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keep track of these minor deities. They pale in comparison to the one, true god.”
    â€œAmen.” I try to hold my drink still so the clinking ice won’t draw attention to the fact that my hands are shaking.
    â€œAre you aware of the connection between Lono and Captain Cook?”
    â€œCan’t say that I am.”
    â€œPity. You should look into it sometime. You might find it . . . illuminating. Still, it’s an interesting name. I would imagine that it’s not your real one, but then again, I would guess you have many names. Duke, perhaps?”
    And just like that, my uneasiness and revulsion are eradicated by a white-hot flash of anger. I had taken great care in crafting this new pseudonym. I needed it for this journey. It should have worked. I was willing to bet that none of these three men had read either of my books, nor did they look the type to read the magazines my articles appeared in. There was no way they should have known me, and yet, they did. The malicious grin that spread across Koehler’s face as he noticed my reaction certainly proved that he at least suspected who I was, and all because of that goddamned cartoon. That comic strip follows me wherever I go, regardless of what country or city I’m in. It doesn’t matter if the people in that town think books are just something to be burned—if their local newspaper carries that cartoon, then sooner or later, they recognize me. It’s very weird. When you’re in high school and thinking about what you want to be when you grow up, you might decide on a fireman or an investment banker or a farmer or an attorney, but no one, to the best of my knowledge, decides that they want to be a fucking cartoon character. If they do, they should be shot in the head immediately, because such a desire would make all their other motivations suspect. There’s no frame of reference for what to do or how to react when you’ve been turned into a comic-strip character. They don’t teach it at college. No one has written any self-help books about it, although it occurs to me that I might have to one day.
    I step to the side and Koehler moves with me, while Livingston shuffles forward, trying to flank me. The whiskey swirls in my gut.
    â€œI don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. “Duke? I’ve been confused with many people over the years, but John Wayne isn’t one of them.”
    Koehler’s smile evaporates. He presses his lips together so hard that they turn white. His nostrils flare and I can see thick, black hairs lining their interior.
    â€œEnough of this charade. We know who you are and what you do for a living. I’m not sure what brought you here. Perhaps it was fate or circumstance, or perhaps you received a tip. Regardless, you won’t be writing about it.”
    â€œOh, yeah? And why not?”
    â€œBecause you won’t be leaving.”
    â€œYou’re wrong there, friend. I have a bus to catch.”
    Chuckling, Koehler steps forward, his fat hands raised as if to wring my neck. “I’m afraid not, Mr.—”
    And that’s when I toss my drink in his face, buying myself an extra second to act, and mourning the waste of perfectly good Kentucky bourbon. Tough times call for tough measures, but I have never been one to abuse alcohol in that manner. Koehler reels backward, gasping and clawing at his eyes, and I take the opportunity to charge him. Head lowered, I slam into his gut. The air rushes from his lungs, smelling sour and curdled, and Koehler falls to the floor. Shouting, Livingston charges me, but I am already ahead of him. As he lunges, I sidestep, putting a table between us.
    â€œYou bastard,” Koehler cries, writhing on the floor. “You fucking bastard! My eyes.”
    â€œDamn your eyes,” I shout. “What about my whiskey?”
    Livingston weaves around the table and I move with him, coming back around again to