Desolation. A fierce wind wafts over the mesas. Cacti are everywhere. So are tumbleweeds, oxen, and logs. Tuffy and Bart spit tobacco, whispering in the regional drawl.

“Storm’s coming, Tuffy.”

“Looks that way, Bart.”

“I got a bad feeling about this, pardner.”

“About what?”

“Everything, you big galoot.”

“What do mean, everything, Bart?”

“Just everything out here. I’m particularly worried about desperadoes.”

“I thought we were desperadoes.”

“No, you dad-gum yellowbelly. We’re cowboys! The Mexicans are desperadoes—you can tell because it’s in Spanish.”

“Are you sure, Tuffy?”

“Yup.”

The men wipe viscous layers of dusted whiskey off their sanguine, leathery faces with bandannas they’ve got nestled inside their buckskins, which are nestled inside their leather chaps. A steam engine blasts its whistle—Gabriel’s trumpet—a calling.

“What year is it, Tuffy?”

“I think around the end of the 19th century—call it 1889.”

“Does Mexico have independence from Spain yet?”

“I dunno. What’s it to you?”

“Well, maybe desperadoes are actually Spanish.”

“Maybe. Say, are we gonna rob this train or what?

“Well, Tuffy. I always loved you. Strap on my stirrups, old buddy, and let’s get that gold.”

“Oh, Bart. I love it out here in the Wild West.”

“It’s quiet, Tuffy. Maybe too quiet.”

“You want to go to a saloon?”

“That sounds pretty good.”

“I love you.”

“Remember the Alamo.”

“I always do, Bart. I always do.”

Mosquitoes buzz around a campfire as a hog spins languidly on a spit. There is blood everywhere. The hog-rotating device reminds Tuffy of a similar contraption he saw at a falafel stand just north of Bleeker Street, on Thompson, before the Latinos came. But now, the men were deep in the heart of what either is or is soon going to be Texas, depending on the year.

X81H-33, the mainframe computer aboard the outer-space probe Virgil, blipped on and off with a haunting cadence. Alphanaut Zegrob and his deep-space companion Sheevex wiggled in the majesty of zero-gravity. Zegrob was inside her. What could this odd, arrhythmic beating mean, though? A hostile probe? Food and supplies? Lasers? Zegrob didn’t care, he was busy making love.

“Sheevex, isn’t space magical?” asked Zegrob, as he rolled over to open a packet of pre-made Tang and vodka.

“Yes, Zegrob. I’m so glad we’re stoned, too.”

“Why don’t I make us invisible with my photon laser matrix interceptor?”

“Yes! That way, we won’t be seen by any E.T.s?”

“E.T. is here?”

“They could be anywhere, Zegrob.”

“Who’s they?”

“E.T.s, Zegrob … Extra-terrestrials.”

“You mean it’s like an acronym?”

“Yeah. Did you think it was like a proper name or something?”

“No, I mean. Maybe.”

“Oh, Zegrob, you’re so stupid!”

“You don’t have to be mean, Sheevex.”

“I fake my orgasms!”

“What?”

“It’s true, Zegrob. Even though we’re weightless and they pump trance/house music through the far reaches of space like an intergalactic rave, I think it’s over between us.”

“Not since the Droogams were emancipated from the 3rd moon of Yuder have I heard anything so dizzying—and I was a physics major at Cal Tech.”

“This is not reality, Zegrob. We are in an infinite space density, with a black hole and everything, like that movie with all the weird Philip Glass tunes and the handicapped robot who knows the mind of God.”

“So this is all a dream?”

“Yes, Zegrob. A complicated, mathematical space dream.”

X81H-33 continued blipping on … off … on … off. A sortie of E.T. and his evil brothers drew near the Virgil. Zegrob fumbled with his photon laser matrix interceptor. A green light flashed somewhere, as is often the case in outer space. Zegrob and Sheevex were only half-invisible. Sheevex suggested they ingest the cyanide, or at least have sex … one last time.

Side 2 of Dark Side of the Moon played ominously, except for the track “Money,” which never belonged there in the first place.

“This is it,” grunted Zegrob, loading the last bowl of lunar space dope.

Timmy, Bobby, Suzie and Jenny all sat around in a HUGE house made of chocolate and good times. They had a big hoot, just sitting around playing kid games, doing kid things and saying kid stuff. They all suffered from acute acne vulgaris, and wondered if they were legally allowed to touch one another underneath their clothes. Maybe they would worry about those problems later in life. Being a kid is hard all the time, but not nearly as spirit-crushing as being an adult. But this particular day was lots of good fun. Until a dragon came.

“I’m so happy,” said Timmy.

“Me too,” said Suzie.

“Me three!” shouted Bobby.

“What is it we like to do?” asked Jenny, unironically.

“What?”

“Yeah, what’s that supposed to mean, Jenny?”

“Which one of you is talking?”

“How are we supposed to know?” screamed everybody.

“Here comes a dragon!”

“Who said that?”

“I’m just a kid! Don’t kill me!”

“Run, Luther!”

“Who is Luther?”

“There’s nobody here called that!”

“Quick, run inside to the chocolate house of good times!”

“I don’t even know you!”

“Look at my face! I’m hideous!”

“My parents never listen to me!”

“What?”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Luther, for crying out loud!”

“When did you move in?!”

“I’m only 11 … I don’t want to die!”

The whole valley of magical sorcery, children, and chocolate good times fell quiet. But what about the children, you ask? Don’t worry. The dragon was lulled to sleep by a magical harp played by one of the kids—probably Mario—who also sold cigarettes and pornography to anybody who looked lonely. Then, they trained the dragon to fly all over the world, eventually settling in Monaco, where Timmy took a shine to baccarat.

“Hey, croupier,” hissed Timmy. “Whose dick do I gotta suck to get a cocktail around here?”