Saturday, October 17th, 2026

The oldest rule my species has, and this week a golf committee enforced it. A vampire cannot come in unless invited. I own three houses on Indian Creek Island, and the clubhouse between them remains the one building in Florida I am not permitted to enter.

The Kushners got in. Page Six says a notice to membership is going out, and that the rest of us "have to go to mixers." By the endless void, I have attended mixers since the Habsburgs; a mixer is a... feeding ground with a cheese table, and I have never once left one hungry, or admitted.

Then my own newspaper printed the ballroom spreadsheet, and there I am, Amazon, five million, filed between T-Mobile and Cisco like a pledge at a church raffle, for a room that does not exist yet and that nobody has invited me into either. I own the paper. I paid to be embarrassed by it, which is at least vertically integrated.

The club photographer's print from the February dock party arrived with two black coins where my eyes should be, and the membership chair had written "lovely evening" across the bottom. He is not afraid of me. That is the problem.

Energy livestock do not usually get a vote on their predator, and 84 of them on one island are taking theirs.

Satiation is stagnation, and an invitation, I have now confirmed, is the one thing the catalog does not carry.