A bitter Society divorce has turned into an urgent mystery as the couple's child was abducted, with both parents accusing the other of responsibility for the crime.

Donald Methan and his wife Irena Nagarjuna Methan, heiress to the Ouroboros Electronics fortune, filed for divorce two years ago. But the process has dragged on amid accusations of infidelity, cruelty, the hiding of assets, the use of drugs and involvement in the Redpill underground scene, including illegal activities in connection with "fight clubs."

Their son Broderick, 11, was kidnapped while returning from school in Park East. His chauffeur was injured by the kidnappers, who were masked with bandanas, and is receiving treatment.

Both parents have sought sole custody, accusing each other of unfitness and drug dependence.

Mrs. Methan was dealt a blow last week when photos of her partially undressed and allegedly taking drugs in the notorious Hel Club surfaced. Attempts to secure the photographs for publication have been unsuccessful.

Mr. Methan says she has had Broderick kidnapped and removed from the city so that he won't be taken away from her. Mrs. Methan denies this, and speculates that Mr. Methan may face prosecution for gambling operations and accessory to aggravated assault for participating in "Fight Club" activities in Gracy Heights.

Law Enforcement authorities say no ransom demand has been made.

Tips can be called in to the usual numbers.

If you live in the city, nobody needs to tell you that temperatures have been varying wildly, bringing snow and swelter in alternating, and highly unusual, episodes.

Meteorologists are fascinated. The head of the Meteorology department at City College said, "It's a pattern we haven't seen as long as temperatures have been recorded. Possibly it's a byproduct of global warming, in which case Amory Lovins's term 'global weirding' is all the more appropriate."

Plants have been fooled into budding, then punished with ice storms.

At least one death, an elderly man found dead of exposure near Debir Court in Mara, is attributed to authorities by the quick-changing weather. He was found wearing shorts, sandals and a Hawaiian shirt.

Andres Bonifaciaeo

Hell Freezes: I Was Wrong, Redpills. I Apologize This is a hard one to write. I admit, I have a visceral distaste for Redpills. Their fashions, their arcane philosophy, their obsession with fighting. Their superior attitude. But I've seen something that maybe calls for a superior attitude.

I've been in a bad way since the murder-suicide. The comic-book kids who offed themselves and their pals sent me first to the keyboard, then to Wally's, two venues where I ranted with scotch-scented vitriol.

Ironically, it's called scotch, but it gives Dutch courage, with which I took myself and my ranting to Redpill hangouts—you Mara Congregationalist lurkers know who you are—to taunt what I considered a death cult.

Luckily, most of you ignored me.

But one of you (Broin? Did I get that name right?) took me somewhere I don't remember walking or riding to. It was seedy, spooky, maybe underground. Raw timbers shown from ceiling and walls. A primitive flea market was in session, oddments strewn over little rugs where sellers kneeled. I think a barrel had a fire in it.

But in one corner, there was something…sacred. I can't tell you why, but I felt its holiness in every nerve of my body. I think I sobered up faster than I ever have.

It was a body…in shape, at least. Little green sparks crawled over it. It seemed male, but androgynous. It wore a long cloak, also black with the green lights.

I asked Broin what this was, and who he was. He said the body was the one who saved us all, and he (Broin) was a "spurious angel."

Maybe I was set up. Maybe this is a scam. If so, I'm willing to look like a fool in black ink on this page all over the city. Because something was going on here that's, frankly speaking, supernatural.

I'm not saying I've been saved. Maybe I did meet an angel in a fedora. Maybe Jesus Christ has come back, napping, wearing a long coat with green LEDs all over it…but I'm not on my knees, yet. Skepticism is the refuge of the reasonable man.

Still, something's going on.

And alcohol has not passed these lips since that day.