Flap.                                                                          
                                                                               
Flap.                                                                          
                                                                               
Flap.                                                                          
                                                                               
Ahhh. The Windy City. Seems like you've been flying grimly into a headwind     
forever. But here at last it is. You check the number on the door. 2305        
Weetabix Drive, an unassuming Colonial two-story house, a minivan in the       
driveway. Yes, this is the place, all right.                                   
                                                                               
But where is he?  The reek of expensive cigars draws your scaly nose inexorably
towards a second-story window, slightly ajar.  Peering in, you see him, hard at
work on his taxes, in his office.  His back is to you as he mutters and curses.
                                                                               
You smile toothily to yourself, and daintily hook a claw under the eaves.      
                                                                               
Flap.                                                                          
                                                                               
Tear.                                                                          
                                                                               
The roof gives way easily.  Your nemesis jumps to his feet, turns around, and  
looks through the hole where his roof used to be.  He sees you and blanches.   
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