It was an era of bronzed gods and goddesses, the likes of which had only been hinted at by 21st century Miami. Old age was no longer defined by wrinkles, spots, pallor, or any of the traditional markers of decrepitude. Botox and its ilk had elevated expressions to a taboo after the age of 29. Laughing, grinning, and twitching were all strictly frowned upon, although mild frowning was permitted. That’s when the counterculture group Lions Among Us sprang into action.

Their original mission, under the aegis of Ronald Arnsbuckle, had been to celebrate bravery and courage wherever found in society. That was thirty-five years ago. Since then, personal injury litigation had been automated such that it was impossible to accomplish an act of courage that wouldn’t be successfully awarded prohibitively expensive damages. It seemed that brass-tinted medals from a cohort of part-time activists weren't enough to overcome the crippling expense of committing bravery provocative enough to invite personal bankruptcy. So the ever-enterprising Ronald took his cue from the latest anti-trend and launched an underground guerrilla war against the “inexpressibles,” as he called them. The everyday professionals with their khaki trousers, blue cotton collars, and utter lack of emotional expressions.

He began by practicing the most extreme expressions he could in the mirror in his room at the YMCA on Heath Street. Delight, rage, and amazement were among his repertoire, but he tried to avoid anything too sad, mostly to avoid triggering his own easy tears. He had decided, no anguish or grief. He found that a combination of shock, amazement, and a hint of fear produced the most satisfying reactions on his face, hastening the aging process until he began to resemble a weathered corpse. Satisfied with his experiments at home, Ronald decided to launch his first campaign. He was going to frighten people into premature old age.

Ronald stepped out into the streets of New Londinium that Monday morning, armed with a shoe box full of repurposed buttons on which the original slogan, "KISS ME I'M IRISH" had been painstakingly etched over with "KISS ME I'M A LION" -- which Ronald had spent the previous night covering with stickers to say: "KISS ME IF YOU DARE." He was sporting a navy blue track suit for maximum freedom of movement, his special occasion dress shoes (the only pair he possessed with adequate arch support for an all-day excursion), and a green plaid cap with a red bobble for a festive touch.

Checking his Swatch, he tucked the shoe box more firmly under his arm and headed in the direction of the subway. Ronald had learned over the years that enacting civil behavior campaigns close to his place of residence was to be avoided. And so he boarded the 09:25 train towards Swiss Cottage, not knowing that he was in fact sealing the end of his itinerant life of weekly stays at the Y.