I sat in Mom's Mercedes, suffocating through early morning LA traffic like a zombie in a suit-and-tie funeral procession, toward what could be either a fucking masterstroke or a dumpster fire visible from orbit.
By the time she woke, Mom would be furious I'd bailed without breakfast—probably lecture me about "neurotransmitters" and "antioxidant smoothies" while completely oblivious that her son was about to turn a media empire into his Quantum Tech propaganda machine.
The Exorcist over my skipped breakfast, she'll go: "Peter! Your mitochondria need protein! Your prefrontal cortex needs oats!" Oblivious. Sweet. Eat your kale, Peter. We've got dynasties to dismantle.
I'd left Charlotte and Madison drowning in my sheets like Valkyries after Ragnarok.
