The downtown street was vacant otherwise than the swarms of people walking by like ants on an ant hill circling the queen. But Frank was isolated. The world moved at its usual hyper-speed rate without noticing any of its inhabitants. Like a blinding snowstorm of people, but you're the one huddled under a snowdrift losing touch in your finger tips. Their faces were blurred and rearranged and resembled pseudo-Picasso pieces. His head felt raw and was home to only a few thoughts firing around amongst a blackened ether of cocaine and malt whiskey.
"Hey! Watch where you're going, fuckin' crackhead," a voice rings out accompanied with some spittle into Frank's face. The blurred representation of a yuppie stands in front of Frank holding the cliched requirements -- attache case, Armani suit, and a stupid fucking haircut. Frank turns around, looks directly into the yuppie's beady eyes and breathes the equivalent of rat poison into the prick's face.
"Of course young sir. How dare I interrupt your daily waltz accompanied with your own theme song, written personally by, Bach, I believe. But the real Bach, not one of his amateurish sons riding on a surname. Is there anything that I could do to make your day any better, my dear fuckhead," Frank lets out in a semi-couth manner. The yuppie scoffs, slides his diamond-clad hand through his perfect hair, and keeps walking.
"Glad I could be of some assistance," Frank calls back, lighting a fresh cigarette and taking the day's first pull of refined poison and settling in for an oncoming bout of listlessness.
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