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So he gathered up his losses and gains (one outweighing the other, as it were), and thudded out of there. The glow of twilight spread across the avenue, and his face, for that matter, picked up the light too. Why didn't he think of THAT? Weren't all things connected? Nothing had to be ruled out.

The club was packed. It was a sex pot-luck. The sequins attached to bellys shimmied through the strobes. He belched out a hint of Jagermeister. What was he doing here with his plaid suitcase and his astro-debts? A flock of honey pots ungulated past, and then past a table of virile youths. The virile youths were cracking perverse jokes. Actually, perversity was kind of in these days. Obscene was hip. Everyone was premedicated for catastrophe and everyone was down with getting it on. Or getting it off, as it was. Thomas McDuddle ordered another martini and watched a teenager making out with a pole. Perhaps it was only his imagination. He seemed at ease, and in a moment his taxi would arrive. Where to? Well, not where he had thudded out of, that was for sure.

Actually, he mused, whilst the techno-job blurted it's cacophony toward his soul, what's the deal? I don't mind this a bit. Maybe he'd stay awhile - maybe he'd score a homer. ShieBe, he murmured under his breath, why not live a little?