A guy walks into a swanky skyscraper restaurant, all glass and gleaming chrome. The place is buzzing, but he heads straight for the bar, a scowl etched onto his face that could curdle milk. He orders a tequila, downs it in one gulp, then another, and another. He’s clearly not having a good day. In fact, he’s having a tequila-fueled existential crisis, judging by the increasingly frantic way he’s slamming back the shots.
Sitting next to him is a man calmly sipping a martini. He watches the tequila-drinking man with a mixture of amusement and concern. The tequila-fueled man finishes his fifth shot, lets out a dramatic sigh, and stumbles toward the panoramic window overlooking the city. The martini-sipper raises an eyebrow.
Suddenly, with a yell that echoes slightly in the hushed elegance of the restaurant, the tequila man throws himself out the window.
The martini-sipper, barely pausing in his sip, calmly calls the bartender. “Another martini, please,” he says, “and could you send someone to clean up the… mess?” The bartender nods, completely unfazed. This, apparently, was a Tuesday.
The bartender, wiping down the bar, sighs and mumbles to himself, “Another one bites the dust…or, should I say, another one *falls* off the dust.”
A moment later, a cleaning crew appears. They are similarly unimpressed, expertly maneuvering around the shattered remnants of the tequila drinker’s phone. One even whistles a jaunty tune as they mop up a small, but surprisingly persistent, tequila spill.
The martini-sipper finishes his drink, pays his bill, and heads out. As he steps onto the sidewalk, he notices a crumpled note on the ground. He picks it up – it’s a suicide note, but it’s only a single word: “Overpriced.”
