(Last Reminder: This Book will treat you as an Active Participant. Answers will clearly be given in time of Vol 1, but you CAN figure things out sooner the more you engage. Hope you all enjoy, & have fun!)

It's seven past five, and it's been just like any other Thursday.

Amongst the busy roads and well traveled sidewalks, the office workers make their mass exodus from the 'dungeons that haunt their dreams'— and onto these packed city streets. While most get to enjoy their allotted freedom, not all 9-to-5'ers receive the same luxury. Those poor, and pathetic, few are kept late in order to cover someone's ass, albeit their own or another's. Yet, that's not always the case. There is always one or two that wait for the rush to finish, that are lackadaisical in their speed and unconcerned with their time at the end of the day. There is always a straggler.

A straggler can be found in every workplace, either be it welcome or endurable. Most fit for the typical mold of social invisibility, yet some businesses are not so lucky. Albeit layers of minimalism, the lesser examples of such tend to take more prominence in their notable isolation. However, of those thorny few, an odder anomaly can exist. A hypocrisy of sorts, a responsible straggler. A straggler of such a kind can only appear once a position high enough in command is gained, yet a straggler that finishes a workday for another that may be below them on the professional hierarchy simultaneously. A person of two-faces, one of selfless acts for selfish means; the social masquerade.

Like clockwork, the straggler appears apart from all that pay attention. Alone and cold in their leave.

It's forty-seven past five.

Coming from out of the modest office building on Melville Avenue, a lone straggler strolls out from the stairway entrance and onto the sidewalk beneath. Ears encapsulated by the static flare produced from their flimsy headphones, he paid zero mind to any of the moderate few that he cut through down the sidewalk.

A heated breeze lightly pushes back against his body as the inner-city weather throws it's late-summer tantrum— typical this time of year. While usually a delight for the straggler, the combined weight of his messenger bag and steel briefcase were not as forgiving to nature's tepid nudges.

From a busier-than-usual workday and said additional weight he's incurred, the preferred roundabout stroll isn't in the cards today. Ultimately—and far more reasonably—the shorter path home couldn't be mentally argued against any longer.

Traveling down left of Melville Ave, he had chosen to walk against the tiny forces of nature that glut this side of the sidewalk. Thus, most of this remaining 9-to-5 traffic are passed by quickly, with little-to-none of it gaining an inking of attention from him. Some of those alone while others in duos, the straggler plays oblivious to any of their existences as he bumps past any that do not move out of his in time.

Getting scowls and scorn directed his way, the pace continues on at a consistent nonchalant speed as the former office straggler remains submerged within his own little, musical world. All located within such an impractical cassette tape player, the worn Walkman remains just as unconcerned of this outside world as the man that carries it— for better or worse. Yet, unbeknownst to them, his headphones might've worked a bit too well.

                                 •••••••

Elsewhere, scrapings of dirty tennis shoes drag along with it large huffs of a fretful exhaustion. This symphony echoes spread throughout a series of sun-drenched alleyways nearby. The shoes, slapping minuscule puddles of late morning rain water, fell silent in comparison to what the wearer could hear. Choosing the twists and turns at random, the seeming corridors of alleyways reign unrelenting to those that pass through. Slinging wildly, a boy, no older than that of a late teen, tightly grasps a steel briefcase close to his thigh. While the sun decorates all of these spaces between the grounded buildings, they let little out in the way of view for the outside congestion of the world surrounding them. Ears stringing slim streams of blood, those cartilage appendages only matched by the hectic collisions between the shoes— and the ground. An end comes in sight for the boy as the alleyways have had their fun. Sounds of unimaginable silence, the well-dressed boy's focus seems to have paid off: making it to the end of this long alleyway stretch. Yet, the alleyway's interests are not so easily saturated, it seems— other interests have joined them in their 'fun'. Before reentering the congestion of an evening society, those frantic eyes dart back and forth from the empty alley to the populated street in inane confusion. Unsure of much at this point, the teenage boy pivots to the mildly filled sidewalk behind and continues the maddening dash.

With the briefcase acting more as a hammer than a simple carrying case at this point, the teenager pushes pass local venturers and strangling office workers. Some pushes to the side while others knocked to the ground, nothing phased the frantic teen in his dashes— except a single thing. His face breaking away from the fearful gloom of just prior, a nigh tearful glee revels itself from behind such gloom as he looks at the late afternoon sun. The sounds of the standard congested streets soothe his ears as the tickling of blood from the orifices had ceased, seemingly without reason. How joyous he is to hear something, anything, other than the unimaginable silence that plagued him in that lonely alleyway. Yet, he knew that he wasn't alone back there. This momentary joy was short-lived for the euphoria of his sense has returned, and, thus, the capability of focus can be put back on the ascertainment of his pursuer.

As the mad dash conforms into a distracted one, the organically dirty teenager pays attention to something familiar that may be behind him, stalking him still. The amount of people on these city streets are numerous, expectedly so at such a time, but only certain individuals tend to stand-out amongst crowds— especially, the same recognizable people. That being said, 'eventually, more vacant sidewalks are reached the further you go', is a sentiment, a thought shared by the teen. It being the only idea to be had in the heat of the moment, the teenager pushes towards this haphazard goal— anything to ease his search, and, thus, escape.

                                 •••••••••••

The late sun beats upon those that try to enjoy their evening stroll. With a heated fury, contradictions of nature and man's constructions misconstrue the intent of this early spring weather. The breezy, cool winds of the aging new year blocked by the towering behemoths of cement and stone encompassing all that reside within the urban jungle caging it's exhausted inhabitants— the heat greater than natural law would liken it to be, on the exterior that is. Yet, there remains to be a reprieve of ways; ways of coincidental passing working unintended wonders  for each other. The light flows of air develops from the mix of brisk and slow walks as citizens pass by each other, aware or not. This simple reprieve reveals its rewards quite readily, but it's the consequences that lay latent that unfortunately lie dormant to many eyes.

The confines of the uniform business district begin to fade into a newer district, a facading tourist district. The modern greys of builds of similar build and freshly repaved concrete sidewalks accompanying such wardens would be an apt description for those disgruntled from the office life, yet the straggler in question gave a face of grimace at the district transition. This annoyance of loud and fumbling city guests come off as far more aggravating to deal with than his simple nine-to-five job. The transition is quite clear to pick up on, unlike most district changes here. While it all ends and begins on Melville Ave. between the two districts, there stands a old brick wall from the city's early days. The wall, formed from the classic brick-red material of yesteryears, gives this clear distinction, and thus, change into each other's district. One side of this wall being the untouched landmark that it always has been, the tourist side of things rapidly depicts various designs, or desecration, blanketing the wall with little in the way of consistency— that except of the name of the street etched colorfully dead center of said brick wall, in cursive no less. This sight, while pleasant to the straggler's eye, signaled the annoyance he wanted to avoid— the core reason of becoming a 'straggler'. Preemptive actions must be taken for a potential encounter with a drunk, bumbling tourist, the man reaches down to his Walkman for such a situation. Although others that passed him react, he pays it little-to-no attention for what it might be— the intent of his Walkman being the cure for such events. He grasps his Walkman as he twirls it in said hand effortlessly, raising it up from his pocket to chest level at a rather leisurely speed. The straggling man takes his eyes off the street in front of him and looks down to his device looking at the volume buttons in doing so. He slows down to a calming stop as he keeps attempting to tap the volume buttons. Fidgeting with the buttons, the only conclusion can be considered: the buttons are clearly either stuck or broken. The fidgeting turns into fraught as the speed of his fingers change nothing with his efforts. A sadness washes over the man, stood quietly adjacent to the brick wall's coincidental dividing line. The volume still high enough to dispel most atmospheric urban sounds, it still remains low enough to be drowned out by blaring music and hollers of, and from, clubs up to come. After staring at the poor, defunct machine for a considerable few seconds, the straggler looks up to the clear, evening sun mired with various deep emotions. Without an ounce of warning, he's tackled by a stranger! Not a second more, a force of a dozen wolves collides from this tackle behind.

The man and his assailant both collapse to the ground, the organic crashing drawing the eyes from all around. The man jerks to his innate reaction towards an incoming hard surface; the unfortunate straggler instinctually launches his briefcase away from his grasp as both hands attempt to catch himself before things get worse. Thus, such a knee jerk reaction leads towards, some consequences are to be expected. The briefcases of both individuals both go flying towards the decorative red-brick wall, coming into heavy contact with it and each other— like the guys that carried them. Managing to only chip pieces off said brick wall overall, the make and model of the briefcases provided an even greater incident for they were nigh indistinguishable from the other. This occurrence laid undiscovered as the straggler had other, more pressing matters, to conflict with. Landing on his Walkman in the opposing hand, the immediate, and uneven, impact upon his wrists cause some soreness, if not minor damages, before any physical conflict can take place. A quick shot of strain and pain flashes across his startled, blank expression as the nerves themselves catch up with what had just occurred. With the adrenaline beginning to pump throughout, the straggler flips around away from facing the sidewalk expecting a fight. If anything, it's not what either were expecting. The 'assailant' and he met eye-to-eye, equally laid out upon the concrete walk-space. A boy no older than a teenager laying flat in front of him, even matching his own expression of shock and strain. Yet, there's one more thing the boy had about him that the straggler didn't: a notable air of dread just under the genuine responses from the here and now. This all breeding a new kind of suspicion, a different flow of air encompassing the two guys laying upon the dirty, sparsely crowded sidewalk; an air of mystery fills the space between them.

Without a single word being said, the two stare into each other's eyes with a various amount of expressions either one displays any attempt to discern the other's intent. From raised eyebrows to death-looks, the two play this game of 'guess-who' until it ultimately leads them to the same end result: nowhere.

Both with equally differing attitudes ascertained from their sighs, the two haphazardly get to their feet. The straggler, a tad slower than his younger counterpart, brushes off his white button down and tie as he gradually gets to his feet. Before looking up to meet the teen's eyes, his are distracted by the Walkman in his hand. A wash of aging sorrow hangs at the bottom of his eyelids at this sight, the Walkman in tatters— this will be the second, more disheartening sigh from him in less than a mere minute. The teenager begins to speak, breaking the straggler out of his momentary insular slump.

"Hey, I'm sorry about your thing there. I wasn't paying attention, I'm in a rush, it was an accident... That's my bad. I apologize, sir."

Catching his ear, not the teen's apology, but the terminology the teen used. The mysterious air still remaining, yet the teen's lack of knowledge broke away some of the straggler's suspicions for something more 'archaic'.

"A Walkman. A tape player. That plays music, music cassettes. Do you know what a tape-player is?"

"Well, yeah. I know what a tape player is. I think.", replies the mildly-peeved teenager.

After a brief pause, the straggler pushes on through with an urge of snark, "Do you know what a tape is, kid?"

With a rebuttal nearly as fast as the snarky question being delivered, the teen belts out his own retort, "Since we're asking dumb questions all of sudden: aren't you way too young to be using a tape-player anyway?"

Taking quite an intense amount of offense to the teenager's retort, the straggler completely disregards any patience, or observation, to the guy that may, or may not, have 'accidentally' tackled him to the ground— and thus tearing up his Walkman more so than it already was at this point. The teen had struck a nerve, obvious to anyone with clear vision—and minds, yet brilliance has seemingly taken a backseat to their little spat. Although as pointless as this all was, the circumstances that led to this have not forgotten their purpose.

The time is two past six, and the night begins its conquest.

Achieving in losing his maturity against a boy quite a few years younger than he, all hands were off deck— a no-holds-barred retort in a way. So caught up in the petty frustration in front of his face, the straggler misses the teenager's immediate change in demeanor. "Listen, kid, for someone looking for an apology, insulting them won't help you much. Matter of fact, maybe I want you to pay to fix what you broke— and, no, a replacement isn't acceptable. How about that, huh?", the straggler unleashing the barrage of threats and petty grievances shamelessly in front of the passing onlookers.

A pause of conversation, of conflict, stagnates the mood of all within earshot of the formerly bickering duo. It's a significant enough of a pause for the straggler to regain some of his original, quiet composure. Nevertheless, the other some of himself becomes refueled with that air of mystery that had temporarily subsided not so long ago. The teenager, beginning to sweat, had widened his eyes—frozen in place as he was prior to the change in demeanor— seemingly focused in on 'something'. The straggler, deciding to observe instead of interrupt, noticed some more oddities with the 'kid' in front of him. The teen is well-dressed, yet wears some rather worn out athletic sneakers; seems intensely focused out of nowhere, yet his eyes—or head—aren't darting every which way for any type of search; was in rush so much he couldn't be bothered to dodge others, yet stood here long enough to have a pointless argument about a Walkman and apologize. Things aren't adding up in the straggler's confused mind, a question of his own pops into mind: Just what the hell have I been knocked into here?

*Pop!*

A faint sound rings from a decent distance behind the teen— a sound similar to a gum bubble popping after overinflation. Definitely not as common as it had once been—especially with the age of individuals that are accompanying these concrete sidewalks—it still wasn't anything of importance for the average person. That could not be said for the teenager himself though. Like a pulse just before a heart attack, an expression of focus utterly disintegrates into tremendous fear right in front of the straggler's eyes. The intended effect seems to have taken place, the teenager recognizes the repetitive sound— a harbinger of anguish to the poor boy. Between baffled and dreadful looks from the two, a third look of note stands out, away from the typical onlooker's confusion or disinterest peering in. An easy look of warm positivity boldly smiles.

An eternal pause comes to an end with the vibrations of the straggler's vocal chords, "Kid? What—".

In-tandem of the pause's collapse, a line of chaos swiftly fills in the empty slot. Enacting on the breaking of this silence like an olympic runner, the teenager madly dashes towards the steel briefcase at full force. Any intent of control having obviously left, the teen's full charge causes him to collide against the red, brick-wall shoulder first. Yet, he remains unfazed at what most logically would cause considerable pain as the other arm reaches out towards the briefcase handles. At random, he grabs a briefcase before pushing off the wall and away from where the bubblegum-popping sound continues to echo from. Without a second to think nor a minute to act, the straggler stands to attention at the bizarre act that he had witnessed. The man watches the back of the teenager shrink smaller and smaller as his befuddled questions grow in antithesis. A poke of his tattered Walkman being enough of a pull, the straggler shakes his head in hopes of some semblance of clarity from his stroll before— which, unfortunately, refuses to accommodate.

"That was pretty strange, eh?"

A voice of a woman, brash and loud, comes adjacent to the straggler fellow. Tonally, a voice as causal as the best of acquaintances smoothly rolling off her tongue; a lack of any malicious intent from her causal manner of inquisitiveness clear enough as it's delivered. With a shiver down his spine and jump from his shoes, he's taken by surprise once again. Silent in his shock, the evidence quite clear as rattled as he appears. Not really registering the question being asked, the straggler instinctually turns to this new person— delayed as it might've been.

*Pop!*

A pink bubble bursts onto his face. Sticky and elastic-like, the straggler freezes in place, blinded in this pink smokescreen. Both matching in their blank expressions—equal in height and facially close enough for such an occasion—as the pink remains of the bubblegum plastered across the straggler's face. The lady doesn't move an inch, in the straggler's assistance nor escape from her action—intended or not. Faint steam boils from the top of the straggler's head, annoyance and irritation coming to a noted boiling point of it all. Grabbing at the pink splatter powdering across the areas of eyes and nose, clawing at these sticky pieces shockingly taking little effort to remove. Understandably so, the imagery painted across the man having changed from blank to furious; Aggressively ripping the rest of the gum off his face—along with some bits of brown eyebrow hair—the reasonable fury explodes out in his confused shouts.

"Ahh! What the f—"

Raising a hand up to an out extended chin, the lady gestures a feigning pique of inquiry as calmly as she first spoke.

"Hmm. You're pretty strange, too. Huh."

Coming off similarly as goading as it was unassuming, it throws off the straggler as he's unsure what to make of this— or of what has been happening to begin with. Now having removed the gummy waste from his face, the woman's stature becomes apparent. Remarkably indistinguishable in height, proving to be an eye-opener as he knew that, for this to be the case, she had to be at least six feet tall. An attire being markedly better dressed than the teenager before her— and the teen wasn't a slouch in that department neither; a black suit, shoes, and pants with a standard white button-down and socks, yet a tie that popped out for being strikingly unique. Still, that spoke of nothing of the absolute wildfire that was happening from the neck up. Even with most of this being the crazy, flowing hair, it so happen to be the yellow, cheap-looking headphones that decorated the collar around her neck that drew the straggler's attention the most. Fury recedes for redundant befuddlement, if only far more standoffish this time around. However, his confusion, and frivolous questions, had little importance to this sharply-dressed lady.

"Strange? Strange! You're the one blowing gum into people's faces, and I'm the strange one. Look, who are you? What's happening here?—"

"Ha! Now that's the spirit! Seem so much more alive than the slumpy loner you were before. Feels so much better, right?", exclaims the lady, with all the energy and bravado her fiery stylings would infer. Standing proudly, she places her hands at the hips belting out an invigorating smile in this achievement of sorts.

"Wait... you were watching me? Why were— No. Seriously, who are you? What do you—"

From an inviting bravado to antagonistic dismal, the expression glows as bright as the fiery ball still hanging up above in the evening sky. The change happening as fluidly as it was swift. Unavoidable to see, even a taunt thrown in for good measure, the lady speaks, "Agghh! You whine so much for such an adorable face. Eh, guess that's to be expected for a clumsy loner."

Perplexed and at his limit, the straggler falters back to safer isles— as if a mental reset to a calmer state of being. Placing his hands upon his face, the exhaustion of following whatever hectic nonsense that's been occurring to him has finally reached a limit. The lady—not one to miss a moment of prodding—whimsically leans in to investigate, or instigate, what the man might be trying now. The long hands drag down his face, bring down some flesh and wrinkles with them. Slowly, the straggler takes his hands off his face, as blank as his tired face could get. At the apex of both's actions, those hands crash back into the man's face and upon his cheeks. Slapping his cheeks like an early morning wake-up routine, this repeats an handful more times— each even quicker than the last. Loud as they may be, none whatsoever were they indicative of the damage they cause. The whimsy having only heightened, but this has been the first thing the man had done that took the lady off-guard. And, thus, the ball has, at last, bounced into his court, he was the upper-hand— as much as that means in an odd situation like the one these two are in.

The piercing of newly awakened eyes shine from the man, having cleared a reasonably befuddled mind. With a swift shake of the head, this mental sparring match seems to commence posthaste.

With his piercing look of unfounded steely confidence, the straggler takes the upper-hand, "No matter how eccentric you are, it doesn't explain how well your timing is."

A light jerk comes from the lady's neck, bouncing her accessories with it. A face of concealment, pampered with the most minuscule of anxiousness, had to be one of the most lackluster attempts at a coverup. Clear as the day that had been overshadowed by her fiery bravado, the averted eyes, especially from his piercing ones, are the killing blow to his suspicions. Stuttering slightly as she replies, "N..nono. Whatever do y.. you mean~".

The straggler closes in, replicating her face move from before, leaving nowhere for her eyes to run. No way to deny his first question, the man blandly remarks, "Those headphones. They're mine, aren't they?"

"Nuhuh.", she dismissively replies in his fidgety deception.

In a quick succession, the two go back and forth about the cheap looking headphones lying around her toned neck.

"How'd you get them then?", the straggler shoots off.

"I found them.", the lady deflects just as rapidly.

"When?"

"Today."

"Where?"

"Earlier."

"For what player?"

"My Walkman."

In a quick turn and a biting of the tongue, the straggler realizes the mistake he just made. Knowing he shouldn't of been as direct with what the type of headphones they were, he takes a moment to think of an effective counter question. Popping in as soon as he tried, the man just as speedily twists back around to the lady. He proposes one last question, "Ok then. As you said, they are yours, right?"

The lady nods in agreement before the straggler continues.

"So, without looking, tell me what color they are."

Her eyes shoot back to the man in front, no longer averting her eyes. Beginning to sweat, a gulp can be heard as silence resonants from the lady. Starting to mumble and pad time, she tries to suss it out from him.

However, the straggler expands on his inquiry, "Hmm? Don't know? I'm not surprised, of that at least. After that weird kid tackled me, my things went in all different directions. While, luckily, my heavy bag and Walkman couldn't move an inch, my headphones would fly out the furthest out of everything. Their light weight, and cheap materials, would make that the best assumption to make. Yet, the kid still caused a huge disturbance even after that. So much so that, if anything was taken, then the havoc would be too watched, too many eyes wandering for one to easily get away with anything. If it was taken, it would've had to be done secretly and swiftly— with as little forewarning beforehand. So, looking at it too long would've given you away. A sneaky snatch and grab to make it look natural. Put it around your neck to not draw attention, and move on, right? That's probably why you can't tell me the color, because you never looked at it long enough to know either. Ha, I got you!"

Without missing a beat, the coach-like prideful smile erupts from the lady.

"Yellow.", says the lady in an energetic, monotone voice.

"... You were just waiting for me to finish that, weren't you?"

"Yeah. And, it was worth it. That was fun. We should do this again another time, dummy.", smirks the victorious lady.

Just as she walks away—in the same direction the teenager went— the straggler lets out one more confirmation he seemingly had conjured from thin air, "They also have my initials on it. On the bottom right. Left earmuff."

She freezes in place, taking off the headphones in order to check if that may be the case. Pulling the headphones into place to view, it's evident enough for the blind to see: the initials 'J.S.' were there, paired with a date, '4/19/86'.

The straggler turns to view the back—and, mostly, the wild, flamboyant ponytail—of the sharply-dressed lady. Mimicking a smirk of his own—as devilish as it might be—moves unashamedly towards the glittering sheen of his desires, his goal: the cheap, yellow headphones. Unable to resist either, gloating, "Heh. For such a smuggy look earlier, it's a shame that you seem to have wasted it. And, for a shabby thing like that, too. Poor thing."

Not so deviated from smugness himself, the inquiries from before took precedence within the front of the man's mind. The lady caught, he knows there's not a second to waste. Caressing the tip of his stubbled chin, the questions spew out in a barrage of verbal weights, "I still have some questions for you, you know. Why take my cruddy headphones when you clearly look like you could afford much better ones? Were you watching me earlier? Are you a stalker? What is it that you even want?"

The barrage, seemingly endless as it might feel, inches ever closer to something more certain, more imperative that eluded the prior series of questions before. An obvious exemption to be sure, but one modestly out of sight by now. "Are you the one that the kid was running from?", beckons the straggler towards the growing shadow her back produces.

"Why would the ki—", is hesitantly continued on from the previous inquiry. Nevertheless, an inquiry cut short.

A stark, deep ring invades the ear of the hesitant straggler. Echoing in deep into his ear canal, a quick reflex from his closest hand shoots up to cusp the debilitated ear. A insignificant sound in an urban such as this—especially during a time, and district, like this—should be of little worry. Yet, the ring couldn't be muffled though. Just as loud bare as it is cuffed, it was only inflicting it's dangers onto a singular ear and not both. As the man attempts to reach, to physically beckon, the lady, he couldn't easily ignore the collapsing weight this mysterious sound is causing him.

"Wait. Hold on.", the straggler mumbles through loudly enough, barely hearing himself as he said it. A piercing ring far too distracting to put off, growing substantially. The straggler takes his sight off the sharply-dressed lady. Shifting around, yanking his head every which way; where was this sound coming from?

His eyes winced. Wrinkles crunched where there were none before. The sights around him equally as misleading as the raising pitch his right ear thought there to be. However, the passerbys around him didn't stop. Passing looks of confusion and funny-looks matched each other, but nothing like his own. None were holding their own ears. Not even a sole jolt of flesh to any undesirable sound appeared on any person that passes on by. The environment—the cars, the leash-less dogs, babies, children, clubs, electronics themselves—had zero differences than the everyday mundanity in it, not a thing that could produce such a moth-like buzzing, ringing like this. And, just like this unexplainable ring came, the sound begins to dissipate just as fast.

Lacking in sense and understanding, the straggler reverts back to the only thing that has recently made since: getting answers. Hobbling a turn, the dazed straggler cranks out whatever kinds of words he can currently manage, " Who are y—"

The lady has ran. Having already made some distance, the back of her crazy pulled-up ponytail and stylish black suit now sizably smaller in comparison. Without missing a beat, the lady throws up a 'peace' sign with her left hand— knowing it's intended individual will see it. While unable to see it personally, a sensation, a feeling, alerts the man as to what she had also done: a wide, devilish grin etched across her own face.

Slurred, ever so slight by this point, the straggler isn't finished himself, "We're not done here. Hey! Stop!"

One unable to not have the last word, the lady spurts out a final energetic tease, "I'll be seeing ya later! John."

For someone of that height, growing the distance between the two took a rather negligible amount of time to do so. Disappearing nearly as soon as they appeared, both—the teenager and the lady—had vanished from the straggler's mildly disoriented view. Akin to a shooting star midst the nightly city skyline, their mayhem imprinting its lasting effects on the minimal few that were unfortunate, or fortunate, enough to witness the inane act. Left as a mess—physically and metaphorically—all the man can do is sigh and check the time. He looks up to the business sector's big, modern clock tower and wincingly reads,

'Oh god... It's only six-thirty?'