CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ronald Reagan, president of the United States, stood awaiting his cue. In this scene he would find an Easter egg and throw it back because it was too small.

While he waited, President Reagan amused the crew by pulling his turtleneck over his head and crying: "Where's the rest of me?"

Leonard Nimoy stood off to one side, alone and aloof, smoking a cigar so long it had to be supported by two production assistants.

Reagan spat and said that no star was too big to talk to the president of the United States.

Leonard Nimoy spat and said: "I have nothing to say to the man who killed my uncle in a hunting accident. If it was an accident."

It was true. President Reagan had killed Eben Nimoy while hunting buffalo in Syracuse.

And it was true that it was an accident. The same could not be said, however, for the subsequent stuffing and mounting. It was an incident that had almost cost Mr. Reagan the presidency. But he regained the American public's sympathy by explaining that Eben Nimoy would have starved to death during the winter anyway. He was right; he would have. He had done Eben Nimoy a favor. many Nimoys did indeed starve that winter. I know; I owned a flock of them myself.

And then some.

CHAPTER TWELVE
Martin Scorsese hid behind an Easter egg on the White House lawn. The egg was purple. Martin Scorsese was as white as two sheets. He had his gun drawn and was ready to shoot as soon as Leonard Nimoy picked up the predesignated egg. Also on the White House lawn was Wade Wetknees. He had already started filming and at the proper moment would start the music and Ed and the Dancing Girls would run onto the White House lawn shooting and dancing respectively. John Hinckley secured his jetpack just outside the White House gates. An aide approached President Reagan and told him that he had just spotted Hinckley with a jetpack.

"Lead me to him," said the president, jumping up and down.

Wade, intrigued by a moving target-for what is motion pictures, he thought, but a tin duck in an arcade shooting gallery?-started the music. Ed and the Dancing Girls danced toward the president.

"That must be my cue," Leoanard Nimoy said, approaching the purple egg.

"That's Jodie's favorite song," said John Hinckley as he started up his jetpack and flew over the White House.

"Here he comes," said the president, drawing his antique six-shooter. "For Jodie," he screamed.

"For Art," said Martin Scorsese, as Leonard Nimoy picked up the purple egg.

"For ten bucks," said Ed.

They all fired. They all hit their marks.

Leonard Nimoy fell to the ground in a pool of chartreuse blood. As he writhed, he mumbled his last words. And if he had known which Art Martin Scorsese had shot him for, he would have been embarrassed by them, and glad no one had heard them. They were these: "Who's Art?"

Reagan was lucky he was killed instantly. For if he had lived he would have learned from newspaper accounts that Jodie Foster was not in love with him, and in fact had never heard of him.

She had been accepted at the highly respected Yale School of Teenage Prostitution, where she was leading a quiet academic life among some very freshmen.

Dead John Hinckley, his jetpack still spurting streams of highly compressed gas out its nozzels, was shot from the Earth's atmosphere like a bullet from a gun. What a coincidence.

And then some.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Several months later, back in New Jersey once again, Wade woke from a deep sleep and found himself sitting on an insurance machine in the local airport. This was a common occurrence and as such did not alarm. These fugues, as the doctors called them, were the result of a stray bullet that had become lodged in his brain. This had happened at the John Kennedy assassination, to which his parents had bought tickets. What a coincidence.

Wade walked aisle after deserted aisle searching for a door that would lead to the outside. He never found one. this is what happened instead: He found the ticket counter for Saturn Airways.

"How much to Saturn?" Wade asked the Saturnian man-thing behind the counter.

"No charge for you, Mr. Wetknees," said the man-thing through an orifice in the palm of his hand. "There's a plane leaving in ten minutes. Have a nice flight."

Wade accepted the ticket with a simple thank you. And as he turned away he heard the Saturnian say a curious thing. It filled him with hope. This is what the man-thing said; it said this: "Don't forget to wipe your feet, and hail to duh Emperuh."

And then some.

EPILOGUE
I look like this:

(Sorry, I couldn't get the picture. It is a badly drawn profile of Mr. Vonnegut, with a tear streaming from his open eye)

The likeness is not good. I am not an artist. The reason for the tear is this: I have something in my eye.

There is no long story behind the tear in my eye. Amazing!

This book is about the tear in my eye. Why not? My next book will be about the tear in my sock. Again: Why not? It will be called this: "That Darned Sock." And who could blame me?

I hope Wade Wetknees's life is a happy one. I'm sorry I could not make him a millionaire. I sincerely am. I hope he forgives me. I love him. I toast him now and again. Sometimes I say a little prayer for Wade Wetknees. It is the least I can say and the most. Here is the prayer:

Hoop Hoop Hoop
Shoop Shoop Shoop
Laugh, Cry, Live, Die.
Be happy.
And hail to the Emperor.
And then some.