I stopped in at the Little A'Le'Inn. I wanted a beer, but I got the universe. The décor - pro-extraterrestrial, pro-gun, anti-Hillary. The Little A'Le'Inn has become a mecca for those who believe, but you wouldn't have guessed by the looks of the slouched drinkers at the bar. Bill was talking to Howard, "How long you been truckin'?" he asked.

"Since nineteen forty-eight."
"Nineteen forty-eight? You are a good man, Howard. What, Freightliner?"
"Dodge."
"A Dodge man?"
"All my life. I move cars, boats, trailers, trucks."
"Always?"
"That's my specialty."

Bill patted Howard on the back, a little too hard maybe. Howard was old.

Bob, who was listening in, said that he liked trucks. Bob was reverse engineered from a human. Bald, aging and with a skeletal head and a long sun-bleached goatee, Bob had seemed to have been drinking since morning. His long, inaudible drawls meant he had reached a state of drunken equilibrium - no highs, no lows anymore, just fuzziness and squint-eyed smiles.