Who was this man? Or who is this man? As he is still very much alive and doing quite well. His wife Diana is also doing very well though she has an uncomfortably close call with death by gunshot wound in the confines of our story. Who could pull the trigger on this gracious beauty? She is five eight, a rare strawberry blonde with green eyes, with Guernsey cream skin, a trifle too much of an overbite to be a fashion model, of Scandinavian-German parentage, fashionably slight breasted, not at all like those pancreatic floozies who grace the smut magazines. Those few who have seen her bending over nude to fetch her clothes are likely to remember it on their deathbed in their respective retirement colonies in Florida, Arizona, California. She possessed a highly strung bottom, and long flawless legs that were extremely strong from managing a succession of unruly riding horses in her youth, and a stint at competitive swimming in high school. Modesty prevents us from discussing her vulva, or perineum—that miniature byway on which either direction is correct.

But she owned a fatal flaw to any man who might come to know her: from early childhood on she was of a pragmatic bent, passionately wanting to know how things, especially organisms, worked. She helped her father aid in the delivery of calves on his dairy farm. She cleaned chickens, making childish notes on the progress of eggs, from fetid pebbles through tiny marbles, to half inch pearls, finally to the nearly completed egg waiting to be expelled after the chicken lost its head for Sunday dinner. Had her mother not prevented her, she would have autopsied her dead pet dog.