The Legend of Pedro the Pinto and the Aqua Velva Date that Went Wrong
Memories and Morals
Prelude to the Story
I am Mike Milton from North Carolina. As a Presbyterian minister, an author of forty books and numerous articles both popular and scholarly, a tenured professor, a higher education institutional leader, a Chaplain (Colonel) who served at the highest levels of military chaplaincy, and a musician with five albums, it would be reasonable to assume that my preparation for such a life of service came from formal education.
On paper, it certainly looks that way: a PhD, a second doctorate in higher education teaching, a Master of Public Administration from UNC-Chapel Hill, postdoctoral certification from Harvard, seminary, and more. It would seem like an unshakeable foundation for a career of public service.
But that assumption would be mistaken. The truth lies in something far deeper: personal formation. It came through the willing and unwitting participants in the communal shaping of a young man. I am now in my post-retirement years seeking to make sense of the influences that most profoundly shaped my life and served the mission of God in the world.
In the story that follows, I aim to get to the very heart of those influences: the people, places, and experiences that prepared a young man for the challenges of service and, ultimately, for life itself.
As you read, consider that each moment in the story along with the larger narrative itself contains the seeds of character traits that would form, flourish, be tested, and endure. In telling this story, my hope is that others will see beyond the anecdotes and identify the virtues woven into the fabric of these experiences.
I invite you to find parallels in your own journey, recognizing how your history like mine can yield principles for growth, resilience, and meaning, even amidst hardships.
I hope you enjoy the story and find meaning for your life along the way.
The Dinner Bell in McComb and How Pedro Came to Be
Once we got a car to drive. Aunt Eva would say, “Son, let’s go to the Dinner Bell.” We would travel from our home in an antebellum cedar house in an unincorporated area in Livingston Parish, an old English settlement which has more in common with Mississippi than more French south Louisiana, to McComb Mississippi. There, we dined at the famous Dinner Bell restaurant in McComb, Mississippi—a quintessential Southern eatery where lazy Susans spun with platters of fresh vegetables grown just behind the building. There was always plenty of fried chicken, crispy and golden, the star of the show. One of the regulars back then was Jerry Clower. I met him on more than one occasion, long before I knew he was a famous comedian. To me, he was just the big fellow who ruled the roost at the table, his laughter echoing off the walls as he spun his tales. He always started the same way, leaning in with a twinkle in his eye: “Now y’all listen up—everything I tell you is true or could be true.” I suppose I’ll borrow that, with the small difference that everything I say is actually true.
This is a tale of a date gone awry, a Pinto that defied reason, and how time transforms teenage embarrassment into lessons worth sharing.
To understand this tale, you first need to know about the car—a Pinto with a history as dubious as a stray dog’s bloodline. I dubbed it “Pedro.” The little fellow wasn’t that old, just well-traveled and hard-lived. And a bit ornery. It had the persona of an embattled Irishman who never met a fistfight he could walk away from. Pedro was as reliable as it was reliably broken. This car wasn’t just a means of transport; it was a character in my adolescence, almost a rite of passage. And, at times, a bad dream. But I could never call it a “friend.” Friends don’t abandon you at red lights or threaten to explode at the strike of a match. No, this Ford “economy” car was more like a dysfunctional relative—one you couldn’t live with but couldn’t live without.
I was thirteen when Aunt Eva decided we needed a car. She was born in 1897 and had never driven an automobile. And she never did until she died at age 100. The first time she went on a date, she was picked up in a buckboard. That gives you an idea of the era she came from. She had grown tired of asking neighbors to take her to James’ Drugstore, the TG&Y penny store, or Live Oak Hardware, which delivered all our feed and supplies. “You’re thirteen now,” she declared. “We’re getting a car.”
There was just one problem: I was too young to get a license. Aunt Eva waved away my objection with the confidence of a woman who had seen it all. “We’ll call Sheriff Odom Graves,” she said as if it were the most natural solution in the world. I never quite understood how a childless, poor widow-woman could hold such sway, but Aunt Eva did. It seemed like every man of prominence in Livingston Parish had been rocked to sleep by her at one time or another. She never had children of her own, but she sure helped raise half the parish (i.e., “county”). And when Aunt Eva called, even the sheriff came running.
A few days later, Sheriff Odom Graves sat in our living room, his large frame filling up Aunt Eva’s dainty armchair. That wasn’t unusual. The esteemed and long-serving sheriff visited Aunt Eva three or four times a year. He was something of a mythical figure in my childhood, often invoked as a threat during my more mischievous moments. “If you don’t behave, I’ll call Odom Graves!” she’d warn, her eyes narrowing just enough to let me know she meant it.
Now, let me assure you: Odom Graves was no Barney Fife. He was Sheriff Andy Taylor, who had all the moral authority of that mythic figure played by the late Mr. Griffith. Odom Graves carried himself with the same easy confidence—the kind that could settle a dispute just by showing up. His commanding eyes could see right through you, and you learned quickly that lying to Sheriff Graves was a fool’s errand.
I always thought Aunt Eva was bluffing—until the day his cruiser actually pulled up in the driveway. I saw that shiny badge gleaming through the window, and my knees went weak. I don’t think my heart beat again until he left.
Turned out, the sheriff just came by to get some eggs from Aunt Eva. But I didn’t know that at the time. To me, it looked like Judgement Day had arrived, delivered by Sheriff Andy Taylor himself.
That evening, the sheriff leaned back in Aunt Eva’s guest chair, looked at me, and said, “Aunt Eva tells me you need a ride, and you’re getting to the age where we can maybe figure something out.”
He handed me a letter. “This lets you drive in Livingston Parish and nowhere else,” he said. “Nowhere else until you get your permit.” It was an unconventional arrangement, to say the least, but he did it for Aunt Eva.
Now we needed a car. Odom found one from Ben Turner*, who called Aunt Eva and said, “Odom Graves told me about the situation. I’ve got a car, and here’s the price.1 Dirt cheap,” he said. But even dirt cheap was more than we could afford.
Aunt Eva thought about it and then said, “I know. I pay a feed bill every month to Frank Russell* for the cows, horses, sheep, goats, and chickens. Maybe he’ll add the cost to that bill.” And that’s precisely what happened. Frank Russell, a man who helped me more times than I can count—including starting the Live Oak Football team—paid Ben Turner, probably discounted the heck out of it, and we settled it monthly using the VA check I received for my late father’s WWII military service.
The car, that beat-up and slightly discolored Ford Pinto, was mine. By the time this story began, I was about fifteen, and a football banquet was coming up. Billy and I were sure we were getting awards, and the deal was that everyone was expected to bring a date.
Billy was all set. I, however, had waited too long to ask the girl I was interested in—Buffy*. I tried calling, but I couldn’t get through. I think I got her brother on the phone, who mumbled something about not knowing where she was or when she’d be back. “Great,” I thought. “I’ve blown it again.” How was I to know that you couldn’t likely get a date the afternoon of the event?
Aunt Eva sat in her rocking chair on the front porch, the wooden slats creaking with each slow, deliberate motion. She shook her head, her lips pressed together in that disapproving way she had. “I told you to go to Buffy. You’ve been waiting two years and haven’t told her how you feel! That poor child has no idea you want her to be your girl! How could she? I don’t know what to think. I thought I raised you better.” Guilt always worked. But there was no time to do anything about it now.
Oh, I felt the sting of her words, like a switch across my pride. She was right, of course. Aunt Eva was usually right. But that didn’t make it any easier to hear. I was duly chastened, but one problem remained: I needed a date or was ruined in more ways than I could count.
She kept rocking, her eyes fixed on the horizon as if she could see right through the pecan trees and the pine trees to where all the answers were waiting. The only sound was the rhythmic creak of that old chair, steady and sure. Finally, she sighed, her shoulders relaxing. “Son, why don’t you call Mirna*?”
The chair kept rocking, back and forth, as if her words were carried on its rhythm. My heart stopped, then sank. Mirna? The girl who had been my friend since we were in kindergarten? Before I got kicked out for repeatedly telling her how to color (true story, and a most self-incriminating one)? The girl who argued with me over everything from Bible verses to rules of grammar? The one who’d punched me in the arm more times than I could count? That Mirna?
Aunt Eva just kept rocking, her face serene, waiting for me to catch up to her wisdom. She had a way of doing that. And she was usually right.
I groaned. Now, don’t get me wrong. I didn’t groan because Mirna wasn’t pretty. She was that and more. But Mirna and I were like brother and sister. We grew up together, went to church, Sunday school, and school together—every class—and spent our childhood good-naturedly bickering over everything. She was brilliant, charming, and beautiful—but she was Mirna. It felt strange to think of her as a date. Most guys would have been envious, but I had wanted to impress the lovely Buffy, the queen of my heart (unknown to her), and not compete for intellectual superiority with my “sister,” Mirna. “But beggars . . .” as they say. But I knew that Mirna never got over that coloring book incident. Or was it me?
Well, I called her and made the proposal for the football banquet date (to be held in about five hours). She seemed to treat the matter as a transaction that could help the underprivileged. Mirna said yes, and just like that, we were set. I’m fairly certain Mirna considered it a “mercy date,” the sort you agree to out of obligation or pity. But I wasn’t in a position to be picky. Gratefulness sometimes comes wrapped in humility, and I was plenty grateful.
The Aqua Velva Catastrophe
Earlier that day, Charlie Hanks* came by to help me get Pedro ready. Charlie was a self-proclaimed mechanic (trapper, hunter, engineer, dog trainer, hog hunter, carpenter, cook, and mind-reader) who had never met an engine he couldn’t fix—at least, that’s what he told me. He looked inside the car, wrinkling his nose. “You’ve been hauling dead horses in this thing?”
I shrugged. I’d been working for Dr. Smith, the local vet, so the answer was “Yes, kind of.” The car smelled like a mixture of hay, manure, and sweat. It was the scent of honest work, but it wasn’t exactly the air of courtship.
Charlie stared at me, his arms crossed. “You not planning to pick up a girl in this thing are you?”
I nodded, feeling my face heat up. “Well, there’s the football banquet—tonight. Thought I’d clean it up a bit.”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Well, you’ve got your work cut out for you.” He turned and began walking to the porch, “Aunt Ev-er” (which is how “Eva” is pronounced where I come from). An Eddie Haskell archetype, Charlie was talking it up with my aunt as he disappeared past the screen door into our humble old house.
The screen door slammed as Charlie emerged holding a bottle of Aqua Velva aftershave. He grinned like he’d just found the cure for cancer. “You’re in luck, Idiot. This’ll do the trick.”
I stared at the blue bottle, its jolting color almost glowing in the sunlight. “Aftershave? Really? I don’t get it.” But, then, how could I? Mortals are not omniscient. But Charlie knew all things.
He nodded confidently. “High alcohol content. That’s the secret sauce. It’ll kill whatever died in this car. And it smells better than horse manure.”
I should have known then that this was a terrible idea. But Charlie spoke with the conviction of a man who’d never doubted himself, and I was desperate.
We went to work, dousing the car’s interior with Aqua Velva like we were performing some teenage exorcism. The seats, the floorboards, the dashboard—no inch of poor Pedro was spared. We splashed and sprayed until the bottle was empty, and the air was thick with the smell of electric blue aftershave.
What I learned that day is that Aqua Velva is powerful stuff. It’s got the alcohol index of moonshine and a scent that could make a pole cat reconsider its life choices. As the fumes rose, Charlie stood back, his hands on his hips and nostrils slightly burning, admiring his handiwork.
“There,” he said, his voice muffled by the shirt he’d pulled up over his nose. “Good as new.”
I took a deep breath and immediately started choking. My eyes watered, and my sinuses were singed. It smelled like a barber shop had exploded inside Pedro.
“It’s . . . potent,” I managed to say between coughs.
Charlie grinned. “Girls like guys who smell good, Idiot.” He slapped me on the back, nearly knocking the wind out of me. Not willing to wait for a thank you, he screamed, “You’re welcome, Goofball!” Then, he laughed a maniacal sound that concerned me that I had made a deal with the devil.
We rolled down the windows and let the car air out for a while. I was sure the smell would mellow out by the time I picked up Mirna. “Don’t worry. It will be absolutely perfect by the time you pick ‘er up.” But Charlie was wrong about a lot of things that day, and that was one of them.
Picking Up Mirna
I pulled up to her house, Pedro chugging and rattling like it was irritated and spiteful at being woken up. I killed the engine, hoping it would start again later, and made my way to the front door. Inside, I greeted her parents, doing my best to channel the Southern gentile politeness Aunt Eva had drilled into me. Mirna’s mother seemed especially pleased to see me, her eyes lighting up as she took in my ill-fitting suit and nervous smile.
Then Mirna appeared, quite theatrically, looking beautiful enough to make me forget my own name. I suddenly became painfully aware of my suit’s short sleeves and the scuff marks on my only dress shoes. Her mom beamed, clearly relieved that her daughter was not going out with one of those “bad boys” she’d been hanging around with (the ones the girls actually liked).
No Sir. This was Mike: trustworthy, courteous, helpful, and . . . completely awkward. Our Mike. Safe. Predictable. Boring. The kind of boy a mother dreamed her daughter would date—precisely because he was about as exciting as a Sunday nap. Mirna’s mom looked ready to snap a picture and frame it on the spot, probably with a caption that read, “Perfect Gentleman.”
Mirna, however, was less impressed. She glanced at me, then at the little Ford with the lousy paint job and a heart condition sadly visible through the window. Her shoulders slumped just a little, the way you do when you realize your evening isn’t going to live up to even your faintest hopes. I saw it, even if she tried to hide it behind a polite smile.
The safe bet hadn’t sounded quite so dull until she saw it standing in her living room, wearing an ill-fitting suit and a sheepish grin. This was the guy she had grown up with. She might have been thinking, “So, what’s new here?” and replied to herself with resignation, “Not much.” I stood at attention with a smile, flowers, and a rash. I cleared my throat, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me. “Ready to go?” I asked, trying to sound confident. She gave me a polite smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sure. Let’s get this over with.”
Right. At least we are off to a good start.
The frail Ford was waiting like a loyal but mangy dog, and reality came crashing back.
The moment Mirna opened the car door, she staggered back. “What in the world is that smell?”
“A little air freshener,” I said, trying to sound casual, as I stared straight ahead.
She narrowed her eyes. “It smells like my father’s aftershave.”
She wasn’t wrong.
We piled in, and I fired up the engine. It belched to life, shuddering as if offended at being woken up. We pulled out of her driveway, the Aqua Velva scent swirling around us like smog in a steel mill—thick, heavy, and impossible to escape.
We hadn’t gone more than a few hundred yards when we reached the first stop sign. That’s when the tailpipe fell off, not with a loud clunk but with a soft, dragging scrape that was all too familiar. But it was kind of pretty at night with the sparks and all.
I didn’t say a word. Just threw open the door, got out, and reached into the back seat for my baseball glove. I’d learned the hard way that tailpipes get hot—real hot—and after one painful lesson, I always kept that glove handy. Sliding underneath the car in my ill-fitting suit, I wrestled the muffler back into place, the smell of dust and exhaust mixing with the lingering Aqua Velva.
I climbed back in, wiping dirt off my pants and trying not to look at Mirna’s horrified expression. I threw it in drive and assumed my best “I am in charge here” aura, even though my heart was pounding and my hands were shaking just a little.
She didn’t say a word. I figured that was for the best.
Mirna looked out the window, obviously rolled down by now, shaking her head. “This is some car.”
“You have no idea,” I muttered, praying we’d make it to the banquet without any more incidents.
The Banquet
We picked up Billy and his date, and somehow, despite the tailpipe’s attempts at mutiny, we made it to the banquet. I parked the poor dying and impertinent Pedro in a far corner of the lot, hoping to hide its beaten appearance and the lingering Aqua Velva haze that followed us like Pigpen’s infamous cloud of dust—pervasive, unmistakable, and stubbornly loyal: “the dust of ancient civilizations” as he once called it.
Inside, things started to look up. Billy and I received our awards, and for a moment, I almost felt normal—like a guy who had his act together. Mirna laughed at my jokes, even the bad ones, and I thought that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn’t be a total disaster.
But then I caught her giving me sideways glances now and then as if trying to figure out if I was actually as clueless as I seemed. I tried to play it cool, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that she was second-guessing every life choice that had led her to this date.
Dinner was served, and the evening passed without incident, which I considered a massive win. But the entire time, I couldn’t stop thinking about that tailpipe. Whenever I glanced out the window and saw the Ford sitting there, I half expected it to fall apart or burst into flames. Of course, tragically, this prize of Ford’s all-new economy-size vehicles would ultimately be banned for something akin to spontaneous combustion. Who knew it didn’t really need sparks from a dragging tailpipe to blow up?
The awards ceremony ended, and we made our way back to the far-away Ford. I opened the door for Mirna, trying to look as gentlemanly as possible. She hesitated, wrinkling her nose. “It still smells like—that—still,” she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper.
I pretended not to hear and slid into the driver’s seat, gripping the steering wheel like it might fall off. I offered a silent prayer that the tailpipe would hold out just a little longer. I just didn’t have another stoplight rescue in me.
Mercifully, Billy and his date were wrapped up in quiet conversation in the back seat, leaning in and talking just above a whisper. Now and then, one of them would laugh softly, the kind of laugh that makes you feel like you’re missing out on a good joke. They were so interested in each other that they barely noticed Pedro’s groans or my freefall from dignity up front.
They were having a nice time. Not hanky-panky, just a genuinely lovely time. I was concerned that Mirna noticed them enjoying themselves.
Sure enough, Mirna glanced back at them, then turned to look at me, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. She didn’t say a word, but she didn’t have to. Her look said everything: “It’s nice that someone here is having fun.” I returned a look of “Well, at least we are old buddies, right?” But I could see the anger from the coloring book incident still in her eyes.
Happily, I had to turn away and drive. So, I kept my eyes on the road, pretending not to notice her growing annoyance. She was really a very nice girl. It is just that she obviously regretted answering the call to duty to save my hide. Pedro occasionally burped or something. But the word for our collective response to Pedro’s noises was not “embarrassment.” The word that comes to mind is “terrified.”
This night just kept getting better.
The Cigarette Showdown
We started the drive home, Billy and his date chatting in the backseat, and Mirna quietly staring out the window. I was just starting to relax, thinking that we might actually make it through the night unscathed when I heard the flick of a lighter.
I looked over to see Mirna holding a cigarette, flame poised at the end. My heart stopped.
“No!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “You can’t do that in here!”
She looked at me, wide-eyed. “Why not?”
I raised my voice in panic and uttered things like, “This vehicle is a Molotov cocktail on wheels,” The words were tumbling out in a panic. “You light that, and this thing will go up in flames. We’ll be the first couple to make the evening news as a human fireball. ‘Local Teens Self-ignite After Football Banquet.’”
She looked around, her eyes narrowing. “It’s that bad?”
I took a deep breath, trying to sound calm, even though she knew I was (half) joking. “Mirna, this car is soaked in 100% pure Aqua Velva. You light that cigarette and the whole thing might explode.”
She looked at the dashboard, at the seats, at the windows still fogged with Aqua Velva vapor. “You soaked the whole car in aftershave?”
I nodded, feeling a flush of embarrassment. “Thought it would help with the smell.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”
I shrugged. “I get that a lot.”
She wasn’t amused. She crossed her arms, cigarette still in hand, and glared at me. “Fine. I’ll roll down the window.”
“You can’t do that either,” I protested. She gave me the “You have to be kidding me” look. “Look, Mirna, the smell will get in the car, and Aunt Eva will have my dad-burn hide. She’ll know. She always knows.”
“Unbelievable,” she muttered again. “Pull over.”
“What?”
“Pull over,” she demanded, her voice firm. “If I can’t smoke in this deathtrap, then let me out so I can smoke in peace.”
I pulled off the road onto the gravel shoulder, Pedro protesting with an indignant shudder. Mirna got out and stood by the side of the road, lighting her Marlboro and taking a long drag, her back straight and shoulders rigid.
I watched her from the driver’s seat, feeling a mixture of admiration and humiliation. Mirna stood by the side of the road, smoking her cigarette with the kind of elegance that made me feel even smaller.
Meanwhile, Billy and his date sat in the back, doing their best to stifle their laughter. Billy leaned forward, a grin plastered across his face. “Hey, Man, you sure know how to show a girl a good time,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. They both laughed. Jolly good fun.
I didn’t bother to respond. There wasn’t much to say. I knew this wouldn’t be the end of it. There’d be an “after-action report” later—no doubt a play-by-play reenactment for the guys at school, complete with exaggerated details and plenty of ribbing at my expense. I just hoped they’d leave out the part where I almost fainted when she lit that cigarette.
I didn’t have a comeback. I just sat there, praying that the tailpipe would hold on for just a little longer.
After finishing her cigarette, Mirna climbed back into the car, her face a mask of irritation. She slammed the door a little harder than necessary and crossed her arms. Staring straight ahead she uttered her command, “Just take me home.” I outweighed Mirna by at least one hundred pounds. I had an MVP trophy in the hatchback to prove my athletic prowess. But like any honorable red-blooded American male adolescent, I shuttered in fear at the warning growl of this sleek but dangerous lioness. So, I shut up and drove the girl home.
The ride back was mercifully quiet, but tension hung in the air like the Aqua Velva fumes. Billy and his date whispered in the backseat, and I didn’t have to guess what they were saying. I just focused on the road, the tailpipe rattling behind us like a mocking laugh.
The Final Drop-Offs and Ride Home
I pulled up to Mirna’s house first. “Kiss at the door?” you might wonder. Are you kidding? Firstly, I want to tell you again that she was like my sister. Secondly, even if I had a sister who might have at least smiled, she would not give me any such small hope of satisfaction. She got out without a word, but just before closing the door, she looked at me, her expression softening slightly. “Thanks . . . for the—what would I call it?—the adventure,” she said, and for a second, I thought she might have been sincere. Then, she smiled at Billy and his date, her voice returning to a sweet feminine sound, “Goodnight, ya’ll.” She looked back at—not me—Pedro! Her eyes were surveying the length and breadth of the little Ford, and I thought I heard a faint guttural noise from her throat. But it could have Pedro. Mirna shut the door not with a slam but with the careful attention of one holding back a dam of considerable rage. Then, she walked up to her door, never looking back. After the ride of a lifetime, I couldn’t blame her. I understood.
Well, I dropped off Billy and his date next. They were still snickering as they got out, and I think Billy slapped me on the shoulder and said something like, “Legendary, man. Absolutely legendary.” I couldn’t tell if he was mocking me or if he was genuinely impressed.
As I drove home alone, the smell of Aqua Velva still thick in the air, I placed my baseball glove on the seat beside me, my trusty sidekick for all tailpipe emergencies. With all the windows down, I breathed a sigh of relief that Pedro had made it through the night without giving up the ghost.
I never did ask Mirna out again. All in all, she was a good sport for bailing me out at the last minute. We remained friends and classmates until a tragic accident took her from us. As for Buffy, I never got the nerve to call her again. I should have. But we reconnected after fifty years. Though far away, I’m happy to say she is a dear friend. And guess what: Buffy married Billy, my buddy in the back seat. So, I reconnected with Billy, too. Charlie, the mechanic-friend and conspirator in the Aqua Velva scheme, became a successful politician. And Pedro? It was put down as an act of mercy before any further damage was done (replaced by a Dodge that went through a can of transmission fluid every other week and made me long for Pedro). But for all the Aqua Velva, hot tailpipes, baseball gloves, and mercy dates, I wouldn’t change a thing.
Closing Reflections
Something good remains from the events of that night. As I reflected on the details of this story, I began to sense an evident undercurrent guiding this river of memory toward the gulf of virtue. I believe this is it: there is power in community. Losses are experienced by all in some way. Hope and the desire for a better tomorrow are shared by others without ever having to articulate it.
Everyone in this story was a friend or someone I admired. They were neighbors, mentors, and individuals who shaped my world. Each contributed, in their own small way, to making things a bit better. Folks just caring for one another.
Rural areas and small towns can sometimes feel a bit too close. However, there’s accountability in that closeness. There’s a sense of belonging, knowing that when the chips are down, people will show up for you—even if it’s just to help you spruce up a jalopy with Aqua Velva. Just like Mirna did for me by being my last-minute date. Half of her act was teasing; the truth is, she was there when I needed a friend, just as the sheriff and the feed store owner were there for Aunt Eva.
I’ve told this story to my wife and son many times. When my son was little, he was a big fan of Jerry Clower, hanging on every word of his outrageous yarns. So when I finished this story, he looked up at me, his eyes wide with curiosity, and asked, “Okay, Dad: True or could be true?”
That was an easy one:
“True.”
I am using pseudonyms for those with asterisks. Public figures retain their real names.
Easily the most interesting thing I've read today!