Señor Flórma sits in a terri-cloth trench coat, fresh out of Creme Brulé. His threaded rubber sweater is catching on his chest hairs. What ever happened to function? he wonders, dipping the big toe of his croissant in what is left of the black coffee he purchased thirty minutes ago. Ordering the cup was an attempt to feel warm, to dry off, to be inspired. Now it is room temp and undesirable. Señor Flórma is knuckling up. It's gonna be a long day and these pants are too tight to endure any compromised croissants.