A cornerstone of American Big Business, the Whitmore Building stood straight and proud in the late morning sun. Thankfully for those inside, most of the 98th floor was either at lunch or various business appointments when the building …moved. A muted whump of an explosion seconded the movement and slowly, so very slowly, the building started to tilt. The office became a whirlwind of flying paper, furniture, people, and debris. Desks up-ended, spilling their contents like vomit before punching holes in walls, floors, and tumbling through ceiling tile, and body parts alike. Metal bones shrieked in protest as the building fell, twisting in a semi-circle before the sound of brick tearing through concrete deafened all those trapped inside who were still awake and alive. Movement stopped. The top half of the Whitmore building hung off it’s neighbor like a discarded a child’s toy.

What few people had postponed their lunch until later in the day lay strewn about the wreckage. Some were broken like raggedy dolls, while benign office-mart furniture impaled others. Only two men remained awake, more by chance than by any skill at avoiding danger. One crawled out from beneath an overturned couch, overstuffed cushions having spared him the worst of the damage. It was a few moments before his hearing came back and he noticed that the second man had landed on the window. 

David Whitmore. 33. Handsome. Respected. Businessman extraordinaire. He drives a cherry red Lamborghini Gallardo and takes up two parking spaces in the executive lot. He doesn’t need it. He just uses it. Like a lot of things.

“Ugghh..my head…wha’s going on? What happened?”

He doesn’t know what happened. Funny for a man who prided himself on knowing everything. Maybe the blood running from the cut in his forehead has something to do with it. He looks like something out of a horror movie. I guess what’s inside will out, right?

“Who’s talking? Is that you…err…Jefferson…? Give me a … oh my g-d, is that the STREET???”

Wow. Fear. Who would’a thought it? Of course we are at least a thousand feet up in the air. I’m betting he doesn’t see the cracks in the window. They’re all around him. Like a halo, really.

“What?”

If you wait, they’ll get bigger. Promise.

“Oh G-d.”

No, I don't think He's listening to you right now. Normally the suicide-tempered glass would have held you up all day, but Cyndy Harding, that tasty little morsel you’ve been doing off hours, well her new mahogany desk didn’t help your case at all when it landed point first.

“OK, look — Jefferson, I don’t know who you’re talking to or why, and I don’t really give a fuck, but you have to get me off this thing.”

Fate has a sick sense of humor, especially when the begging man can’t even remember his savior’s name.

“It’s Frank, right? Frank? Ok — I admit — I’m a little lax. I’m sorry, all right? I can make good things happen for you. Just give me a hand he… what’s that sound?”

Deep down you know what that sound is, David. The terror is etched on your face. It sounds like your future cracking away. Like egg shells.

“Help me!”

If only I could. But I haven’t filled out the paperwork for that. Sorry. 

“What do you want? Name your price — anything. Anything at all! Cars? Money? Women? A promotion? I can do that for you.”

You are so hopeful, aren’t you? Here comes that humor again. Lust is one of the seven deadly sins, David, and you have been so very sinful. Secretary’s. Wives. Whores. Daughters. My daughter.

“Oh shit.”

Never thought I’d see that day when you’d crawl, David. It’s refreshing, really. Almost heart-warming. So blind to get where he’s going that he doesn’t see the chair.

“Chair? …what chair?”

The one that’s about to let you fly.

The open window brought screams of abject terror and a strong gust whipping through the offices of the former 98th floor of the Whitmore building nearly taking Frances Jeffries off his feet. He steadied himself briefly on the carpeted floor-turned-wall and turned, listening quietly until the screams faded, and determined to find his way back out of this hellish place.

Sally Osbourne, Senior VP of Human Relations, was bored out of her skull. Edwards could talk when he wanted to, and he was really trying to put the standard congressional filibuster to shame today. Much as she hated to admit it, getting her yearly gyno exam  would be better than listening to him drone on. It wouldn’t be so bad if he would just take a breath every once in a while. Or allow her to handle it.

Music exploded from the office beyond. For all the world it sounded like that famous burlesque stripper song from the 20’s.  People cheered and clapped loudly. Someone else was two-fingered whistling - the type that was generally reserved for sporting events.

Edward’s pencil, a yellow number two, broke in his hands, “For the love of Pete— THIS is what I’m talking about. A blatant disregard for the policies this company — MY company — has put in place!”

Sally stood, disregarding Mr. Edwards. True, there were some violations — mostly folks coming in late, or someone nuking tuna in the small office kitchenette every day for the last week and a half. Her stomach lurched, but she pushed it down. Normally the office was a quiet place. Certainly not a strip club.

Edwards joined her as she turned the knob and they both peered out at the party-like atmosphere. The lights around the perimeter of the office were off, allowing only the center aisle to be illuminated. Desks were shoved by the walls and chairs moved out of the way. All the people were circled widely around a central figure.

Edwards sputtered, his face turning an unhealthy shade of fuchsia. Pushing through the crowd, Edwards came face to face with his greatest fear: a male stripper. Here, in his office. It didn’t help that the man was clad in only short cut-offs, blue suspenders, and a bright yellow hard hat.

Sally ducked around Edwards noting the furrowed chasms etched into his forehead. She could almost read his mind - sexual harassment claims could quickly turn into lawsuits. Much as the stripper was probably there for someone’s birthday and she personally didn’t have a problem with it, she did have to watch out for the comfortable nature of the office. Maybe she could move the display over to a conference room.

She spoke over the music, “I’m sorry, everyone, but…” Her voice caught in her throat as she got a good look at the stripper. “…Jim…?”. She had to restrain herself from shouting. This was the last thing she needed given the mood Edwards was in.

“What are you doing here?”, she asked, barely restraining her anger. Then she saw his get-up, “What are you doing??”

Jim Heisman grinned like a toothpaste ad. “You know you’ve always asked me about that job I had in college that I never talk about, right?”

“Yes,” she said tapping a finger against crossed arms.

“Well, if we’re gonna to get married, then I thought I should let you know all of my deep, dark secrets.”

“All of your…wait, what?”

“My deep, dark secrets.” He teased.

“No, no, no…the other thing you said. Say it again.”

Jim took off his hat and knelt before her, his face all seriousness now, “Complete me?”

He opened the box and there, glittering under the fluorescent lights, was the prettiest little diamond she had ever seen. He held her hand gently as he slipped the ring on.  She gazed at it in wonder.

There was only one thing left to say, “Yes!”