In his version of Tea Party Politics everyone ended up with sugar cubes and LSD, and only the wittiest wore sandwich boards. No matter the humidity and its effect on taxes. The best way to determine a Designated Driver, his colleague said at Happy Hour, Keys in a bowl. All the wives lined-up like political refugees. But he’d been a free swinger ever since tee ball, had as much faith in capitalism as he had in slugging percentage. Moneyball and the law of averages. The market as elastic as a waistband or the straps of a ball gag. It has everything to do with a gibbous moon, his boss told him, lighting another cigar. But every night the smog never lifted, even though the factories had long ago drowned in graffiti and broken glass. The town’s strongest industry now: methamphetamines. Visibility went straight home from the office, he thought he heard someone say. Another round for the boys, he told the bartender a minute later. But the way he said it sounded like a question.