In addition to bad plumbing, it now seemed that the Grand Rialto had heartburn.
As the flames from Security traveled up the wall and on to the fire resistant drop ceiling which now flowed in fiery cascades to the floor, some of the more adventurous flames decided to explore the air conditioning ducts, loudly crackling with delight over the delicious piles of old programs and forgotten bales of still-folded popcorn boxes as cans of paint, indignant at their rest in forgotten corners being disturbed, swelled in outrage, their pique spattering around them in burning outrage, their Krylon siblings following suit, detonating with dull thuds, giving up their delicious propellants to the gluttonous fire so that it raced greedily into the wall spaces in search of more dainties, the rats and mice running ahead of it.
The Grand Rialto's dyspeptic inner workings joined the general rumpus, overhead pipes rattling and clattering as the water inside began to boil. Groaning, the gas main complained at having been awakened even as flames leapt joyously over the heaps of discarded asbestos theater curtains and straight for the stacks of forgotten celluloid features in their cans, exclaiming greedily as a burning Chica mindlessly wandered through the growing conflagration, fuzz blackening and melting away from the top down, revealing her intricate titanium skull inch by burning inch.
Surrounded by rising billows of dirty smoke, Imelda Schnelz sat serene in her old kitchen chair, drinking coffee from a cup that read "#1 Husband".
It wouldn't be long now.