Mayor Samson was a man of habit, and habit was the vice of the thinking man. The evening cocktail for the sober and scholarly. The afternoon cigarette for philosophers of a healthier disposition. This, of course, was exactly what the mayor thought of himself as; A god-fearing, able-bodied, red-blooded American. He was a prideful man, too prideful to be aware of his own rotund shape and overexerted heart in spite of his morning walks. The town's mayor resembled the monopoly man more than he would have liked to admit, and at three hundred and fifteen pounds, was easily the weight of a young hippopotamus. Regardless of this fact, to Samson, there was no better example of what Probity's people should aspire to be than their own mayor. He stretched back in his leathery chair with a squeak, puffing on his habitual morning cigar. An old classical painting, an antiquated family of five, hung above his office's fireplace. [i]L'incendie[/i]. Mayor Samson didn't know what it meant and frankly, he didn't care to learn. French was a language for losers, and Mayor Samson was a [i]winner[/i]. Today, moreso than usual. He had finally finished renovating his bathroom, and was going to celebrate when he got home by ordering his favorite lady of the evening. He took another puff of his cigar, coughing for a brief few moments before wetting his throat with the dry brandy on his desk.

"It's a good day to be mayor." Samson said, pulling a phlegmy grumble of a voice up through his layers of neck meat. "It's a good day... To be [i]me[/i]." He said, catching his breath through the thick gray smoke. More than he needed more brandy, or another puff of his cigar, Solomon needed to extract some cash at the bank. Ladies of the evening rarely took IOU's, especially Candy. Not a problem for a man such as the mayor, though driving across town to the bank was beginning to become a hassle. At least he wouldn't be lonely tonight. A single sausage finger pressed a button on his phone's receiver.

"Karen, cancel any appointments I have today... I'm going to the bank."

He waited a few moments, staring at the newfangled piece of technology in front of him.

"Sure thing, sir."

He clapped giddily, hoisting himself up with a great heave. He wobbled in his seat for a moment, beginning to pull himself up. He had become stuck in the chair as he often had, and was heaving back and forth between his desk, hoping to gain enough leverage to free himself. With a grunt, he gripped the edge of his desk tightly, pulling himself up once and for all. He felt a pinch in his side, and steadied himself on the table. His painting was oddly... Fuzzy? He hadn't drank enough for it to be --

As he analyzed his own situation, the room began to spin. Samson gripped an intense pain in his side, using his cigar-hand to grab at his desk as he fell onto his back. First, he reached towards his desk, though the pain was too unbearable to stand. He laid back, allowing the pain to wash over him. He felt as if he would pass out at any moment, and, as he could tell by the encroaching blackness around his vision, he was in the process of doing so. He grunted once more, letting out what would be his final words.

"This goddamned town."