"We, encourage you to try again! Dance, bring about your sense, give us all your pence, and we shall teach you all we knowwwwwww about dance, giving it up for, an opportunity, dance with your love by the sea,"

"Dance enough for you and me!"

"Dance your heart away and, fill with joy, for we keep on dancing, forevermore! Brave the rooftops and once again, we dance like a brave old ren. If you—"

"Take my hand, I will set you free, lost of all sense and futility! She won and she's gone, prancing and leaping, we promise you'll dance once again,"

"We promise you'll dance... once again."

The radio clicked on to display the news, discussing yet another someone who had done something to some unimportant someones. His old, scarred hand fumbled with the dial, setting it to another channel which had just started on an infamous reporter following the events of a such and such town in such and such a place. He left it to play, going to make breakfast.

"And now onto the *sfink sfer ffffsssss* about the *Tsfccsssss fssschhh fsss sch* Foulle at the museum of *sch nd fschusch*. Follow on one hundred and forty eigh—"

He clicked the radio off, pulling on his coat and scarfing down the rest of his breakfast. His long, blonde hair often came in the way of him on mornings like these, in all earnest, but today seemed an exception; his hair stayed how he wanted it for once. Of course, the one time it did he didn't notice, but it was better than nothing.

Pounding down the stairs of his brownstone apartment building to floor 1, he dashed out the door with barely a wave of mention at the desk clerk. They weren't of much importance to him anyway, no offense. Already down the street and across the walk, he didn't stop even to tie his own shoelaces. Ah, the life of a city citizen. Unsleeping and thus generally fatigued, you might normally find one at a wake up joint; Dunkin Donuts seemed extremely popular, at that.

He himself worked with a few buddies at a semi-popular club called the Atrius, making martinis and Sex on the Beach-es and virtually anything you could dream up that was even remotely related to alcohol. Currently, however, he was running late. This wasn't normally an issue. Yes, on occasions like this, his boss would say something such as, "Oh, you're running late? No problem, just clean up Table 4 and get to work." Not to say his boss was lax, of course. Just lenient when it came to an extra five minutes. However, today was a special event; VIPs had booked their bar for a party of sorts, and they were already arriving at this time. That is to say, early evening. Anyway, this meant they couldn't afford to be understaffed today.

He seemed to be the only one who got the drift, for when he arrived, nearly no other workers had, and those who were there were drastically overwhelmed. It was right to work, then. No pre-job chitter chatter or lax discussion with the bar-goers. This was sure to be fun.

———

"So you said your name was Jack, eh?"