[h1]Jasmine Plunkett[/h1]
[hr]
Fourteenth floor, elevator opens. Rasta-woman exits and nearly collides with famished patrons making their way towards the layer of the feast. She allows the ravenous mongrels to pass by her before carrying on with her journey, for she too hungers.

She follows the pack of ingrates to the meeting room, catching every other half of their eyes and losing them just as quick. It's the hat. It's always the friggin' hat. It was probably the only one of its kind in that entire building, but the people of Whittier wouldn't have to worry about seeing Jasmine's ragged crown too often during the long night. Once this preemptive feast was concluded, she would march back to her hovel and hibernate like a bear, waking only to consume food items or play video games out of horrible boredom.

She enters the meeting room. There are people, already feasting, around the chairs and tables lined with glorious hunger-reducers. She weaves past the crowd and makes a bee-line for the buffet line.

God help the soul of anyone who stood in her way, for they would most likely have their shit smacked.