The Master of Ceremonies

By the Bar's calendar, it's New Year's Eve. But Emcee isn't throwing a party. His heart isn't in it to celebrate anything.

But Emcee's room has been thoroughly cleaned and aired out in an effort to drive away the malaise that had settled like dust upon everything within it, including its occupant.

The sleek, minimalist, art deco-esque design and furniture has regained prominence, no longer obscured by crumpled bedsheets and discarded towels and clothing. Empty liquor bottles are replaced by full ones, full ashtrays are emptied. The clutter cluttering the vanity table and dresser has been neatened. The bathroom sparkles with chrome and glass.

There is a tray of simple finger food on the table. Cheese, sausage, crackers, bread, mustard, olives, carrot sticks.

George the little green drone is happily rocking back and forth as an old jazz tune (still quite contemporary for Emcee) plays through him via the tablet.

Emcee himself, dressed in a white sleeveless undershirt and black trousers (both clean), is sitting up in bed with a magazine in his lap.

The door has been left ajar.

Why, it's almost as if he's expecting company.