Back in the bar that evening, Celia and Harold occupied a booth, since playing piano amidst this incredible tide of current events became impossible. Philly turned the ball game up.

       “This shit is not going down, Harold. By divine guidance or accident or who the fuck knows what, I have lived a day in paradise or as close as I will ever get, and I may not reside there but I’d rather be skinned alive than allow my Mother and her infected minions to corrupt that place to extinction. I didn’t ask for this but now it is mine. Spent my whole life play-acting. Make-believing. Now it’s real. Shit’s real and I’m pissed, Harold. I will become Bodica.” Celia slammed her mug down secure in the knowledge it was empty.

       “Rome defeated Bodica, sweetie. Defeated the whole uprising. Ugly biz really,” Harold informed.

       “You sure?”

       “You betcha.”

       “Well the hell with it. I'll become someone who didn’t get defeated. Who didn’t get defeated?”

       “Francis Marion.”

       “Who’s she?”

       “He.”

       “Okay, he, who’s he?”

       “American Revolution in the south. The Swamp Fox. Made the Red Coats crazy, so they could not concentrate all their forces to the northern end of the war. Brilliant guerrilla fighter.”

       “Okay then, I’ll become Franklin Marion. Fine.”

       They had another round which Celia did not really need. In the morning, she was back on the crop duster to Ardensville.