On June 5th, 2004, at approximately 2109 hours Zulu Time, Ronald Wilson Reagan III was killed in a targeted operation conducted by United States forces. His termination with extreme prejudice was the capstone to a 9 ½-hour firefight involving multiple law enforcement, intelligence, and military agencies, including the “Night Stalkers” of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne) and the “Sunshine Division” of the 40th Infantry (Mechanized).

When the world’s fuel infrastructure fully switched over from oil to “love,” people who once could not afford to drive (or buy) cars were zipping along the abandoned highways. Government agents confiscated the old pollution machines from the driveways. Those who neglected their children, spouses, and friends were stuck. Applications in the mail arrived, offering bailouts. They told us that you could apply for “love stamps,” suspected by skeptics to be Xanax or unfortunate tattoos. People on the outskirts that were born unloved, lived without love, and could not believe in the word to begin with were as crazy as those who once doubted the energy crisis. When I heard the news, I called my parents. They didn’t answer. Then I saw them drive by my window in a Lustang convertible. I knew that thing wasn’t burning any fossil fuels.

It started with a toe. Well, the three big toes on the left foot. You see, Hadrian (pronounced Adrian, the H is silent) wanted to make a down-payment on an engagement ring for his girlfriend, Hanna. Hanna’s name too possessed a silent H. She said her name like Anna, and had spent her life resenting the fact that her mother decided to spell her name with a silent H. This was the reason that Hadrian and Hanna began to date, but it was not the reason that they fell in love.

Listen, I can’t speak for everyone else, but it didn’t make a difference to me. I want to get that out right away, and I repeat—it didn’t make a difference to me.

I know you think it did, so that’s why I’m saying it first. You walk along, and you see how many starfish there are scattered along the shore. Frankly, the situation looks impossible, and it is, for one person. I mean, after all, that’s kind of your universal conflict: What is the meaning of my life? What purpose do I serve? And finally, is there some kind of telos that can be shared between me and other people?

How successful a night? Well, the first guy wasn’t wearing a shirt. That’s what I said: no shirt. It wasn’t in the bar. It was in the function room. That’s the great thing about function rooms, they’ll let you in without a shirt. Pants? Pants’d be pushing it. There’d be problems if you showed up without pants. Speed dating demands pants. Hawaii shorts at the minimum.

Yeah. There’s a side entrance where the smokers stand. It’s cold and full of abandoned beer barrels. You don’t smoke. You don’t notice. His chest? I didn’t really look. It seemed intrusive to look. And, I guess, he wanted you to look. OK. I did look. It was hairless. And he flexed his muscles when he spoke. As if to punctuate what he was saying about going to the gym and masturbating.