[h3][center]Summerson & Suhl Airstrip[/center][/h3]

Music burned out of Max's earbuds, but was mostly drowned out by the jarring of his body and the rush of blood in his ears. It was a chilly afternoon, he had returned from Old Starboard well before sunset and still the sun had yet to set. He was jogging, wearing shorts and an oil stained T-Shirt that smelled of too many days without a wash. Curls of white breath escaped his lips as he panted to the beat of the music. It had become a more of a ritual than a means of exercise, and he prided himself for going at it almost everyday, almost religiously. The Runway was a under a mile long, in the ball park of four thousand feet, Max ran up and down its length four times on a normal day, and on either end awaited him a tractor tire. 

As Max approached the end of his final leg he began to speed up, holding the pace for a considerable distance before slowing to a stop at the tire. He shoved his hands beneath it and flipped it, and continued to do so until it was firmly off of the airstrip, four lights from where it started. Panting, Max hunched over, hands on knees as he gave his aching body a moment or respite. But only a moment.

He moved towards his car, his body feeling light as it normally did after a workout, and climbed in. Max reached into the foot space in front of the passenger seat and produced a large, plastic bottle of water, uncapping it. He downed about half of what was left, leaving the remaining water to slosh around in the passenger seat. The sweaty man lightly tossed the bottle away from him, and turned the key in the ignition, making the car start with a rapturous roar. 

[h3][center]Summerson Estate[/center][/h3]

Max's legs always felt a bit weak after a run, making standing in the shower an uncomfortable task. So the steel chair he had put in there came in handy. He sat on it, reversed, arms folded on the top of the back rest and chin propped up on his hands. The door to the bathroom was open, and beyond foggy, streaky glass, on a chair by his dresser, a tuxedo hung in a plastic dry cleaner's bag. He stared it it for a few moments longer, until what was left of the suds on his body curled up at his feet, then pushed himself out of the chair. 

Standing in the mirror, Max tugged at his sleeves and smiled at himself, "Hello there, Handsome." A mumble escaped his throat, before he swept up his cuff links and car keys, and descended to the driveway. On his way out he passed dusty, canvas covered rooms and dusty paintings of landscapes and family.

The door closest to the front door was the only room not habited solely by rats and old furniture, inside a fire crackled and the tiny sound from an old TV set bubbled and twanged. Max creaked the door open, the light of the fire leaking around the mass of couch between him and it. Through the television he spoke.

"Momma?" His voice was almost timid, almost like he was asking the room and not a person. A soft voice cooed from the other side of the couch, the source completely obscured behind the tall back rest. 

"Hmm?" 

"I'm going to the Swan Song, do you need me to bring anything on my way back?" She took a moment to think, and Max stood there, waiting patiently. When she took too long to respond, Max cleared his throat and coughed into his hand, drawing a response. 

"Just bring yourself home safe and sound, Max." Max nodded and swept a hand through his hair, "And bring a lady over Max, I'm starting to have a suspicion you don't like them." He burned red, a sarcastic laugh snorting out of him, to which she chuckled. "Go. Enjoy yourself, Maxi." 

"Alright, Momma. Remember to put the fire out before you sleep." With that Max left, stepping out into the evening chill and to the black car glossy in the moonlight.

[h3][center]The Swan's Song[/center][/h3]

Max adjusted his cuffs from the warm confines of his car, making sure the small, round, black cuff links were on straight. Giving his hair one final look over in the rear view mirror, Max was satisfied that he was as prepared as he ever would be. Despite being a frequent visitor for the musical events, Max could never shake the buzz the place gave him when he parked his car across the road from it. He stepped out, leather shoes as waxy as the moon, hat tucked under his arm and bow tie dangling from the front pocket of his Tux. 

Stepping through the door, greeted by a tinkling bell and a twinkling belle, Max gave his best smile which was little more than a tired grin, and a showy bow, holding his hat to his chest. The hostess giggled and to the bar she lead him, trailing the scent of his crisp cologne. He pushed himself into a stool and gestured with his hand to be served, giving the same smile he gave previously.

"Scotch. On the rocks." He ordered, swiping his card and taking a sip before turning the stool around to face into the establishment.