Brenda had a speciality act which she seldom displayed in public, and I was flattered to see that she decided to go into it for my benefit. It involved spelling out the 13th Amendment to the Constitution using only her body -- the vowels and the consonants weren't much, but the punctuation would have unnerved the Founding Fathers and caused the Founding Mothers some concern. The music pounded away, and I got up and went back to the bar.

"Simon, do you know someone called Demarara, Dominic Demarara? Sugar king?"

His smile washed away. "You didn't ask, and I didn't hear that. You didn't come in here, and it isn't Tuesday."

"Philosophy was never your strong suit, Simon. Another one of these is." He fixed me another drink. A few minutes passed. Brenda was seguying into the Gettysburg Address. People would note and long remember. She ended with a flourish that would have woken the Confederate dead, and came down off the stage.

"Blake, you sweetie," she said, sitting down and looking provocatively at me, "How good of you to come and see me, and bringing all your friends with you. No don't turn around, but about 7 seconds after you came in some not very nice boys followed you in, and if I were you I would get out of here as fast as I could, not even stopping for one of my patented Stars and Stripes Forever blow jobs, if you get my drift, and you and I are about to have a fight." And she stood up and said loudly: "Keep your hands off, dickhead," and hit me across the face. I threw my drink in hers, growling softly: "I love you too, Brenda." And she hit me again, and then Ralph the bouncer who was to ordinary bouncers what Everest was to George Mallory, picked me up and dragged me towards the door. As I was going by, Simon said: "You forgot your receipt." and tucked something in my jacket pocket. Ralph carried me to my car. I thanked him for all his support, gave him 50 bucks for old times sake, and another 50 for Brenda, and I drove off into the night. Then I remember the smell of cinnamon Dentyne working overtime, and then I have a distinct memory of nothing at all.

In Tibet, I am told, when you die, your relatives chant the Book of the Dead so that wherever you are in the underworld you can hear the words and maybe respond appropriately. From a great distance and through a red haze I heard someone saying, "Bush, Bush, Bush, Bush, Bush", and then another voice saying, "Gore, Gore, Gore, Gore, Gore," and I decided for some reason to follow these obscure words and those voices like some kind of rope pulling me up a deep well towards the sky, and I hung onto those words, and I dragged my mind up, and then surprise, light appeared.

"Ah, Mr. Madison. Welcome back." There was a hot wet smell which for a moment I thought was my own blood trickling in my face, but then I realized I was lying on the edge of a fetid swamp. Seated beside me on the bank, watching the show, was a large, powerful white haired man, smoking an even larger and more powerful Cuban cigar.

I decided to put my head back up on top of my spine just for the hell of it, and sat up. It was a big mistake, but then it was that kind of day.

"It is a good thing that you were carrying that note from our mutual friend. Otherwise we would be doing to you what we are doing to them." He pointed. I looked. On either side of us, along the banks of the swamp, a team of men was opening up ballot boxes, and pulling out wads of paper, examining them individually, briefly, holding them up to the light, noting down the result, and then tossing each ballot into the swamp.

He looked back at me. "We respect each and every vote, Mr. Madison. After all, this is America."

"Well," I said, "I suppose, like machines, you are neutral, neither Republican nor Democrat."

"Unless it serves my purpose, Mr. Madison."

"Very American too. Why do I feel as if I am in a civics lesson here?"

"Another civics lesson, Mr. Madison. You see this swamp?"

I nodded. Which was a mistake, but I recovered grimly.

"This is part of the Everglades restoration project. I and my colleagues in the Sugar Industry have been struggling, as good environmentalists, to protect this swamp from, well, what can I call it, ourselves, I guess. And we have succeeded, to the tune of a few million dollars per few acres of this useless scummy water filled with creatures only slightly less scummy. Act locally, think subsidy, I believe is the phrase. And who do you think brought us this extraordinary bonanza of our own making?"

I thought about shaking my head, but instead said, provocatively: "The Mudcat".

He stopped, and looked sideways at me, and puffed his cigar. "You know, Mr. Madison, you are much smarter than you look. I may even let you live."

There was a long silence. The unoffical recount continued into the subsidized swamp.