As I stripped and dipped, I reflected on the year - of the drag race that almost killed me at Motorati, of the orgies at The Crimson Club , of the way Diva drove me out of my mind. Solitude, the thinking man's therapy.

Peace and quiet. Nice.

Man, this place is fucking deserted. Two days I've been here and not a single cabana girl comes to offer me a Slow Comfortable Screw. And, where are the guests? The In Crowd? The hookers? The Lindens?

I take a nap to quell the growing sense of unease that's creeping up on me - why the hell is it so quiet? And when I wake, I'm dressed, and there's mud on my boots, but I'm not sure from where, or when, or why. But I'm thinking clearer, as if logic now buzzes gently in my ear. Of course! it's Christmas! This place must be closed for the season, before the bad weather closes in. Maybe I should stay on and keep the boiler running. Like I'm the Caretaker.

In the lobby, I set up my Corona and start in on my great American Novel. For three years, all I've had is an opening sentence. "We were somewhere around Suffugium on the edge of the wastelands when the Seclamine™ began to take hold". Stalled. But now I felt re-energized, as if my muse had possessed me.

I worked all day, cranking out page after page. It was inspired writing, my most meaningful ever, and throughout it all, the

(black buzzing)

inspiration never left me

I would have kept going if I hadn't been interrupted by the goddam twins, beating on me to come play with them. Something in my head shouted that this was wrong, that they shouldn't be here, but I pushed it aside. I needed a fucking drink. Hell, I'd earned it, hadn't I?

And Lloyd was there with my usual - a "hair of the dog that bit me". Best goddamned bartender from Timbuktu to Portland, Maine. Or Portland, Oregon, for that matter.

The black buzzing was stronger now, like a thousand bees gnawing at my sinus. And I knew that was only one way to stop it - I needed to find those damn girls and "correct them". And if my wife tried to stop me from doing my god-fearing parental duty, I'd "correct" that bitch too.

I searched the place, and realized they must have been hiding in the goddam shower. Little pigs, little pigs, let me in. Not by the hair of your chiny-chin-chin? Well then I'll huff and I'll puff, AND I'LL BLOW YOUR HOUSE IN! After all, my darlings, the lights of my life, I'm not gonna hurt ya, no, I'm just gonna.....

And then my Muse is there, waiting for me, her arms wide open, as she's always been, saying "Honey, you're home". And somewhere far in the distance I hear myself start to scream.

And the last thing I remember, I was running for the door...