Today was a special day for our Hero.
He had watched his pretty face on the television.
He knew he was back.
He admired his own beauty in the full length mirror as he headed out the front door.
He could almost hear the Bee Gees telling him the New York Times don’t make a man, as he headed into the hail of papparazzi.
This day would have been perfect.
SPECIAL
There was noone there.
No stalkers.
No Minolta Quatum 6175 Halo Flash.
No deadbeat reporters.
No Bee Gees.
No New York Times.

His legs pumped toxic waste into his fickle sick heart. The heart that could only be important as a looking glass reflecting the fake smiles of adoring fans.
His legs ran like they were stealing bread in some modern day Les Mis’.
That is what brought him to the top of the Santorrini tower.
No more running.
On his way to fly, he tripped over a Chinese toddler.
A chopstick.
A snapp.
He couldnt even hear the screams of a mother.
Fuct the New York Times.
He was alive seeing things die.
No Bee Gees.
No flight.
He wanted more death.