Okay, this is good. Someone’s finally pulled out a cell phone. If I’m lucky, they’re calling… I don’t know. Someone with a firetruck? Fuck. They’ve turned the goddamn thing around; they’re taking a goddamn picture for a friend. Fuck me.

Alright, I’ll try shouting again. No. That didn’t work. Son of a bitch.

If I knew how I got up here, maybe I’d know how to get down. Problem is, I have no idea how I ended up on a piece of concrete attached to the side of a fifteen story historic office building downtown. I suppose I probably came down from the roof, but I’m sure as Hell not getting back up that way.

Fuck. Excuse me. You’d be saying “fuck” a lot too if you were sitting on a tiny piece of concrete 130’ up.

Oh, nice. Now some shithead is shouting, “Jump, jump!” Asshole. Now half the crowd is doing it. Yeah, same to ya! Assholes!

This is the second worst fugue I’ve had. It’s not as bad as the time with the customs agents, the panda bear and the fifteen grams of plutonium. But, damn, it’s close.