Power hour was over and you and your wingman were on your way home. You'd exhausted your vast repertoire of A.I.D.S. jokes and you were too drunk to put a carrot in a washtub, so date rape was hardly on the evening's agenda. But, what exactly was it about the round window on the Prince St. side of the building? Was smashing it in a substitute for the love act that you were incapable of performing? Did it remind you of the asshole that you are genetically hardwired to be until blunt trauma or a mattress fire ends your life of marginal utility. You didn't see the window in its wooden frame fall 10 feet and shatter on the floor of our business so I can understand your inability to comprehend my fury. And, since we are unlikely to ever see one cent in recompense, I'm always going to regret putting my faith in the legal system and passing up the opportunity to inflict a couple of hundred dollars worth of pain on you. I can only hope that you soiled yourself in lockup and infected your skinless knuckles, you pathetic little pismire.
Incompetent government and bad business may have killed the downtown; but it's drunken anthropophagi like yourself who are, both literally and figuratively, shitting on its grave. —Lt. Bookman