Mr. and Mrs. Catfish are people watching from their fourth floor apartment. They've kept a checklist of everyone they've seen since early morning. Each time they check off someone from their list they lower their spectacles zoning in on the next bypasser. It's currently 8:58PM and Mr. Catfish is yet to find a smoker, while Mrs. Catfish is yet to find two suburban mothers jogging side by side with twin baby strollers.

Generally speaking, watching people from a window in a tall building is a safe hobby to partake in. A watcher may for example see;

A teenager wearing bright colors.

A dog shaped like a mop.

A lamp shaped like a dog.

A man on stilts carrying a dog shaped lamp.

However, once in a while there's a bypasser, watcher's cannot look away from. Their eyes glue to the figure like a mouse to cheddar–more precisely like a harvest mouse to a pinwheel slice of Vermont sharp cheddar.

With a sigh Mrs. Catfish lifts her sunken eyes to the window. She tilts her head, and points to a bypasser, who is oddly, not passing; he is merely standing. Mrs. Catfish notes on her clipboard: Man Wearing Rabbit Mask.

It's unclear from this height, but behind the Man Wearing a Rabbit Mask lies a trail of thick dark damning footprints leading out from a low hanging industrial fog.

It's vital to note, no one leaves footprints like these, not in the year 2525, not in 3535 and not naturally in any year of living history. They're darker than brown mud, but from the fourth floor they appear to be mud and so Mr. and Mrs. Catfish continue to watch and note that too.

The Man Wearing a Rabbit Mask is staring into the fourth floor window from Tenth Street, while a firetruck blazes past him. He doesn't glance over his shoulder to see the sirens heading towards Twelfth Street for he has come from the same direction, and contrary to popular watcher opinion he hasn't laid afoot in mud since the previous century.

On Twelfth Street, Arnold Harness leaps from fire truck C, into the nips of flames along the perimeter of the paper supply store. It's his first shift back on the fire brigade, after a fatal experience with recalled canned broccoli from his World War VI bunker. Arnold isn't one to stir the pot with free thinking thoughts, in short he isn't a wise guy though he is tall. As a moment passes he can't help but wonder "Why would a yellow school bus be in service at 9:03PM on a Saturday evening?"

Arnold's Fire General waddles up to the flames like an Emperor penguin, but he resembles a chinstrap penguin, the way his scrappy beard barely connects under multiple flaps of chin skin. "Must you question everything Arnold? What if there's kids in there?"

"Why would there be children traveling in a yellow school bus at 9:03PM on a Saturday evening Fire General?"

The Fire General ponders over this question himself but can't let a free thinking mentality like Arnold's slide. He smacks Arnold across the back of the neck, and then takes off running–waddling, with Arnold in quick pursuit.

The bus is right side up, all is well at a glance.

Upon taking a second glance the yellow school bus is wedged into the paper supply store sliding front doors. The doors are still sliding back and forth slamming the bus from both directions. It gives new meaning to the hanging neon flashing sign: No Admittance, which is perfectly functional as the colors fade from white to pink to red and then back to white.

Arnold slams against the bus first, he remarks "it's filled with free moving dust." He continues "Why can't I get a clear visual?"

The Fire General rushes past him, flames yapping at his trousers. He slides along muddled pavement and yanks against the yellow school bus door. It doesn't budge.

"Damn door!" Fire General pulls back shouting and hollering, he yanks off a boot, sending it full throttle into a window. The spike on the front toe punctures the glass.

Fire General cackles, "Ha, damn door." He's pleased with his efforts. He inches forward hoisting his shoe from the glass. He leans in, the hole being lower than he'd thought. His nostrils catch the surface first, he inhales a white plume of smoke releasing from the punctured glass. His eyes roll and roll, a world globe could only hope to roll as well as his eyes are.

"Damn smoke–" he slurs as his body hits the pavement like a heavyweight champion.

It's 9:05PM, the Fire General is dead and Arnold Harness is promoted. Arnold's first action as Fire General is to remove the title 'Fire General' from his yet to be made nametag. His second action as 'Vacant Title Ex. Fire General' is to add the title 'Fire Assassin On Duty' to his yet to be made nametag. His third action as Fire Assassin On Duty is to open the front door of this yellow school bus.

Fire Assassin On Duty, trudges through the soot and ashes of the wreck, stepping over the corpse of his Post Mortem Fire General. He flips a latch, and the bus door yanks open, simultaneously thick dark liquid floods down the stairs. He stammers back against another vehicle, while the river rushes through his legs flooding the parking lot. Post Mortem Fire General is swept up into the flash-river, and the corpse flails until it turns the corner. It whips down the block, in a whirlpool of darkness, floating into the next street.

One week ago, the paper supply store on Twelfth Street began stocking printers. The addition of technology to their shelves boosted clientele. Sales doubled in the month of September just after an election for Congress was finalized. The latest shipment of merchandise they'd received was a pallet of 67XL Noir High Yield Black ink cartridges.

A Local Congressman serving his two year term for the poor side of the industrial city is standing on Thirteenth Street. He's speaking to a crowd of volunteers, who have happened to inherit ⅙ of the city's funds for infrastructure and road work development. The volunteers and the Local Congressman have traveled to the newest development of the city, a manhole with a silver grate. The manhole is ajar, a teenage volunteer looks in and says "Long way down Congressman! Marvelous contraption you've got here."

On Tenth Street, the Man Wearing a Rabbit Mask tilts his head up, locking eyes with a woman holding a pair of binoculars in her oiled hands. He recognizes her sunken eyes from an off brand newspaper printer paper sale advertisement. The Man Wearing a Rabbit Mask lifts a phone to his ear.

Fire Assassin On Duty is waddling up shallow steps of a yellow school bus. To his delight, there are no casualties he'll need to report for his first day on the job. His trousers are coated in thick dark liquid up to his kneecaps, "Why would there be black ink on a yellow school bus at..." he looks down to his watch, "9:07PM on a Saturday Evening?" He scratches his chin, and leans closer to the front row of seats.

Make no mistake the front seat is not vacant. In the center of the dampened cushion, sitting politely and buckled in is a yellow duck, tainted by 67XL Noir High Yield Black ink from a broken shipment, flooding through the busted front windshield of the yellow school bus. Fire Assassin On Duty unbuckles the seatbelt and lifts the yellow duck–its body is spewing a thin line of white powder. He backs down the steps, pulling a postage stamp from the flat side of the duck.

Post Mortem Fire General is floating down Thirteenth Street, his liquid entourage proceeds him, rushing and sloshing like a river cut loose. He's dying to attend a ribbon cutting for an industrial development in the city. He can't help himself from slowing his descent as he swirls and swirls amid screams and young faces and a Local Congressman! He slips into the manhole to get a closer look, and the black river follows suit.

The Man Wearing a Rabbit Mask is speaking into his phone. "There's been an accident at the local paper supply store on Twelfth Street, Officer. I think I saw smoke."

An Officer, on Saturday evening answered a call from a pedestrian and drove from the police station on Eleventh Street to the corner paper supply store. Smoke's billowing from the front doors as he approaches, he lifts a radio to his lips "I've got a crashed school bus, potential casualties. Fire department's on premises. Send in medical. 9:09PM. Officer out."

Fire Assassin On Duty is staring at the postage stamp on his left hand. He's gone into the bus multiple times and found the same stamp on the bottom of each seatbelted duck. The duck's themselves are carrying a substance, lethal if inhaled like how Post Mortem Fire General has done.

An Officer walks up alongside him. "The hell is going on Arnold Harness? Smells like opioids, hope they're not yours" he covers his nose with his sleeve.

"Officer, why are there rubber duck's packed with opioids, stamped, addressed and seatbelted into a yellow school bus at 9:10PM on a Saturday evening?"

The Officer takes the stamps from his hand, cussing, running and tripping over himself. He calls in "Send all units to the Ninth Street apartment complex! All units!" He shouts, speeding down the ink-stained street.

The Local Congressman is pulling back from a microphone mid speech, at the newest development in the city. His palms are sweating as he pulls at the collar of his shirt. He's just seen a dead body sinking into a recently built manhole, but more urgently he's received a text, the shipment of cocaine he's purchased has not arrived at its destination.

The Police Department is approaching from Eleventh Street, each car passes a Man Wearing a Rabbit Mask, who appears to be staring into the sky. When the sirens have ceased, plenty of officers are standing at the entrance of the apartment complex. The Officer from the paper supply store is passing around stamps, found at the scene of the accident. The address on the stamps point to a man and wife living together on the fourth floor.

The Man Wearing the Rabbit Mask, is staring at the police force on Ninth Street. He's holding a folded sheet of printer paper, and he appears to be people watching. He lowers his eyes, and bend's at the knees swiping his forefinger across his boot. He x's out the catfish drawing, with remarkable accuracy. It seems the rumors are true, 67XL Noir High Yield Black ink is incredibly useful.

Mr. and Mrs. Catfish share glances as their door is bust in. They're the only couple living on the fourth floor, and their postage stamps have tonight been sent, dampened, found and returned.