Monday, November 20, 2006 - 12:15 a.m.

Early morning. Foggy.

A cityscape on the far horizon.

Cecil skids across the wet asphalt shingle. He teeters over the roof of a forty-story public works building, his arms cranking wildly backward. A terrible gyre of water churns violently below him. He shifts his balance, takes a breath, and turns to face the man behind him.

Benoit is panting and sweating; a well-cut man caught in an unflattering moment. He too slides to a halt, desperately raising and aiming his 9mm Ladysmith pistol.

Cecil smirks. He slips his hand into his jacket pockets.

Benoit eases closer to Cecil. Cecil peers over the edge of the building.

Cecil: What are your plans if I go over this edge?

Benoit does not respond.

Cecil: Would you move to the country? Another city? What about your family?

Benoit: What about yours?

Cecil: Everyday people think nothing’s wrong. They think that things getting better. We cannot solve this problem because we are this problem. Do you stop eating fast food because a movie says-so? Do you stop driving your car because it’s an inconvenient truth? This is inconvenience. This is where you live.

Benoit: Let’s talk. I empathize.

Cecil: You don’t. You don’t feel what I feel. And I feel it always. Everywhere.

Cecil pulls a gun from his jacket pocket.

Benoit steadies, uprights.

Cecil: I am no longer a man. I am a plague. I am a crisis.

Cecil raises the gun to point it at Benoit. Benoit fires on him.

The first bullet presses his balance backward. He topples over the edge of the building, shifting backward with the weight of a sack of potatoes. His body descends into the powerful cement turbines. He obliterates, immediately. His remains are sucked down into the whirlpool – his organs are dispersed among the water supply.

Benoit drops to his knees. He breathes with heavy sorrow.

He calls his family.

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