a tale of two cities

somewhere in lower manhattan today, david wright woke up around two p.m. still reeking of piss and wild turkey from the atrabilious night before. streaks of eye black still ran down his cheeks, courtesy of the river of tears that turned him from a pretty boy third baseman to an alice cooper look-alike. he clapped twice to turn on the projection screen TV just past the foot of the bed, quickly navigated past the channels of the ESPN family to avoid any sight of the previous afternoon's events, and stopped on CNBC to check how his abercrombie and fitch stock was performing. he rubbed his eyes, not sure if the smeared eye black was somehow distorting his view of the ticker, then stared agape when he realized the carnage befalling wall street. taking a swill from the warm half-empty bottle of miller chill on the nightstand, he muttered to himself, "thank god i'm not a stockbroker", then pulled the sheets over his head and went back to sleep, content with the knowledge that someone not in orange and blue would be on the cover of the post tomorrow.