The antiseptic smells of the hospital pierced his nose, and the iridescent lights of dawn were confusing his eyes. The doctor had told them that it would be any moment now. They were ready, well at least she was ready and he was as ready as he could be. Her forehead dripped with sweat, and his hands were raw from her strong grasp. Even through the midst of the most intense pain, she was beautiful. Her chestnut orbs captivated him and broke through the barrier that was his soul. He was fused to this woman, dependent upon her for survival. She was the answer to his prayer, the oxygen that kept him living, and the heartbeat within his heart. Her gaze told him what she was thinking. She was ready; his wife, yes he loved saying that word, was ready to begin life's most daring adventure. Doctor Patterson stepped in the room and checked on her. He told her it was time, and thus the process began. It was much like making love for the very first time. It was rough, a push and then immediate pain. But the product of this process was completely worth it. As she pushed, she became this warrior. His wife transitioned into this natural goddess, someone who had no fear in her. The pushing became tougher, but she continued to push like her life was dependent on it. Finally, after twenty-two minutes of pushing, a sound broke out: the cry of a babe. The cry was healthy and beautiful, and according to Patterson it ranked an eight on the APGAR test. He gazed at his wife, and saw tears roll down her face. He himself felt tears in his eyes. He leaned over so that his forehead was touching hers, and for a moment it was just the two of them. He whispered sweet nothings into her ear, affirmations of his love and adoration for his wife, who was now the mother of his son. The doctor pulled him over to do the traditional cutting of the chord. His son weighed in at seven pounds and nine ounces, and he was twenty inches long. Essentially he was perfection in the form of a babe. When the baby was cleaned and given the full bill of health, he was handed to him. As he cradled this small bundle, a foreign experience that somehow felt so right, the nurse encouraged him to introduce his son to the beautiful woman: his mommy. So the King of Manhattan walked gingerly over to his Queen and passed the bundle on. She grabbed him, gently but eagerly, and cooed at him. As she cried over his beauty and remarked on his perfection, she glanced at her King. They had created the most incredible thing. Their eyes locked, and for a moment they both thought of the same thing. Their love had come to fruition in a moving limo. It had taken a year for him to realize he loved her, several years for them to overcome the burdens of the world, and nine months for their great love to be truly manifested. She, the former cold hearted bitch from the Upper East Side, was the definition of a mother. And he, the Casanova and dark prince, was the paradigm of a father. When their gaze broke, she spoke the sweetest words: "I love you," and he answered "I love you so much." The wife handed her husband the bundle, encouraging him to walk around the rather spacious birthing sweet. The husband brought his son over to the large bay window, where the sun had just risen. The Hudson river could be seen clearly, as could the Empire State Building, and the Brooklyn Bridge. As the King reveled in the beauty of the City, he held his son close to him and whispered "Welcome to your Empire, Henry Charles Bass."