Lyndon LaRouche came up to me on the C train to the World Trade Center, then still standing, and thrust a GameBoy at my chest. He wore a trenchcoat with his hands deep in his pockets, either fondling a pistol or his penis, maybe both. I tried to look away, training my eyes on the ads for Mexican dental school plastered in the subway car. (“$0 down! ¡Habla Español!”)
“Play Tetris, motherfucker,” he said. “Start at level one. And make it slow and sexy. I’ve got three armed guards with sniper rifles trained at your head, so don’t start dropping pieces too fast.” I looked around, but when you’re standing next to a megalomaniac with a gun in one hand and his penis in the other, everybody looks like a shooter. This would be the longest game of Tetris in my life.