Creeaak, that's what the door says as I open it. I look inside before I dare step inside. Those steps done, I call out, "Hello?" Everyone calls back, "hello? . . . hello? . . . hello?" faintly away. Where is everyone? It's like the neutron bomb fell, with Tim Burton directing, so all the corpses walked away. I walk around more openly through the clubhouse, thoroughly, observing, it seems, the room trashed by the remnants of the party last night no one thought to tell me about. I look all around, getting sort of disgusted. Don't these people know how to pick up after themselves? Even after all these years? Dude, stop soiling your own den; that's so unmammalian. I get drawn to a square of white over on the sideboard next to the stereo. It's a sheet of paper, scrawled upon and weighted down with a glass ashtray balanced atop a sprawled stack of cds and vinyl. The note reads: Touch and Die. It's signed Wink. This is the best thing to ever happen in my life. I find a big brown paper bag among the clutter, dump out the empty cardboard beer suitcase. And then I steal a big chunk of Wink's records. And I giggle about the fodder for years he'll have for shooting out emails to all his friends accusing some unknown subset of stealing all his records. And then I'll start discreetly slipping them all into all of your record collections. You fucking bastards, you! Stealing from my friend.