Cold Open

The Gilded Age was dead. Its monuments lay empty, its causes forgotten. The Houses that held these ancient captains were hollowed of their living organs, and so embalmed, new forms dwelled in their tombs. This was called The Elmwood village Restoration Project, where Stately Victorian Row homes, looked down upon by the trees that planted them, and served artisan coffee.

One particular stately mansion stood out. It was roofed with wooden shingles and painted yellow with white railings. It was situated between a stately brick townhouse that once held a Factory foreman, and now serves as an khagan temple for digital nomads, and German style half timbers which housed a yoga studio, a dog therapy studio, and a by appointment antique store.

A man in a dark blue suit parked his Lincoln Town Car outside of the shop. And while he certainly had the money for it, he lacked the time, or yoga pants to be a regular client here. He pulled his suit closer, the blazer center button well abused from the stress eating and regular removal when the owner needed to get his hands dirty. The man sucked in his gut and placed his hands red from the biting cold into his pockets.

He approached the Yellow House with wooden shingles, just as the sun was beginning to set. Once he reached the wraparound porch his eyes could see the building and the "come back again" sign in the window." He ignored it and walked towards the door. Proudly in Oriental like font it read.

With a key fished from his right pocket. Charles Krammer let himself in. The owner of nearly 75 Stores across the Buffalo/Rochester Region, Charles Krammer knew the importance of the occasional "Surprise Inspection" to keep his subsidiaries on their toes. Today was no exception.

The door opened to the clattering of a windchime of wood and crystals and tone hispanic youth in a tank top snapped to attention.

"Oh Lo Siento, Senior, Madona Isabella she a no se..."

"Jesus, would you knock it off with that accent? Your parents are from Paraguay."

Charles Kammer, local Buffalo Philanthropist had a gift for names and faces, which when combined with his interest in Youth Clubs and Fast Food Summer Jobs, meant he knew just about every young adult in the city.

"Right, sorry." The young man awkwardly scratched behind his head, revealing waxed armpits.

Mr Kraumer shook his head. "Don't get up, I know where she is."

The young man returned to his ipad while Mr Kraumer passed under a large mirror to a staircase past an employee lounge with a 1185 Auto-Espresso Machine, and a classroom for yoga, massages, and crystal therapy. The staircase had different crystal charms and fetishes dangling from the Victorian iron railings, and Charles Kraummer's balding hair showed in different warped forms as he ascended the staircase backed by dozens of framed mirrors.

His footsteps went unnoticed by the woman breathing in her office. A large circular room surrounded with ancient books and framed photos of herself along with dozens of local and national celebrities. Madame Isabelle Krammer, mystic of the yoga moms. She was not dressed in her billowy Sultan of shanghai robes and crystals. Those "Atlantian robes" and Lemurian Turbans hung on a wire hanger on the doorknob.

"Have you come to apologize?" The woman asked, still posed and legs crossed in the center of a large rug.

"No." Charles responded after a pause, looking around the room to the various objects and trying to match them with the invoice.

Isabelle breathed deeply before speaking. "It's bad enough that you whined about wanting kids at the gala last week, but you embarrassed me in front of The hosts of KWC3, just when I was preparing for an appearance."

"I don't care."

She stopped to face him. He waited until she looked at him before continuing.

"I'm done....funding this."

"And what was her name, you rogue." She dug the scorn out from her throat. "Who is this new young strumpet you have that has constricted your heart to me."

"Prudence," Charles replied, not missing a moment.

She did. "Prudence... Chau from the Country Club."

"Prudence, wisdom, whatever you want to call her, that angel that made me take stock of what I'm doing. The amount of money I've burned for this. That's the start-up capital for at least 3 Franchises."

"You'd compare your own wife's toil and sweat to that cattle cud and drive-thru poison." Cynthia took a long glance at the knife on the table as she spoke.

Mr Krammer caught the glance, but refused to take the bait. His posture is rigid among the dancing 4th century Daevas surrounding the room.

"There are hardworking, good people in this city, itching for a break. I can think of several of my employees who would be a better use of investment. Real investment. Investment into the future of the business."

Isabelle’s voice turned low, "If this is about children, I'm not changing my mind."

"I'm not in the business of changing your mind, Cynthia. I'm simply telling you. You have until I return from Vegas, you don't need to be Psychic to figure out what's next."

Mr Krammer finally gave himself permission to be at ease, and wordlessly removed himself from the room and prepared to walk down the hall. He stopped to look at his cell to review messages from his operations director.

A fatal error.

He felt the shove of a nimble woman whose body had just enough strength to put him off balance. The Stairs did the rest of the work. Charles tumbled down the carpeted steps hitting his head and back somewhere in the process.

Jesus jumped out of his chair and looked at Charles, then at the statuesque woman standing on top of the rail.

She stared. He waited. She dropped her rage to a tranquil calm, and descended down the steps to the antique phone on Jesus' desk.

"Hello, is this Rochester Life? Yes, I would like to inquire about the claims process. Oh no, not yet, but I'm a psychic you know, it s a premonition. Yes, I'll hold."