At this point in his cognitive processes, if Pierce Spencer is even aware that he’s not alone in this room, he gives scant indication. He talks loudly off into space, as a god might address the billowing clouds around him out of which he will fashion a whole new world. “Thus far, I’ve promoted this thing between Mann and Matision as a battle between youth and experience.” His eyes partially close, his mouth draws tightly together. “Maybe it’s time to start promoting it as a contest between competence and incompetence, instead. I understand T.K. Mann is quite proud of his abilities as a football player. Maybe it’s time he received a sobering dose of humility. Yes, maybe it’s time he learned how easily a reputation can flutter and die. Yes, that shall be my strategy, that coupled, perhaps, with a counseling session. Yes, definitely, couple that with a counseling session. “Ida…” She jerks to attention. “…get me our confidential file on Mr. T.K. Mann.”

Saturday, September 11, 2010, 2:00 A.M.

“…and so this doctor says to her, now that we got your nose taken care of, we’ll work on your ears.” It’s met by a few groans and a weak chuckle. The audience tonight in the Crown Room of the Royal Court Hotel, a modern New York City landmark built astride Grand Central Station, is far more interested in liquor and drugs than in comic entertainment, even when the comedian is Percy Bysshe, renowned TV personality.

“Wheeze if you’re still alive out there,” Bysshe says.

As everything before, it draws nothing. In desperation, he decides to abandon his basic slapstick patter for something new, a topical bit his writers put together only four days ago at the insistence of somebody from his network’s top management. He’s never tried it in front of an audience before. It can’t do any worse than anything else he’s done tonight. He gives it a whirl.

“What about that Senator Abelman?” To his great surprise, the mention of Abelman’s name draws his first real reaction of the night, a chorus of boos from the crowd. Not quite sure exactly what it is they’re booing, he becomes tentative in his follow-up, ready to back off the instant the crowd grows ugly. “I understand he’s uncovered a new plot in the SFL. According to the good senator, the players all have bugs on their balls.”

The crowd loves it. They break up.

“I understand if the Abelman bill passes, the players won’t be able to use weapons any more. Hell, you take away their knives, clubs and guns, and what does that leave them? I can see it now. Thirteen men out there on the street pissing on each other.”

That one really gets them. Whistles, cheers and bellowing laughter.