The kitchen had no room for an oven to house a twelve-foot square sheet cake, even in 3x4 sections. (If you need to ask, Why on earth would the Cyberpunk Apocalypse need to make a 12-foot sheet cake? then you surely don't know us as well as you think you do.) The second floor wore a plywood facade, similar to a beautiful woman's evening mud mask, but the goddamn mud mask is actually covering up nothing but vast air: The face has been horribly burned, so burnt, in fact, that it's now missing, incinerated. The plywood, just like the anchorless mask, is held up by nothing but perseverance. In cruder times, this would have been considered an artistic selling point, but 2008 is a refined time. We know art when we see it.
And we couldn't see the third floor. It was hanging on to nothing just like the plywood beneath it, the last remnants on a Stretch of Avenue that wants to keep its blight but ends up a martyr for Dead Pittsburgh's Steel-through-Arts Revival. There will be pictures of the damage, taken for posterity; they'll lie in a shoebox somewhere in someone's attic, an attic that will soon separate and fly away from its second floor, but only when it's ready to.
This is the last abused dog at the shelter, and we don't know if it's getting a good home. But with the new (Market Value) hospital down the street, all colored brightly and welcoming to children and market speculators with their Abandoned Building-to-Loft Space conversion kits, oh, there are surely good times ahead for the broken dogs of the Bloomfield-Garfield Penn Avenue Corridor. We just know that it doesn't involve the Cyberpunk Apocalypse...
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