II

On that blue-green planet, in the northern and western hemispheres, on the continent of North America, in the state of Colorado, in the city of New Roman, at the corner of Main Street and First Avenue, sometime in the twenty-first century, there lived a wealthy man, the owner of The New Roman Times. This man had every reason in the world to be happy: loving family, a grand house, a newspaper of his own; but Nathaniel Oxwood stared out his window, wondering how his life could be so miserable. As a matter of fact, Thaniel was not the wealthy man on the corner of Main and First. He actually lived on almost nothing, in regards to both money and square feet of land. An aspiring journalist, he chased every story to its dying, sputtering end; or rather, the dying, sputtering end of his sad little moped. It absolutely refused to get its rider anywhere on time. To make matters worse, Thaniel lived in the middle of nowhere, far from any excitement. Consequently, the writer never got to a good story first, if he ever made it there at all; but he couldn't afford to get his vehicle fixed, much less buy a new house.

"Tomorrow," he thought bitterly, "I am going to be fired. The newspaper owner hates me. My last successful article ran twelve years ago. Anything I write that does not involve a horrible death or explosion is a complete failure in the public's eyes." Briefly, Thaniel considered jumping off his roof onto the hard pavement below; but instead, he decided that a few shots of good, Russian vodka would upset the condition of his head in approximately the same manner. However, good, Russian vodka could not be found in his near-empty pantry, and he had to settle for lukewarm saltwater.

As the depressed young man sipped this disgusting form of self-torture, he began to hear a very loud noise outside his house; somehow, it reminded him of a twenty-foot long rolling-pin-shaped spacecraft reentering Earth's atmosphere. Thaniel shook his head. "That is such a dumb thought," he said in a slurred voice, as the ground beneath him shook; the effects of the saltwater were beginning to show. Disgustedly, he dumped the pseudo-liquor down the kitchen sink, stalked off to his room, and muttered to himself, "I hope that doesn't give me a hangover."