"If Alexander wins
I will blow up the moon,"
she said matter-of-factly.
She meant it, too. What with her dooms-
day device, and such.
There was a laser pointed from the second tallest mountain (Karakoram) and that was tied to some deluxe
guided-missile system. We were able to talk her down, of course.
And with the promise of spaghetti sci-fi, we took a private plane
somewhere into Frosinone, got a copy of Shocking Dark
and drank grappa, and got drunk off good cheese and bread
and meats. And nothing had to blow up. Not really.
We all slept mostly naked on sheets from Puglia
and in the morning, I made omelettes with quail eggs
and caciocavallo,
because I called myself a socialist, and what was I doing here?
It's just that... the treat of breasts and fine foods,
and threat of lunar destruction unnerved me. I decided to play ball.
I was wanted and wanted to indulge. Fool that I was, I had no idea
what the rich are capable of. No one does. They hope the thrill
will let us keep them.