The man… he never gave a name… had a past as wide as Elton John’s heinie and as checkered as a John Kerry position paper. But he was the man, THE man in his world, and that’s what counted most. Trusted, feared, hated, scanned, spindled and with hanging chads, he knew the world did not consist of beliefs or principles or honor and he damn well knew it didn’t give a syndicator’s ass about the truth – IT WAS ALL ABOUT THE ACTION, BABY. Even if it was only minor, whining action on the internet, action was action was action. Right? And, of course, because he was able to drop names and could tell unimportant little stories about the boulangerie on the rue de nowhere or the odd gentleman on Tani Road; to whisper about the Kennedy size, the Kennedy magic, the Kennedy elan, the Kennedy parties, the Kennedy FREAKIN’MASTERY OF EROTIC PLEASURE… he knew that he counted. Big time. At least, he counted in the small world of the famous. Probably. His accountant thought so, too.

And when finally there came the day he decided to cross over from his simple, observatory life into the brilliant decadance of the Camelot of old with its overdosed blondes and iron-clad control over the Massachusetts state police – at the very moment he had chosen to trade his mundane life for a place in the shadow of implacable Lady Luck -

HE IS CHARGED WITH DRUGS!

Several days later a nondescript male body is spotted floating off the northwest coast, boring everyone…

More importantly Roger, have you been to the hat shop?