It is true that my name is Kalashnikov, and that I have returned. This is not to say that I was gone, for I was always present, to myself. I labor this point only because I wish to inspire no rumours of a departing and of a return, of a passing and a reanimation, of a death and a resurrection. If you hear stories along such lines, of my resurrection and of my offers of a blesséd redemption, pay no attention. Paradise is a work of deceit, calculated to prey upon your credulity. They will invariably ask for money, but do not give it to them. Simply walk away, paying no heed to their stories.
The sun rises over the city of Geld. “Thank-you, Damien Crusher,” says the President-elect. “Thank-you for once again causing the sun to rise over your tremendous city.”
MY FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD son probably wouldn’t approve of me mentioning him in print, so it’s a good thing this is about my friend Wally’s fourteen-year-old son. To those of you who think I am making up Wally and his son, I have two words: plausible deniability. That’s something I learned from a former American President who may or may not have been from Arkansas—it all depends upon what the meaning of the word Arkansas is. Or I’ll just say I was in the bathroom during that meeting, and I don’t remember anything, which I also learned from a former US President whose son was also a former US President.