Why was it that he wasn't scuffing the floor with all those other high-society types that night? Why wasn't he amongst their numbers, their heads and wallets light from the stupors of their intoxication.

A present...that was it. That was the piece that'd tore him away. The memory was hidden back their somewhere, he scratched at his head to dislodge it. Something Sinclair had said, before everything...when they'd been chatting it up a couple of hours before the curtain.

A famous wine of some sort. No, no he never could stand wine...sherry it was. Sinclair had heard from the grape vine that he had quite a taste for it. Wrapped him up a bottle from god knows where in his many excursions to Europe.

Amontillado was the name of it. A chilled bottle on his dresser, delivered to his room with a card.

"To new beginnings. To old friends."

The sentiment was poisonous.

He'd slid the bottle straight into the trash. By some miracle, it didn't break, just sat there, staring up at him. Cushioned by page after page of torn sheet music, fan mail, ghastly hallmark cards – the like.

He was irked it didn't shatter. It left him without closure to his outrage.

Well this was some kind of godawful pathetic joke. It had to be. Everything screamed of it.

That damn Sinclair always taking every other step on his heels.

"Good luck tonight"? PAH – more like "Here's to hoping you choke in front of the limelight, you bastard."

Show business types didn't indulge in the pathetic party favors and niceties of your average associates. Not unless they wanted something out of it.

He checked his watch. Still an hour till the show started. He began to traipse around the room, annoyance prickling beneath his skin and stirring his movements on.

That pompous ass made him walk all the way to his apartment, clear on the other side of the madre, and all for what? For some dime-store sherry? For some party gift he'd bet his blazer the bastard bought him at the last minute?

No, it was clear – he'd wanted him out of the way.

There'd been three in the room before he left, including himself. Now there were two.

Dean made himself comfortable on the couch, plucking out a cigarette.

Sinclair and Vera...

Ahh, now THERE'S the ticket. His lighter flicked open.

He took his time breathing it in. That Sinclair was a sly old bugger, he had to admit. That move itself's worthy of the Dean Domino repertoire.

No doubt he stole it from him, he grunted.

I mean, he supposed it worked in his favor. Vera could do her work without any...distractions around her. He gave a sly smile. No, no unnecessarily placed gentlemen in expensive suits (not unlike his own) would certainly only befuddle the situation.

He shifted in his seat, tapping his foot in the air. Let that Sinclair get in all the sweet words he can. Because after tonight...

After tonight- the words dropped down like succulent honey. He took a deep whiff of his cigarette.

The well-laid plans of man had such a lovely ring to them in their final verses. Made everything smell like expensive leather and fruit simmering out in the trees, ready to be plucked. His arms held this constant sensation of being stretched out towards his prize, almost touching it, even now as he sat far above and away from the vault.

Odd how he could feel so close to his goal and so disconnected from it's particulars all at once, he sniffed. He slid his finger down towards the radio dial. Those blasted nerves of his were whirring up a storm with the anticipation. It'd do him no good to start out the show giddy as a school boy. Static, static, c'mon now where was the news? BBC, NPR, it didn't matter. He just needed the sound of monotone syllables to dull himself, get his heart rate down.

It shouldn't be this damn hard to get reception, he cursed, jerking the knob through each station.

Finally. He stopped. The newscaster's voice came through in blips, sparks of syntax, barely coherent but definitely shaking. He was stammering on as if the station would cut out on him at any second, something about...bombs? Blast it! Damn thing went out again...

Bombs...the Chinese had dropped bombs? Was that what he'd said?

He gagged on his cigarette.

Oh Christ – he didn't mean...THE Chinese? THE bombs?

He retched up the volume but the words were lost, collapsed under the sound of what felt like the entire town shaking.

One of the table legs shook out of it's socket, the shingles slipped off the roof, cracking like icicles when they smacked the ground. He ran to the window, stumbling, clutching the pane with white fingers.

Lights. His million dollar view wasn't there anymore – it'd all turned into flashbulbs going off in his face.

The show's starting, he thought. He must have gone crazy for a moment- those were the only words his mind seemed to be able to piece together.

He blinked the tears away but they fell down his face instead.

When the blinding curtain faded, he could finally see where they'd landed. Not on the villa itself, no not even close. A few hundred miles in front of the gate by the looks of it. Closer to Vegas...

Good god, but that light! The bomb might have landed just outside his window. And the heat – like the fair winds he remembered back in Wisconsin growing up, lapping, beating dry so that he quick slid the window close. The glass already felt hot to his touch.

He stumbled back towards his couch, almost tripping over the collapsed table.

No more lights were popping up. That was...that was good, wasn't it?

His heart was practically beating out of his chest, but he couldn't find his feet to move. Everything felt impossibly outside his touch, stifled and hidden by the eerie quiet he found himself with. Like a massive pause had been dumped all around.

The radio, the thought sprang up as if it weren't even his.

He tripped over himself to reach it, and practically ripped the knob from it's circuits.

Nothing. Not even static.

How bad did things have to be if there wasn't even static? He didn't even want to think...

Huddling now over his armoire, his knuckles shaking and digging into the wood, threatening to let him collapse, he thought he might be sick. It was that heaving in his chest, working it's way up through his throat. More tears, was it? God he didn't even know. His body wasn't his own anymore- it'd dissolved in the lights. He'd lost everything to the lights.

What was that beside the armoire? His eyes wandered. The sherry bottle stared up at him. Still un-broken. Still sitting in the trash.

Moving outside himself, he picked it up, grabbed a glass from his dresser, and sat down to pour himself a drink. Since the table was out of operation, he measured it out in his hands, pouring slowly, thoughtfully.

The Amontillado watched with him as another light devoured the horizon. He tightened his grip so that it wouldn't spill over.

He downed it without looking. Barely breathing. He was already filling it up for another drought when he heard the screams start from below. They were coming from the direction of the casino.

And unlike the lights, they didn't show any signs of stopping.