The security guard’s eyes drinks him in with a glance, eyes fixed on the sweaty sticky wetness that embodies the target.

Another victim of the sky lounge; taken in by sweetly worded false promises of dry air and brutalistic architecture, only to fall prey to the supple curves of some madman’s wet dream of a better tomorrow.

Well not today, bub. Spread those legs, and arms apart. You’ll be flying in a chair soon.