Late one late December day in the late ’00s, on a new-mooned new-years evenight in the Mexican-not-Mayan Riviera, a small vacation coven gathered under soft starlight, poolside on a bluff overlooking an inking Pacific Ocean. As the group’s just-like-grandma’s cake started to kick in, Orion turned away from Earth for a few moments and a twinge of lawlessness neuroscaped through them one by one, in a cascade.
“Something big needs to happen in secret,” Har Mar said to me as the last strains of his (at that point, unreleased) danceblast, Dark Touches, echoed from a boomboxpod by the pool.
“Let’s steal a star,” I said. “Ever done that, Kingpin?”
Har Mar looked off to the side for a split second, then back at me. He brought his hand to his chin and put his forefinger on his lips in a serious gaze. Then he cracked himself up.
Since neither of us wanted to amplify the Ultraviolence-Of-Tuohy caused by Orion’s absence, we vapored the party to the outshadows of our rental compound’s porch lights, away from our crew’s nightly “reflection circle,” to get tiny. We found ourselves slowstrolling a fire-ant field astride the ocean bluff. After a few minutes walking into the darkdark, without missing a beat, Har Mar turned to me, winked, reached up into the sky and stole a star from Orion’s belt.