"Gradually, a rhythm descends on me again. But rhythm is no longer enough to muffle the pain. Maybe a little mental arithmetic. I know one: what's forty-three divided by nineteen?
Jesus christ. The nineteen walks over to the glass of forty-three, takes two slugs, wipes its mouth, rubs its chin thoughtfully, stands there like that for a few minutes and then turns to the audience with furrowed brow, arms raised in surrender.
Forty-three divided by twenty, that would be a lot easier, wouldn't it?"