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The atmosphere was better tonight, because toward the end I threw a treble 20. That’s right. I got a dart to go in the treble 20, the flattened nose of the board’s face – the treble 20, what darts is all about. Keith picked me up and whirled me around in the air. Actually, it was bound to happen in the end. The darts went wherever they liked, so why not into the treble 20? Similarly, the immortal baboon, locked up with typewriter and amphetamines for a few Poincaré time-cycles, a number of aeons with more zeros than there are suns in the universe, might eventually type out the word darts.
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