Whenever Dad and Mum appear on a screen, I disappear.
I've got over fifteen dollars left. My room costs me a penny a night, and for a
foam coffin, it's okay.
#
Someone stuck a paper flyer under my coffin's door this morning. That's unusual
-- who thinks that the people in the coffins are a sexy demographic?
My very own father is giving a free lecture on Lasting Happiness and the
Galactic Federation, at Raptor Stadium, tomorrow night.
I make a mental note to be elsewhere.
Of course, it's not important where I am, the fricken thing is simulcast to
every dingy, darky corner of the world. Pops, after all, has been given a
Governor General's award, a Nobel Prize, and a UN Medal of Bravery.
I pinball between bars, looking for somewhere outside of the coffin without the
Tyrant's oration.
Someone's converted what was left of Roy Thompson hall into a big booming dance
club, the kind of place with strobe lights and nekkid dancers.
It's been so long since I was at a bar. Last summer. When they first ascended to
the mothaship. I feel like an intruder, though I notice about a million
half-familiar faces among the dancers, people who I met or shook hands with or
drank with or fought with, some time in another life.
And then I see Daisy Duke. Six months have been enough for her to grow her hair
out a little and do something to it that makes it look *expensive*. She's
wearing a catsuit and a bolero jacket, and looks sexy and kind of scary.
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