Sunday night, December 30, 2018. I was in a bit of intestinal distress and severe pelvic pain once again, so I started drinking one porter beer after another. (I know, not too bright.) I threw down some antacid tablets in between bottles. When the six pack was extinguished, I popped the cork on a bottle of Merlot that I had received as a Christmas gift. I slugged the first glass down with a lozenge billed ‘the killer of all pains’ according to my longtime musician-friend Les. [of the band White Elephant] In short order, the distressing sensation had moved onto someone somewhere else. Pity him/her. I mused: Ah, thank God, I can finally relax on my extended holiday vacation. For some strange reason – perhaps my love of irrationally divisible prime numbers, I then started toying with the number 7 on an old, light-powered, scientific calculator at the foot of our queen-size bed. (Monique, Agent 32, my charming Filipina wife, was watching Cebuano videos on her smartphone at the head of the bed.)