In one corner, a small stage had been set up with a single microphone and a stand of instruments: a guitar, a lyre, and a violin. Oh, Nero. As a sick joke, he had intended to fiddle while New York burned. No doubt his guests would have laughed and clapped politely as the city exploded and millions perished to the tune of “This Land Is Your Land.” And who were these guests? The emperor’s billionaire golf buddies? Adult demigods who had been recruited for his postapocalyptic empire? Whoever they were, I hoped Austin stampeded them straight into a mob of angry troglodyte shareholders.
