I must have looked a sorry ass when I came out the door. I was almost blind in one eye, and I slipped in the gasoline, busting up my head so then I couldn't even walk straight. All the while I was hefting the millstone. I slung Matt onto the backseat of my car and started the engine.

I crashed into the sidewalk, before I realized I didn't have my lights on. It felt like the world was howling and spinning around me – I couldn't clear my head. I scratched along the side of another car, but I didn't care.

I started to come back to my senses and realized there was blood across half my face, which is why I couldn't see through my right eye. I told myself I did well to flee, but then I remembered the Brit's satellite.

I entered a long tunnel and swerved to stop a random car. It was a housewife, who nearly fainted when she saw my bloody face and smelled my clothes reeking of gasoline. I didn't even need to point the shotgun at her (though she could see it in my hand) – I just told her to swap cars, and she complied, weeping.

I drove in the opposite direction. Track me now with your fucking satellite!

I went home and got the girl. I called my neighbor, a fat ass who bawls out when the soccer's on TV. I bought his piece-o'-junk car for $15,000 cash and promised him another five grand if he kept his mouth shut (a promise I didn't intend to keep).

We got in the new car and drove west towards the ocean. My mind started to clear as the miles passed by, and I told myself that the game hadn't been too bad.

About 11:00 p.m. I parked the car in an industrial area. It was now the weekend, and we had to make the best of it. I spotted a construction firm with a decent car fleet. I opened the gate with a gunshot that sent the guard dog squealing. I found a pick-up truck they evidently used for plastering work, and hauled Matt, who was still out of it, into the cargo box.

It was gone midnight when we arrived at an illuminated motel, where rural hookers and their clients were coming and going. I turned off the engine, and started laughing: I remembered I'd locked the Brit in our "Computer Room." Since I expected a raid from MegaPrimes, I'd left the cellar totally empty, except for the oldest, slowest computer I could find – an Apple II, which could calculate a fantastic number at one million operations per second. And I'd left on the screen, in the machine's beautiful green font: "FUCK YOU!"