where I’m going.
      “They won’t look like anything,” Artie says. He says he can’t have children.
      Janie: “Oh, the poor baby.”
      “Kat doesn’t know. She hates kids so it’s never come up. It doesn’t matter.”
      I ask what’s wrong, why can’t he have any? And he explains as brief as possible and as vaguely as he can that his balls never really fully matured.
      Janie: “But how does he…” And I’m considering cutting the com.
      Artie laughs suddenly, tells us to stop looking so glum and play some fucking pool already. “I just don’t make any sperm, it’s not like I can’t get it up. There are worse things than not having kids. Don’t worry about me, you worry about how you’re gonna feel when this genetic eunuch whips your sorry asses in 9-ball.”
      I know it’s not what he wants to hear, but I tell him I’m sorry anyway. And then I beat him quick. “I feel pretty good, actually,” I say.
      Janie: “Bastard.”
      I nod at Ephram, couple it with a pointed look. “Hey Artie, I’m gonna have to call it quits.”
      “Yes,” Artie knocks back the last of his drink, “Victoria.”
      Yes, I say. Victoria. If only.
      Of course my car doesn’t start, so we say goodbye to Ephram and me and Artie start toward my house. Pulling out of the lot Artie grabs my ear. “You’re still wearing your com, idiot.”
      Janie: “End transmission in five… four… three…”
      My hand to my ear, “I’m so stupid. I forgot.” I pull it out and turn it off while Artie’s turning into traffic.
      As per plan, Artie’s phone goes and he tells Kat Sure, he’ll pick up some dog food on the way home. Our ride’s kind of subdued and Artie’s about two steps to the left of melancholy, but I don’t bother with pep talks or anything, since that’s not how we do things and I figure the party’s going to cheer him right out of it anyway. He lets me off at my apartment and I tell him I’ll see him tomorrow.
      “Good luck with Victoria,” he says, then pulls back into traffic. I watch a few moments, just making sure he doesn’t swerve into oncoming traffic. Not that he’s the type to do that, but you never know.
      When he rounds the corner, I switch the com back on. “The Eagle has gone to buy dog food. I repeat: The Eagle has gone to buy dog food.”
      Janie says Roger, then, “Hey, who’s Victoria?”
      “Goodbye Janie, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
      Danny appears from nowhere and takes my arm. He leads me to his car and we rock out to Eminem for the fifteen minutes of freeway and ten of streets it takes to get to Artie’s. We park in at a Safeway a few blocks from the house, and Kip and Ephram are already there, waiting with Kat’s car to drive us to the party. It’s all crazy quiet spy action, all of us conspirators and giggling stupidly, no conversation—impossible anyway, since Kip’s killing us with about a million decibels of Metallica—park her car right out front and then we’re ushered in the house, and Janie’s right there and kisses Ephram before he can even say hello.
      Ephram’s eyes saucered at me. “I’ll explain later,” I tell him. Janie says she’ll do the explaining and kisses him again. I take a second to confirm that she does, in fact, in truth, in her short skirt, have a great ass. Kip goes back outside with a cell phone to hide in the bushes and tell us when Artie’s coming up.
      Kat gives a cordial hello. I can see the outline of Victoria’s ring through her shirt. She takes me to the rest of the party, everyone pretty well trashed, but troopers all and set to see the sunrise. I’m handed a glass of something big and toxic green, and somebody pushes the glass to my lips and forces me to drink the whole thing. Ephram stumbles up. I clap him on the shoulder—seems I’m that kind of guy today—and steal his drink.
      “Pretty smooth, that whole com thing. I didn’t even notice you had it on.”
      “Artie didn’t notice until we were in the car.” I do Artie’s voice, “Satan: Hook me up with Janie.”
      Ephram says he knows what I mean, but that it’s not a very funny joke, since all that’d do is connect him like normal. I shrug, tell him it doesn’t matter, since Satan did the job anyway. Him and his minions.
      Chrissy comes up and makes good on her promise. Thing is everyone gets to see her tits too, so it’s not as good as it could have been.
      Then Kip tells Janie, who’s got the other end of the line, that Artie’s about to pull in. Janie asks would we please all shut the fuck up and then five… four… three… two… one… hey, it’s a fucking surprise party!
      And oh the drinking, the debauchery, the everything that goes on. I was right about Artie, he’s all cheered up now. I find the bathroom and there’s somebody in there with someone else, not really concerned about discretion. I go upstairs and find the same thing, so I head off to the master bedroom, and run into you. And you’re too happy to see me.
      “Hey, there you are,” I say, not even bothering to come up with anything better.
      “You asked about my ulterior motives,” and here you go, it’s 007 all of a sudden and you’re like you’ve got this laser coming up to castrate me. You’re going to elaborate. “It’s so delicious, friend, you won’t believe what I’ve got in store tonight. For you, for Kat, for everyone.” You’re drunk.
      I grab the clock from the bedside table and then you’re on the floor because I applied it with extreme prejudice to your temple. Fuck you. You are not going to complicate this any further. I fish through a dresser and gag you with one of Kat’s scarves, bind your hands behind your back with an obi, then drag you into the shower. I consider, for just a second, pissing on you, but that’s not really my style, so I just use the toilet, like James Bond, and make sure I lock the door when I leave.
      All told, this is probably the safest place for me right now. Artie’s house. There’s a phone on the landing and I dial up Fusillade. Victoria’s just arrived and sure they’ll put her on. Victoria’s not surprised to hear from me, she’s just wondering what took me so long. I don’t have an answer for that, so I just tell her I want to see her, tomorrow?
      “Barry’s going to be jealous.”
      “Fuck Barry,” I say. I say that because I’m classy.
      “No,” Victoria’s purring into the phone, “not Barry.”
      I could float down the stairs, I could, but I choose to walk them, since this isn’t anybody’s business but mine. Someone’s tapping something on a glass, trying to get some quiet. Someone else yells Shut the fuck up! which gets a better response.
      “Thank you all for joining us tonight to celebrate Artie’s birthday.” That’s Kat making this speech. I’m about halfway down the stairs, I can see the backs of people’s legs, Janie’s very nice ass, everyone facing Kat and Artie. “As you all know we’re going to be breaking ground in the Caribbean on his actual birthday,” and everyone cheers, and that’s as good a reason as any to cheer. I add my own voice to it. “So we’re all here tonight to show our love to the man who brought us all together in The Lord’s House. And let’s all thank the Lord, shall we, that He saw fit to give us one of our own.”
      Insert laughter.
      I’m at the bottom of the steps. Artie and Kat up on a table, and Kat in a skirt and I wonder if she’s wearing underwear. I know what ones she’s not wearing, I was just riffling through them. She holds her hand up, everyone goes quiet again for her. “And thank you in advance for all your wonderful gifts, but before we get to opening any of them, I want to give mine first.”
      I’m actually happy. I’m thinking I might be able to play this right and get out of the Kat thing, I don’t know how yet, but hope’s a systemic and chronic disorder, there’s nothing I can do about it. Our universe, it might be infinite, and it might be infinitely stupid, but there’s got to be some sense to it, things have to work out or else it’ll all fall apart. Artie’s beaming face panning and taking everyone in, and I’m starting to think I understand something of the man, how he’s got a family of his making right here, and I’m thinking the world is a good place and that the universe might know what it’s doing after all and Kat says, “We never planned on it, but…”
      And I want to vomit.
      “Oh screw it, no more speeches. Artie,” She throws her arms around him and kisses him. Whoopee. Everyone’s cheering, all worked up and this is such a party. Yeah yeah yeah.
      “Oh Artie, we’re going to have a baby. Baby, we’re pregnant!”
      Editor, director, please. Please.
      I want something better. I want a coda that won’t drop, that won’t come crawling across the floor stinking of its own shit. I want a fucking perpendicular trajectory; it’s supposed to be Victoria in the passenger seat, and neither of us belted in, “It’s a shame she won’t live, but then again, who does?” and no fucking happy voice-over, just a blasted landscape and the idea that we’re not so much going away as we are going to and nobody cares what the to is, everyone’s just happy it’s not away. This, this is away, whether I stay here or run or go to the club anyway, there’s no to from this. Rewrite this for me, and maybe make Kat the machine, and it’s all a glitch in her memory-implant-programming crap gave her this delusion and then Victoria and I’ll just slip out, off to some megalopolis elsewhere, across some border where there’s no Tyrell, where if I take a stick in the eye I’ll get a nickname instead of a new eye. Kat slowly winding down over the years but Artie’ll get a new one, an upgrade without the old Kat glitches… something…
      I can wait right here. How long does editing take anyway?
      Still locked in the kiss, still locked in Kat, the whole world locked in Kat, the whole fucking stupid universe spinning around her, Artie’s eyes find me. And it’s not accusation there, he doesn’t know, and that’s worse. Damn his balls! I should have let you go ahead and do your stupid evil mastermind dance. The cheering and jubilation won’t stop and Artie’s going to pretend like there might be a God after all, at least until everyone goes home and he has a chance to look in his pants, and then he’s going to find you in the shower and… Damn it, accuse me! Know me! Just do it now, here in front of everyone. I can’t do it just Artie and me, can’t do a one-on-one. And Ephram would just hack away at my shoulders with his stupid sword, wouldn’t he? Me on the office floor and my intestines on the carpet and me a fish with arms and legs just gasping and gasping… Grandiose everything just come down to the pedestrian after all, crayons on the canvas. Dad not Dad all over again, stupid world without end, all my systems shutting down again and I’m sitting now on the stairs and could I please just black out? and from the stairs I can see that Kat is in fact wearing underwear, and her eyes open and she’s found me and she wants me to know I’m her bitch forever. I raise my hands, I spread out some of my fingers. Thinking the stupidity of it will surely outlive me.