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Esmé was engrossed in a trashy romance novel when the shots rang out. Slowly inching towards the window he mirthlessly smiled as he observed the confrontation between the garishly dressed individuals from the relative safety of the rundown room he currently occupied. Usually he wouldn’t be caught dead in a flop-house such as this, but desperate times called for desperate measures. He winced as he heard one of the drug addled derelicts that he was forced to share this shack with roll out of bed. Typical delta-human junkie. As he listened to her pass he briefly considered scoping out her room for some cocaine for himself to ease his ennui, but decided against doing so while she was still alive as not to trigger the intrinsic animalistic violence that he presumed existed inside any lower class person. He heard the clamor of others jumping to action and assumed if he lived such a miserable existence as of the lot of them, he would have a death wish as well.

He audibly sighed as he ruminated on the past few months. When, the crisis hit the first few days were a haze of drug inhalation and intimate encounters; it was like a holiday in pagan Rome for Esmé and his well to do cohorts. Despite the loss of his club in the disaster, social order hadn’t collapsed yet. Though a lot of people lowered their inhibitions, he even managed have a tryst with of all people Issac Crawford; which if you travelled in Esmé circles was a huge accomplishment because supposedly the only man in Issac’s life he was intimate with was Jesus Christ. He bit his bottom lip; those were good times indeed. It was a shame that the poors had to ruin all of fun. It was natural for the lower classes to be jealous of the opulence of the rich, but the police were supposed to maintain social order when all else failed. Esmé thought the LAPD should have used more force to ensure the groveling masses returned to work and ceased rioting. Because of their incompetence he was stuck in this decaying city until his parents found a way to get him out. He was more than willing to call this American experiment a bust and return to France; the first thing he would do when he returned to his homeland would be to go to Paris and start the arduous process of rebuilding his wardrobe.

He looked around at his numerous possessions. All things considered he managed to accumulate a sizable selection of outfits living in the hovel much to the chagrin of the others. It is like they all expected him to exert himself in gathering things for communal use. As if.  Why put in effort in providing for inferiors, he is indispensable while they are not. Though he learned not to verbalize such thoughts, lest he get a tongue lashing from one of these deviants. He decided to show restraint and hold his tongue with these degenerates, until the moment a better opportunity with more civilized individuals presented itself. 

Being careful to keep his head low and make as little noise as possible he managed to pick out an outfit that summed up his mood as of late. Ivory Slim-Fit Tapered Wool Suit Trousers, Wyatt Suede Chelsea Boots, a 14-Karat Gold Diamond Bracelet, and a pink Cotton-Gauze T-Shirt with the phrase “Let them Eat Cake” printed on the front in white lettering. He made his way to a bathroom and changed clothes. Despite the situation clearly requiring urgency he was taking his time not only perfecting his look, but clearly stalling so others could deal with the potentially messy situation. He thought about snooping around some of the others’ rooms again. One of these lowlifes were bound to have some cocaine hidden away or coffee. Oh god, he missed a good espresso. The group needed to acquire him an espresso machine. He looked at himself in the cracked mirror for longer than is healthy and once done admiring himself wondered if it was worth the risk to go back to his room and pick out some lipstick.