His worship Cass Tamburlaine looked at his aging Movado Serio wristwatch—the only thing he had on—and both cursed and yearned for his tardy mistress, Joy Pommery.
     “Three a.m.” he muttered.
     Just then came a courteous, token knock at his office door, followed by the softy plushy sound of the door opening out heavily across the sea of broadloom, and into the room strode the very Joy Pommery he had so summarily summoned from her sleep.  From his supine opposition, all Cass could see were her finely-crafted ankles and the hem of her soft creamy linen skirt.
     “What is the matter with you, Cass?” she asked, “except,” she added, glancing at his up-periscope, “for the never-to-be-appeased distention of your favourite organ?”
     Cass looked crestfallen.
     “I need you,” he told her as poignantly as he could manage it.
     “Oh for godssake, Cass, you don’t need me, you need an icepack!” 
     Cass moaned,
     “Get up off the carpet,” Joy told him.
     He struggled to his feet.
     “And put your clothes back on!”
     “Don’t be efficient,” muttered Cass, pulling on his boxer shorts and squirming into his Extra-large Ralph Lauren chinos.  “I’m running a fever and I’m suffering from an outsized randiness that you’ve been no help at all with….”
     Joy smirked.
     “Well, Cass,” she said, “being jerked out of bed by the telephone at two o’clock in the morning and roughly summoned to your office isn’t exactly this girl’s dream of  foreplay!”
     “…and I can’t sleep…”
     “You’ve never been able to sleep.  Not since I’ve known you.”
     “But it’s getting worse every day.”
     You’re getting worse every day,” said Joy, handing him his pink Hugo Boss shirt.  “Why don’t you concentrate more on your mayoralty duties and less on the rich, ever-shifting modalities of your hypochondria?”
     “It’s not hypochondria,” Cass told her, in what she thought was an oddly furtive voce.  “The fact is,” he said, his voice dropped now to a hoarse whisper, “somebody’s trying to kill me.”
     This struck Joy as funny.
     “Now Cass, who would want to do that?  Surely among the hundreds of thousands of people in this city who hate your guts, there isn’t any one particular party that’d be prepared to go that far?”
     “There are lots of such parties,” said Cass disconsolately.
     “Yes, this is a party town,” laughed Joy.
     “I’m serious, Joy.  I’m worried.”
     “Well, the fact is, nobody can investigate yet, Cass,” said Joy, picking up Cass’s Gucci Sporting Lace-up Booties from the carpet, “because so far, there’s no body!”
     “Let’s hope there won’t be,” Cass replied, falling back into his chair and stretching himself out of shape trying to pull on his black silk socks.
     “How about we get some breakfast?” asked Joy.  “That won’t kill you.  Especially if you pass on your usual platter of eggs and bacon and go with a nice, benign, egg-white omelette.”
     “I’m a tumescent guy, Joy,” Cass told her, throwing his cashmere overcoat cape-like over his shoulders and closing his office door, “I need a provocative breakfast, something big and thrilling.”
     “You need a psychiatrist, your worship,” said Joy, bounding after him down the corridor to the elevator.