The burning had only recently caught the nose of he who laid above, proving a mild irritation. One that provoked a harsh itch across the bridge to his nose. Its scent produced a wavering annoyance to his senses. What some may consider problematic, this man found tiresome to contemplate the potential for danger associated with this fire.
So, in his delirium, the man scoffed away his guards as well as his accountant to pay further attention to the issue rather than bog him down. Their words strained his mind to places he dare not wish for it to go. As the last of their footsteps fled the pulsating dance floor, empty except for the vessel, he pondered on which to spend his night with.
On occasion he chose Scarlett, her hair smelled like the artificial roses manufactured by the perfume industries. Quite possibly the best fragrance he owned, indulging the pleasure of capture. Only issue was the look in her eye after he ripped more of it out. Over her stay, the man made sure to keep her follicles safely collected in a jar overlooked on top of his ivory dresser.
Night and day, she truly was the one for him, yet it was that look again. The day whence he removed that look permanently ran ever closer. Then, she would have to rely on the man for all her needs. He could apply her makeup, touch that hair of hers as he sprayed the perfume.
It would be so sweet.
The man absently saw the fire dissipate into the night sky, becoming nothing more than a midge on the canvas of space. He sneered, as if anyone could truly enter his complex. Hadn't been near a decade since a rival attempted provocation and he made sure to leave the scar deep in their minds.
In all likelihood, one of the grunts must've lit a cigarette too close to their car causing this whole mess. If he had half a brain, that grunt would already be in Tahiti, but even then, the man would make sure he was tracked down then lifted from earth by way of slaughter before his peers as punishment. These people were too stupid to not make mistakes, thus punishment must be jarring to keep order amongst them.
Shuffling through the pockets in his magenta bathrobe, serving no purpose in hiding his nakedness beneath the cloth, the man found them empty except for some lint and cherry condoms. The man was perturbed by this development. Often, he kept the packets of "sugar" at the lip of his robe, however, what remained must've fallen out while he slept in the office.
The man slackened his bottom jaw nearly yelling out with a drowned-out sigh conveying a bound laziness. Without cause for concern, he shuffled along the trash heaped floor of the open glass room, its energy deflated from the usual nights of ear blaring techno alongside distracting light shows which fizzled the mind. He couldn't stand this drab and dreary atmosphere any longer. It was like a picture book with all the color sucked out while the speaker talked in a monotone voice as a way to bore the congressing children.
Lifting the levers of both handles belonging to a set of double doors, the man nudged them open leaving just enough space for him to squeeze through. In the presence of his greatest mess, the man flopped both arms adjacently to his sides like limp half-frozen noodles. In its entirety, the room labeled as an office was stacked to the left with newspapers, comics, and other items which were sought after in deplorable fashion by its owner. Toward what could be considered the center of the cramped space was a shining desk standing tall with a chair furnished to a shine allowing the man to see his own pudgy face in it. If the man were to climb up into his cushioned chair, someone would be found intimidated by the way in which his back straightened itself as his height eclipsed that of the receiver across from him on the other side of the thick desk.
Yet, by chance, if you walked to the side of the same desk, you would notice his feet dangling off the edge of the very seat.
Tonight, would not elicit a sight. He was tired, he was annoyed, and the headache pounding further in the back of his brain grew louder by the minute. Clutching his temple, the man rummaged his other hand across the countertop, brushing aside papers of varying bills and letters as well as tossing away loose photos of his women into the empty basket at the corner of his chair. Over time, he realized that his bags of "sugar" were not in the room, and having torn it practically apart, leaving a mess for the custodians to reorganize, the man no longer needed the bag to subside his easing headache.
But, if the "sugar" wasn't on his desk, then where could it have gone? If he had dropped it the maid would've picked it up and placed it back on his desk.
'Where could it have gone?'
It was only then, his back faced to the window overlooking the longest strip of his territory, stretching from the harbor to nearly half of the downtown area, did he feel the breeze of a chilling gust of wind. A window he knew was shut and locked was now, in fact, open. It accepted the blows from clouds turning the interior an icy hue from its drop in temperature.
He cautiously approached the windowsill dashing his eyes across its base noticing a chip in the wood. To him, he had seen the very image beforehand during his own time cat burglarizing old grandmas on death's door. During this period, he would use a crowbar to force entry on the rotting wood to their windows. To the man, it looked startling the same as if someone had broken into his office. As if someone had done so mere moments ago. As if the person who did so was still in this very room.
Gulping on the lump in his throat, the man didn't move an inch from his spot. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his body length mirror, stretched from the floor to nearly the height of the ceiling. This mirror, polished and shined allowing for not a tainted posh upon its surface, very might have saved his life.
It reflected back the entirety of the office. The mounds of light novels, pornographic magazines, as well as himself. But the object of importance lay nothing else but his personal closet, moved from the bedroom into here. The one responsible for his bane existence. For, hidden in its foliage was the one who had trespassed.
A figure clad in black, with no breath to his name. A millisecond must have passed before the intruder realized he had been caught. Tossing away the subtlety of his potential, the figure exited the closet releasing an echoing creak on the part of the rusted hinge to the birch door.
The person stood hidden behind rows of coats and jackets slinking out from them like a cat stalking a noisy mouse. Initially, all the man saw was the reflective slick steel of the revolver's barrel poking between the sleeves in his winter coats. Nothing else had to be identified to understand his position. The need for drugs vanished along with the sudden buildup of urine in the man's tract, releasing itself onto the carpeting.
Someone found themself in his sacred room. This was a place for secrets, for his inner thoughts to be tossed about with no criticism present.
A drawer to his desk still hung open with an abundance of silk thongs stacked above an array of checkered pantyhose not to be outdone by the azure string to a lacy bra decorated by a floral pattern which snuck its way between either item into clear view of the intruder. Besides his trinkets, the man grew ashamed of the painting of not just himself but several congressmen nude with his ladies of choice. This person could ruin the man if he felt like doing so, a single glance at the inside of this room forced out so many questions to someone that they would be dazed as to where they should begin.
Yet, the intruder seamlessly never took his eyes off the portly man.