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a long time, and I thought it had numbed me to the perversions of weirdoes and sexual reprobates—until now.
    Unlike the bar, the room is illuminated, bright even, from glowing lichen on the cavelike walls. The barmaid was right. The meeting has started and I am just in time. There are three men, all in fezzes and with the pasty faces of overstuffed Rotarians, sitting on a low bench on the far side of the room. One of them has his hand on a hefty switch with brass fittings—think James Whale and the smell of ozone—and a smile.
    â€œGive him another one, Sherman,” the fellow next to him says.
    Sherman throws the switch, and Eagleton twitches like a spastic frog. Blood spills from his mouth. The bastards didn’t even give him a rubber-ball gag on which to choke. The light in here doesn’t flicker when the switch is thrown; the lichen on the walls seems to pulse and its luminescence grows brighter with every flail and sputter-cough of blood from the senator’s mouth. Sherman reverses the switch and then stands. The room smells like bacon. My stomach grumbles, and I wonder how long it’s been since I’ve eaten.
    â€œHello,” Sherman says, turning toward me. “I’m afraid this is a private function. What can we do for you, son?”
    My mouth is dry. I am a doctor of many things. Among them, I am a doctor of whiskey. Believe me when I tell you that Old Crow is utterly useless in situations like this. But I don’t let them see my fear. “Is this the meeting of . . .”
    â€œThe Committee to Re-elect the President, St. Louis branch?” Sherman says. “Yes, sir. Every Tuesday night, after pinochle. And you are?”
    â€œDrinking.” As if to prove my point, I raise one of my glasses and take another sip of Old Crow.   And searching for the American Nightmare —a task which at this moment seems rather too easily accomplished. Pretty much, I just have to step into any business establishment and make myself available.
    â€œIndeed.” He raises one hand to scratch his forehead, and I catch a glimpse of his cuff links. Solid gold, by the look of them, and emblazoned with a peculiar eldritch symbol—a rough star with an even cruder eye in its center. Just looking at them makes me nauseous, and I valiantly fight the urge to vomit because I don’t want to waste my bourbon. Instead, I smile through gritted teeth and nod at him.
    â€œThose are some nice cuff links,” I say. “I don’t have any myself, but I’d love to know where I could get some?”
    â€œI’m afraid you have to be a member to obtain these.”
    â€œI see.”
    The other two men walk over to join us now, leaving Senator Eagleton to twitch and spasm all by himself. I glance in his direction and am disturbed to see that Eagleton is sporting a massive erection. For a moment, I am reminded of the vagrant and the tentacle back at the bus station in Colorado. Was that really two days ago? Eagleton’s prick bobs and weaves, as if beckoning. There is an oddly shaped mole on the tip. How many whores have had to slide their mouths over that mole? Did they do it for horse? Probably not. The type of prostitutes a man like Eagleton could afford probably prefer cocaine.
    When I turn back to Sherman and his friends, all three of them are gazing at me with suspicion. Things could turn weird and ugly real quick, and I’m not sure how to proceed. My first instinct is to react with great and terrible violence, but I’ve got the impression that I’ve stumbled into something big here, and wreaking havoc among them won’t get me any answers, no matter how much fun it might be. Stalling for time, I drain one of my glasses, not gulping it, but not sipping either. When I’m finished, I smack my lips together and go, “Ahhhhh.” Then I stick out my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Sherman.”
    He looks at my hand as if