THOMAS ABBOT IS talking about the end of the world, but I can’t keep my eyes open. The inside of my head is all Disney dancing hippos and gators going at each other with knives like candy-colored Droogs.

      Ever notice how the more pain you’re in, the funnier the world gets? Sometimes it’s peculiar funny. Sometimes it’s “ha ha” funny, but it’s always funny. I remember almost bleeding to death in Hellion arenas and all I could do was laugh. I understand if that seems a little strange. That’s what I mean about peculiar funny versus ha-ha funny. It’s all a matter of perspective. The more totally fucked you are, the funnier everything gets. Right now the world is hilarious.

      What was I talking about? Right. Abbot. The end of the world. At least, I think it’s the end of the world he’s going on about. Maybe someone just keyed his Ferrari. Whatever it is, I’m not listening. It’s not that I’m bored. I’m tired, my head aches, and my eyes hurt like someone’s tunneling out with dynamite. It’s been a month since I’ve slept right. At night, my dreams keep me awake. Awake, the daylight feels like someone scouring my skin off with steel wool. I laugh once and everybody looks at me because they’re not in on the joke. I’m squinting at the light too hard to explain it to them.

      “You have something to add, Stark?” says Abbot.

      “Not a thing. I’m hanging on every word. But I might have missed some of the last part.”

      “I was saying the meeting was over. We’ve voted on everything on the agenda. I had to put you down as an abstention on, well, everything since you didn’t feel like joining in.”

      The other ten members of the Sub Rosa council—the den of thieves, high rollers, and important families that run most of our little world—stare or shake their heads in my direction.

      “I was with you in spirit, boss.”

      “That’s what makes it all worthwhile.”

      He turns from me and back to the room. People are getting up, gathering briefcases, purses, and jackets. You could feed every refugee in Europe with what these people have in their pockets.

      “Thank you all for coming. It was a good meeting. I’ll see you next week,” says Abbot.

      Good-byes to Abbot and general chitchat in the room. It’s like my brain is an open sore and their voices are salt. I don’t ever remember feeling this way, even Downtown.

      “Hang around for a few minutes, Stark.”

      I nod to Abbot. With my head like this, I wasn’t planning on going anywhere soon anyway.

      When everyone leaves, Abbot comes over and sits down next to me. He’s a handsome fucker and that’s always bugged me. All-American boyish looks with all the power of the Sub Rosa at his disposal. We’re on his houseboat in Marina del Rey. The meeting room is trimmed in gold and exotic woods. There’s enough video monitors and other electronic gear along the back wall to launch a nuclear war. Abbot’s floating pad is like a comic-book supervillain’s orbiting death lair. Yet I kind of like the prick. He seems honest. He gave me a seat on the Sub Rosa council. And he hasn’t thrown me out for doing a lousy job. But I can’t help wondering if I’m about to get a Dear John letter. Things aren’t working out. It’s not you. It’s me. You know the routine.

      Abbot laces his fingers together and leans back in his chair.

      “You don’t look so good,” he says. “Please don’t tell me you’re missing meetings because you’re hungover.”

      I