I am now holed up behind the electrified gates of Castle Astor. (Plans to position cauldrons of boiling oil on the roof proved impractical as only 100% Virgin Olive was available.) And I am, alas, alone as the much-anticipated visit from KiKi did not materialize.

Ditmar is safe in Der Fuehrur Bunker in Morningside and the only other to stay, Mark, is safely put away in a home for courtiers with missing limbs (even though his accidents were not in the line of duty, I pulled a few strings). Doug and Henry are in New Hope, Mikey off to Spain, Jeremy kidknapped from The Cult of The Palace by his family and taken to Massachusetts, Miggy's found refuge in The Magic Kingdom, Scotty in Springfield, Susie took off to Key West, Showtune is singing for his freedom in Orlando, and Edison went to New York. The list goes on and on.

There has been no reported trouble, but it's early; in my experience trouble begins late Sunday as people run out of money, drugs, and still aren't laid. And then there is The Agreement: that alliance between City Hall, the police, and The Herald to underplay any bad news. When I say "bad" it is referring to murder, rape, and robbery; permitted bad news is a stolen radio, perhaps even a snatched purse (as long as the lady, or man, wasn't injured). This is a very small town; when a body is found everyone knows immediately, but you will never read about it. (Educated people don't read The Herald anyway, unless it's for the sales.) But no screams were heard, no sirens, and especially no CHOMP, CHOMP, CHOMP of police helicopters. It's early.

KiKi's no-show left me with an inordinate amount of meat which I was to pamper him with. At the moment I am marinating three steaks, three pork chops, and one half chicken in everything from Jack Daniels to orange juice. I will experiment today and try to keep the other friend who stayed in town, depression, from the door. (He knows how to get around the fence.)