Before Groucho Marx died, he ruined my life.

   After I hauled him out of the canal, and I saw the three bloody bullet holes in his soaking tuxedo shirt, I pulled out my Pewter to signal the Medivax.  But before it could connect, Grouch snatched it out of my hand a crushed it with the butt of his gun.  And like that, my whole identity was wiped out.

   Of course there were backups.  Even today, there still must be dozens of copies on servers and chips all over the world, but still the damage was done.  When he slammed the gun down, and I saw the silver case shatter, I think I actually felt physical pain.  For the first time in my life, I was off Network and the horror that washed over me made me forget about the three story jump into the canal and the gunmen on the balcony.

   I was Owen Stewart.  You might have heard of me.  For eight years, I was an investigative journalist for the Times of New Hollywood.  My reporting had won me awards, respect, and access to the upper echelons of society. 

   That's how I came to be at Brant Lodi's birthday gala the night I met Groucho.

   It was a choice assignment and a testament to my position at the Times.  When Lodi's publicist contracted the coverage for the event, I was asked for personally.  Sure, this rankled some of my colleagues — they're a bitter and envious lot.  They hate to see any big story go to someone besides themselves.  Not to mention that this was a Brant Lodi party and more than a few of them would have given anything to actually meet the man.  I suppose none of them were all that sad when I disappeared.

   That night I arrived by hired glide boat.  There was no yacht for me.  After all, no matter how popular a writer I may have been, I was still just a reporter. 

   I remember the wall of people lining the banks of the canals surrounding Lodi's palace.  There were usually a few members of his cult standing vigil, but they were out in full force that night in celebration of his birthday.

   As I approached, I recorded vids of the scene on my Pewter.  There were some great shots of the crowd standing there, devoutly in their robes, with the candles in their hands lighting up their faces.  The sight was almost eerie — hundreds of Brant Lodis all along the waterways, lit by warm radiance of candlelight.  It was definitely a testament to his star power that not only could he attract so many men and women to his cult, but that so many had gone on and had full or partial facial reconstruction.

   The glide boat let me off at the service dock.  It was all but deserted, gloomily lit by the wharf lamps.  Caterers and bands would have been bustling along it earlier, but they were inside now.  As I made my way to the plain doorway marked "Help," I heard a cheer erupt from over on the red quay.  I tried to get a glimpse of who had just arrived, but all I could see was the blinding glow of the camera flashes and the backs of reporters and fans. 

   The fisheye sensor read my invite off of my Pewter, and the door opened for me.  On the other side, a servant in full livery directed me through the confusion of the kitchens and led me to the palace's grand ballroom.

   The majestic room was dominated by a large platform in its center, where the real Brant Lodi sat, surrounded by a security detail.  He was receiving only select guests, while the rest milled around the dance floor and chased after hors d'oeuvre trays.

   The first thing that caught my eye was the icon he was wearing.  Like most big stars, he belonged to one of the cults of the Holo Screen's golden age.  Specifically, he was a disciple of the late Lulia Crowley, and the amulet he wore of her must have been new — most likely a birthday gift from a wealthy admirer.  The frame gleamed with gold and diamonds, and she stood out from it at least an inch, blowing kisses at the party guests.  No matter how long I looked, it never seemed to loop; it was almost as though she was really there.  It was an outstanding hologram and must have cost a fortune.

   At the time, I was a member of the Gary Cooper cult, myself.  My devotions may have changed over the years, but I've always stuck with the classics — it's just the way I was raised, I guess.  Still, I couldn't help but feel a little shabby with my small black and white photo, in its dull nickel frame.

   There were a few members of Brant's cult in attendance.  But I only spotted two that had been faced.  Most of the guests were far too famous to take on someone else's appearance — several of them even had vibrant cults of their own.  But along with the two Lodi's, there were maybe a dozen or so who were wearing the faces of other current stars.  And then there were a few classic faces that clearly stood out in the crowd.  There was the token Marilyn Monroe, with her blond hair and white dress.  I spotted a James Bond mingling through the crowd, although I can't remember which of the actors he really was.  And of course there was Groucho.

   Throughout the evening, as I was going around getting quotes from prominent invitees, I would occasionally catch sight of him drinking at the bar or talking with some of the other guests.  In retrospect, he must have been casually watching me.  But at the time, he was only remarkable because the face was so recognizable, and yet, it was so rare to see a devotee of that particular cult.

   Perhaps as a reporter I should have been more perceptive, but I was too busy covering the story to pay it much mind.  Maybe if I had just been a guest that night, I would have grasped the sinister nature of Groucho's behavior.  And perhaps everything that followed could have been avoided.

   All in all, it would have been better to have been a real guest there and not just a mere member of the press.  Most people would have counted themselves lucky to have found themselves among the elite, even if just for a night, but there is no arguing that it would have be better to have been one of them.  For one thing, I wouldn't have been there alone. 

   Liz and I would have arrived on our luxury cruiser and walked straight up the red quay with all eyes on us.  As soon as we entered, a servant would have escorted us up onto the platform and we would have shook hands — no — we would have hugged Brandt Lodi in greeting and given him some extravagant trinket to celebrate the occasion.

   Then we would have danced all night, me in my topcoat and tails, and her in some couture dress that mere citizens could never afford. And if at some point Groucho had come up to us, I would have snubbed him and that would have been the end of that.

   But I wasn't a celebrity, or a real guest, and that isn't the way it happened, unfortunately.

   And as things worked out, I wouldn't even get the chance to tell Liz all about the party over a couple of glasses of brandy at her apartment later that night, like we had planned.  Groucho changed that plan.  The moment he spoke to me, he changed every plan I ever had.

   Close to midnight, the announcement for the fireworks was made, and people began to make their way up to the roof.  The publicist had promised me a chance to wish Brant Lodi a happy birthday in person after the show, so I was eager to get it over with.  I was also a little nervous, since I planned to slip in a question or two when we met.  His interview had been sent to my Pewter earlier that day, and I wasn't supposed to ask him anything during my one-on-one.  But I didn't get to where I was at The Times by always playing by the rules.

   About halfway up, rounding the third floor landing, Groucho gently grabbed my arm and tried to direct me away from the flow of people.

   "Forget the roof," he said.  "There's a balcony just over here.  The view will be better." 

   I had no interest in being separated from the party or from my story.  But when I started to refuse, he said: "I can make it worth your while.  How would you like the story of a lifetime?"

   Like any good journalist, I was always on the lookout for some inside gossip; so even though I hesitated, I ended up following him away from the stairs and down a darkened hallway.  We crossed through the music room and out a set of French doors, onto a marble balcony above the Hoffman Canal. 

   He had lied about the view.  We were looking across a narrow waterway, and all I could see were the columns and arches of the opulent villa next door.  Not that I was particularly disappointed about not seeing the show, but I did start to question his credibility.

   The noise of the party could be heard coming from the roof.  There was a soft murmur of voices filling the night air.  They stopped suddenly when the opening chords of our national anthem started to play.  I put my hand on my heart and started to sing, on cue, just like everyone else.  Just like all of the guests up on the roof, and all of the cultists down on the banks.  Like everyone in the city who heard the music that night, or any other day or night.  Everyone that is, except for Groucho.  He just stared gloomily down at the dark water.

   We had barely finished the line: "Birds fly over the rainbow;" when he stopped me.

   "Alright, enough of that," he said, grabbing my shoulder, as though he were trying to shake me awake.  "Are you interested in finally doing some real reporting, or not?"

   Honestly, I don't know what I found more offensive: the interruption of the anthem or the insinuation that my work wasn't "real reporting."

   "Look here," I said.  "I don't know who you think you are, but you're lucky I don't report you to the Executives.  I don't know what your gripe is against me and frankly I don't care, but show respect for our traditions."

   He laughed a little at that.  I was just turning to walk back inside, when he said: "I am an Executive."

   Well that stopped me.  If he was an Executive, I could hardly just walk out on him.  But then I began to wonder if he wasn't deranged.  It would explain his refusing to sing the anthem.  And really, what sort of Executive would get faced, especially to the Groucho Marx cult?

   "You're not really an Executive," I said, taking a cautious step back into the dark music room.

   "I was," he said, with a stark seriousness that lingered in the silence that arose after the closing notes of the anthem.

   "Was?" I asked.  "How does someone stop being an Exec?"

   "I quit."

   "I thought it was a lifetime appointment?"

   "Well, I didn't say they were happy about it."  The way he said it, especially with that Groucho voice, it sounded like some kind of one-liner.  But I wasn't sure what the joke was supposed to be.

   The first firework fizzed into the air before exploding.  All I could see of it was the red light reflected in the canal.  After that first one, a barrage started in the sky above the palace.

   "I don't have much time," he said.  "Listen, I have evidence of corruption in the government.  I can help you uncover a vast conspiracy, are you interested or not?"

   Well, I wasn't sure if I was, but I got him to start talking anyway.  I activated my Pewter's recorder, with a button on my cuff.  It's an old trick of the trade, and in hindsight I'm honestly surprised he didn't notice it.  But by that point he was talking fast — rattling off his story so quickly, I could hardly keep up.  It was like the rantings of a madman.

   "People think that New Hollywood is the cradle of civilization; well I have news for you: it's not even the crib of bureaucracy," he was saying.

   "I was an Exec for fifteen years, and it was only a few months ago I learned the truth.  Everyone thinks we're in charge.  Hell, nearly all of us do too.  But we're not.  We're as much pawns as the police or you poor fools going to work every day and praying to your stars.  No, it's the Directors that control us all."

   Pacing about the balcony, he explained to me about the small cabal who were really running the government, these so called Directors.  They were aristocrats hiding behind the scenes.  They weren't Executives, and they weren't celebrities — they were monsters.

   "Monsters, I say.  And I don't say it lightly.  Why, if I told you some of the things they've done to ordinary citizens like you, you'd curl up in a ball and weep.  Torture, rape, murder, you name it.  And not for any good reason either — just for kicks.  We used to have a name for people like them.  A few hundred years ago they'd be called sadists — look it up."

   He stared down at the ground stroking his moustache.  He seemed lost in the memories of the foul deeds, or perhaps he was just trying to recover his train of thought.  I took the opportunity to argue with him — what he was saying was preposterous.

   But he cut me off and said: "Listen to me, these are the facts, and if you don't like them, I have others.  Everyone is afraid the PGA is going to invade, but it's all a ruse.  Why, the Pan Global Alliance hasn't been a threat for years.  You remember last month when the hover barge was attacked off the coast of Davis City.  It wasn't them.  They didn't kill those people — we did.  The Directors ordered it.  There was someone on board they wanted dead, and they were willing to sacrifice everyone on the thing to see it happen.  Then they blamed it on the PGA and then the Council buys ten more Payara jets, and everyone's happy that we're protecting them."

   He pulled out his Pewter and flashed it at me quickly.  "But I have the evidence: the doctored vids, the memorandums, the works.  But it doesn't matter.  Even as an Exec, I can't do anything to those Directors.  You see no one can touch them — not that anyone would want to.  But if you publish it, then people will have to believe it."

   Like I said, I would have taken every word as the rantings of a madman, except for what happened next.

   I only caught a brief glimpse of the gunmen, as they burst into the music room, before bullets started to tear through the air. Groucho pulled out a pistol and returned fire, sending the men scattering.  He grabbed me and pulled me over the balcony railing with him.  We plunged three stories down into the water.  As luck would have it, the current was swift and by the time we resurfaced, we were past Reeves Plaza and a good distance from the palace, where the gunmen on the balcony were peppering the canal with bullets.

   Groucho was still hanging on to me.  He was a strong man: even though he was wounded, he was holding me up above the water and dragging me down an alleyway, like I was the injured one.

   The alley was dark and stank of garbage.  Four police Vaporettes zip down the main canal with their sirens on.  Even then my instinct was to call out to them for help.  But at that moment Groucho lost his grip on me and began to sink beneath the surface.

   Diving down, I got a hold of him and hauled him up onto a stoop.  He was pale and bleeding from his bullet wounds.  Outside of the movies, I'd never seen anything like it before.  I looked up and down the alley for someone to help, but it was completely deserted.  The police were long gone.  I got out my Pewter and selected the Medivax from the emergency contact menu.  But it was then that Grouch smashed it.

   I stared at the pieces in a state of absolute shock.

   "They'd have used it to track you."  He gestured at the shards of plastic and glass and said: "Take mine.  It's untraceable.  It has all the evidence too.  Get it to The King."  He pulled the device out of his breast pocket and coughed uncontrollably.  The cough sounded wet and ragged.

   "Better take the gun too," he said.

    He handed me his Pewter.  It was unlike any I had ever seen before.  It was square and wrought-iron black in both color and texture.  The gun, he left lying between us.  And then he took his last breath.