Five hundred VIPs had come all the way to Florida, to this goddamned Low Rent sandspit, where bugs you couldn’t even see invaded your motel room and bit your ankles until they ran red onto the acrylic shag carpet—all the way to this rock-beach boondock they had come, to see the fires of Armageddon and hear the earth shake with the thunder—and instead they get this … this pop … and a cork pops out of a bottle of Spumante.
