Fletcher Harding stumbled up the stairs in his downtown Brixton apartment complex. After a brief break on the landing, resting his tired legs, he moved up to his floor. Fitting the key proved to be a difficult task for him, but he managed to let the door of room 413 swing open.

Tossing his keys onto his armchair, which was glowing from the flickering television, he headed to his cheap answering, which was glaring the number 1 in bright red. He glanced at the clock on his microwave that he had stolen from him ex-college roommate. The time showed 2:34 AM.

"Great", Fletcher thought, "I get to head to work in four hours."

Continuing to neglect the blinking reminder from his answering machine, Fletcher moved to his refrigerator to view his snack possibilities. Staring back at him from the dimly lit fridge was a half empty bottle of ketchup, two slices of Swiss cheese, and a bottle of orange juice. Harding grabbed the bottle of Tropicana, and with a disappointing "thump", he set the empty bottle on his counter.

Glancing over at the T.V, he saw a late night infomercial on a weight loss pill that required virtually no effort to lose weight. Sighing, Fletcher ambled over to his answering machine and pressed the play button.

"Fletcher," a hurried voice demanded, "It's me. Get down to the station ASAP".