Eyes wide, Malcolm sat on the couch staring at nothing, saying nothing. All around him lay the detritous of yet another fabulous party. The walls of the hotel suite were ripped, dented and smeared with pate. The furniture, what was left of it, was overturned or covered with semi-conscious revelers. The floor was a sea of cans and bottles wherein swam pizza box whales.

Those who could do so began to stagger out of the room. Cleaning up is for suckers or hired help, after all. They all gave their compliments to their host, the illustrious Malcolm, star of stage and screen. Jokes were made. Innuendoes were butchered. Crass comments flew like rice at a wedding.

Finally, the slowest of the departing guests, a rotund, red-face man, gave the door a heavy slam as he left, partially because he was falling forward and still had a hold of the knob. With the reverberation of the door or perhaps the guest’s impact on the wall, Malcolm tipped and toppled off of the couch, having died several hours earlier.