[center]Michael Oakley[/center]
	He stood outside the local tavern that was also next to the nightclub; both dens of sin were relatively empty, a calm before the hedonist storm beneath the moonlight later in the day. Although it was one of several weekdays--or it was the last time Michael wasn't suffering from a hangover--and the party animals probably had regular lives to tend tomorrow. A cold jolt shot up his right arm beneath the brown tweed jacket he wore and it caused him to revert to a vertical stance; he more enjoyed the pole he was leaning on, though. Nothing exciting was happening, and the bus was late for the third time this week. [i]I swear Old Jenkins is gonna get fired one of these days. He ain't made this route on time in two years.[/i]
	Maybe he just didn't notice it, too busy thinking about Hegelian systems and Heidegger's stance on [i]techne[/i] to be concerned with real world (and frankly more important) issues: screams. His maple brown eyes flit to the amassing crowd; a woman brandishing an iPhone near her ear and probably describing the cause of the commotion--what looked to be a totaled car. 

"Oh, shit."

He had nothing better to do, and he wasn't particularly feeling a shot of Jameson this early in the day, so he went to investigate the scene. [@Kidd]