The man in the white suit shook his head, sipping his tea, and arose from the petite porcelain chair in which he casually sat. He slowly prowled over to the poubelle and disposed of his garbage, carelessly tossing the fragile cup into the waste bin. Its shatter did not perturb him. He looked into the cerise, evening sky and there loomed the majestic Prism Tower, illuminated by not only its thirty thousand dazzling bulbs but also by his disconcerting interest.
"What an industrial eyesore," the nonchalant phrase rolled off of his tongue as if he was apathetic (yet slightly agitated, although it did not show) towards the subject of the modern marvel.
He closed his Holo Caster with no further thought and caught the next taxi. He ensconced himself within the confines of the plush seat, and even he became slightly cynical at even his own idea; it required further deliberation, surely. But would deliberation only hinder progress? According to the simple laws of bureaucracy, when in doubt, ponder, and when in toil, quarrel. This, though, would not withstand the asinine quarrels of the executive offices. He knew this to be true. If only there were some way to stage an... accident.
