George the Gentleman, dressed in gray flannel pajamas with red trim and a wine-dark silk dressing gown, wearing Army boots on his delicate feet, took the dirty shuddering freight elevator to the buildings top floor. He liked top floors. They always made him feel superior. When the stained old box cvame to a halt, he climbed out between the jammed-open halves of the freight doors, landing lightly on the 21sr floor of the Boredom Building. The floor was cavernous, dark, and smelled of World War I business associates.

He made his way to a fire escape and pushed it open, blinking in the sudden inpouring of bright daylight. He stepped out onto the cracked tare-and-gravel surface, his feet making little crunchy noises as he walked toward the balustrade. Leaning over, he stared down into the street below, where shards of boardroom window-glass were still glinting in the sunlight, reflecting the colors of the remains of Jack the Shit's blood, guts, and over-priced jewelery.

He definitely felt superior up here. The fleeting thought entered his mind that he should jump, join Jack in redecorating FOurth Avenue and giving folks something doubly exciting to discuss over breakfast.

But he didn't. He never did. He just looked down.