the flower-faced businessman

Time doesn't matter here. In this strange city of upside-down spires and glass streets there is no rightful path to natural life or death per se, no specific governing rules so as to indicate either the definite birth or destruction of any one individual. With most of the city's inhabitants failing to demonstrate mortality or, for the most part, nearly any sort of humanity as a general census, it is only practical that the colossal, free-floating clocks and bell towers dispersed throughout the city function as purely decorative objects to be admired, symbols for the few chosen and newly seraphic occupants to regard as vestiges of a lesser, smaller life. Thus the elimination of unnecessary construction workers regarding, specifically, the titanic, golden clocks has been set into motion as only one of the first steps of the general improvement plan for the third provincial area of the divine city. Increasing efficiency and reducing costs, that's the company motto. Even more pressing, with the addition of an average of fifteen to fifty new residents per day and an ever decreasing outflow, more energy and space is required to comfortably accommodate the growing population through the creation of greater buildings, facilities, and various recreational centers -- leading to an estimate of approximately 2,000 lesser beings being replaced with the more desirable 1,000 to 1,500 higher celestial members. Quite a logical decision to be executed within the next few weeks or so. The only time that matters now, really, is the range of business hours between the rivaling coffee and tea shops standing adjacent from one another just a few blocks away from the spiraled office building. The yelling back and forth is always a nice touch. In this strange city of gods, beasts, and other oddities, the seven o'clock latte and chocolate chip muffin still reigns supreme on my list of priorities.

I suppose the noticeable habit is exactly why a ceramic mug and wrapped pastry perch on the edge of heavy, cream-colored stationery, unobtrusive. Also very delightfully scented. I am glad to note that if a kidnapping were to ever occur again, I am lucky to expect that it is a very tasteful, floral-scented, business oriented kidnapping.

And the eccentric, flower-faced man behind it all stands in the corner, of course, grinning. I sigh.

"You couldn't have at least waited until I read the note before you came in here? Kind of ruined the whole surprise kidnapping, if you ask me." The sheer-paneled dress placed on one of the salon's numerous, slightly overdone cherry dressers rests lightly in my hand as I run my fingers over the expensive cloth, regarding the details of the baroque hotel room: gold and silver accents on every possible piece of wall and furniture imaginable, five or ten mirrors too many for one chamber, small, strange, and intricate statuettes occupying much more space than appropriate on any one table. Or floor. The businessman runs four, tulip-tipped fingers against the edge of the door frame to capture my attention again, and I turn to the sight of him rolling the golden filigree sphere in the air, impatient. I catch myself before I smile, continuing, "Though I suppose I should've expected that it was you, given the bouquets and floral everything everywhere."

 Mr. Aster -- or Arum or Acacia or Amaryllis, I'd forgotten exactly what he had introduced himself as at the company meeting last week -- shrugs, signing an apology. He had only been instructed to ensure my presence at the more private meeting of representatives of the reigning corporate powers, hadn't been given any specifics as to which methods were appropriate or inappropriate. Not that kidnapping was especially preferred, but given that -- ------- reach me at -- ------, he ---------- it ---------. I look at him in confusion; he signs again: - ------- reach --- -- your ------.

He shakes his head and points at the watch on his wrist before I can ask him to repeat himself. Late -- or, with those extra gestures, about to be late? Already late? The supportive communication classes at the Divine Business School for the newly seraphic had never been quite as useful as I had wanted them to be. A question about why, exactly, he had chosen such a roundabout way of taking me to something as simple as a smaller meeting between representatives would take at least three days. Or, as another example, questioning all the flowers and fancy, scented card that I hadn't bothered to read and baroque, almost-certainly-paid-for-by-corporate room would take nearly a decade.

A look, then: will --- -- out to ------ with --?

I nod my head in general agreement. The flower-faced businessman smiles.