“Dag-blasted nanny state ninnies!” A puff of orange dust settles in his hair as George Orwell Pother pries open the rusting door to his money-colored, green and gold 1990 Ford F-350 dually. He has far better vehicles, but he owns the dually “just to relate to my fans.” Across the yard, he sees his wife, Evankee, gangly arms folded in judgment. He reacts, “Don’t roll your eyes at me, hell spawn, or you’ll be on a one-way flight back to Slovenia.” “Dink again, my darlink pumpkin head. Deal vit Daddy Vladdy ist deal for life.” Evankee smiles, having the upper hand. She stands on the front porch of their white house – a fine place when presented to him by Vladamir just four years ago. Now, the place has gone to hell, or Kamchatka – paint peeling, columns cracking and windows broken wide open, like the mouths of screaming politicians. Glaring at Evankee, Prother remembles an angry animal with one foot caught in a trap. Evankee shows a glimmer of compassion. “For you, I vorry. Is icy…