The car crashed, the sound extremely loud and audible above the regular street noises of Archgate City. It was a sad thing, really, for Hoffman was enjoying watching everyone walk around with a cigarette hanging limply from his lips. He had become accustomed to the dull rumble of the city streets, and the brief sections of conversation that he caught from people as they strolled by him on the sidewalk. There was a nice little park nearby, where a bunch of winos had congregated, and he could hear their gravelly voices talking about some stupid shit that only the drunk homeless talk about. When the little foreign import was leveled by the larger taxi, the impact smashing glass and pasting the taxi driver's face against his steering wheel, Hoffman hardly flinched. It seemed natural, everything in the city. The winos were natural. The mindless American conversations about nothing at all important were natural. The honking of horns and the revving of engines at red lights was natural. The collision of two automobile drivers trying to do fifty MPH in a congested downtown street and ending up destroying each other's faces and spines and limbs was natural. Everything in the city was natural, because the city represented humanity, and humanity was natural. And Hoffman represented America, for when others rushed to the scene to see if they could help the occupants of the two hideously wrecked vehicles, he just threw his cigarette at the street, and walked back to the soaring, triumphant office tower before him. He walked in.

"Good morning, Mr. Hoffman."

"How do you do, Mr. Hoffman?"

"What was that outside, Mr. Hoffman?"

"Nice tie, Mr. Hoffman."

"Hey, listen: Bob Gunthauer has been calling me about the goddamn shareholders. Are they gonna take a hit, and all of that. What the hell should I say to the guy? I have half a mind to go tell him to find another fucking partner."

"Your wife called. She said she's upset. That was her message."

Hoffman shut the door to his broad, spacious office. He walked over and traced one of his fingers along an oak bookcase, which contained many of his volumes that he had brought from his home library. He selected one at random and pulled it out: Sinclair Lewis' Elmer Gantry. He opened it and read a few lines, and then he closed it and put it back on the shelf. It was a ritual of his to select one of his books and read from it, just to start his day. He took off his suit jacket tossed it carelessly on his luxurious leather couch, which matched the dark brown feel of his imposing office. He paused to admire the marble bust of his grandfather, the once- powerful Erezeberus Hoffman, the builder of the family fortune, and then he sat down behind his mighty teak desk. He patched through to his secretary. "Cindy," he said, his voice tired, old, dead, yet the voice of the Boss.

"Yes, sir?"

"Is the bust of my grandfather a bit much, do you think?"

An uncertain pause, then: "It might be, sir, if you feel so."

"I need some honesty here, Cindy. Jesus Christ, I mean is it a bit much? Is it a bit fucking imperial, or something?" His voice had become impassioned and aroused to some sort of hot frenzy, which seemed altogether poetic. "I mean, is God going to fuck me real good for the fact that I had some goddamn bust in my fucking office? Is He gonna say 'Jesus, Hoffman. You've done it now with the whole imperial extravagance thing. You're gonna pot-roast with the Devil now for a whole mothafuckin eternity for that shit."

"Pardon, sir, but I don't think God would say such things."

"Who gives a holy shit what He would goddamn say, really," Hoffman said. "Ever get those days when you witness a few people die in their automobiles, and you don't give a shit? Ever have those days when you would rather throw a smoke on the street and litter the fucking place rather than help my brothers in Christ pull two twisted, bloody rags out of their crunched vehicles? Ever wonder about certain things like marble busts and government intervention in private enterprise and how many times you can cheat on the Wife without her knowing it, and what to say to the bitch when she does find out?"

"I can't say that I do, sir."

He sighed, alone in his vast office, the window behind him revealing the beautiful, monumental skyscrapers of the City. "Well, what if I was to say that if you don't say something worth hearing in response to my inquiries your tight little ass will be looking for another job?"

Another long pause and Hoffman could almost hear her heart beating. "Perhaps, the bust is a bit much, sir."

Hoffman smiled despite himself. "Yeah, it is, isn't it? If only deciding what to do with it was the least of my problems." He hung up on her, and then went and sat down behind his palatial desk. He might have dialed his wife if he actually gave a shit about anything at this point. Maybe, just to further throw salt in his wounds, he would seduce his pretty little secretary again today, whispering in her ear the glory of Higher Wages as he nibbled on the little fleshy part of her ear where it was pierced. Then, he would rub her stiff nipples through the frail material of her blouse, and begin to kiss her slowly, sensuously, working at his heat and her naive indecision, feeling her body tremble with anticipation, revulsion, excited triumph. Yes, he would give her extra money. He would use her to gratify his lust for firmer breasts and a tighter clit, since naturally his wife had passed on to uselessness after she had their third child. Then, Cindy could go out with her girlfriends using the extra money she "earned" and laugh over Cognacs on how she was fucking her boss.

Hoffman shook his head at himself. What had happened to the youthful Billy Hoffman who had dreamed of being a doctor as he played with his friends innocently in the street? What had happened to the young man who had so much resolve and conviction when he had entered the work world? He was going to change things, and to Hell with big business! How badly he had been seduced by money and power. How complete was his death. The door to his office opened, and in stepped Cindy with a bundle of papers in her arms. In she came, with those long legs that she worked on at the gym, the legs that he wanted so badly to be wrapped around his midsection as he thrust into her, making her cute mouth open slightly as she took him in, their sweat mixing, their fluids all over and around them and in them. Nothing but lust, after all. Like animals with good clothes on.

Would he change now, after so long? Would he fight himself, and maybe become reborn, and possess some semblance of life again after all of the years he had killed with his pen and briefcase?

"Cindy I, uh, want to discuss something with you. Something about a pay raise."

Change comes slowly, it seems.

A/N: I'm of course very interested to hear what everyone thinks of this one. Not particularly fascinating or exciting, but maybe something can be had from it.