The door to the district manager’s office flew open with a gale of tax returns and ticker-tape. “I’m sorry Sir, but company policy states that…” Sir did not stop, and he hurdled open the door out of the secretary's office before tearing open the door to the stairwell. The Elevator would cramped and slow, and Sir did the Firm one last favor to not ripping the elevator operator’s head off. Everyone who came up the stairs after Sir started his descent was withered by the terrible fire radiating from Sir’s bulging, crimson face. A rout of clerks, tellers, and accountants streamed down the staircase before Sir as his dominating presence drove them back from their essential duties. Sir catapulted open the door at the bottom of the staircase, even as Firm employees stumbled  over one another to hold it open for him. Sir Strode through the revolving door as a wild stallion, nostrils flaring, pausing outside only to compose himself in the stifling chill from the stark morning sky. A streetcar scraped past Sir, bringing with it a turmoil of tattered newspapers, born on air currents which spiraled through the sprawl of the urban center. All of the heat and chaos of the wind was channeled past Sir in a typhoon of rancor, curling around him as a great constrictor, billowing up and up till Sir’s uninoculated gleaming scalp was unexpectedly exposed to the world. “Dammit! Somebody catch it!”