The door to his suite closed, and Big'un Rompkins heaved a sigh and lowered himself onto the chaise lounge. Only about half of him would fit onto the lounge - his full 7 foot height was simply too much to be easily accomodated in a Cincinatti hotel room - even in 1987.
He was at peace, in body, mind, and soul. His brother L'il Timmy was safely on the other side of the world, probably giving his speech on biogenesis at this very moment. And more importantly, his very presence in Pickle Tower had served as an irresistable bait to three of the most notorious assassins in the world. And now all three were dead. Lucky Luko at the hands of Angelista Rasmussen, Angelista at the hands of Fats Patinki, and Fats at the hands of Big'un Rompkins himself, thanks to an ingenious revolving door accelerator that Rompkins had devised in his underground bunker/lab in Mondora.
Big'un snatched up the remote control and pointed it at the Zenith TV that projected boldly out of the hotel room armoire. Flipping through the channels, he caught tantilizing glimpses of the world that he called his own. Oil disputes in Alaska, vacuum-fishing off the coast of Mozambique, clear-cutting in the Amazon, munitions to the Contras of Nicaragua, apparitions in Madjegorie; these were all Rompkin's handywork and his stock-in-trade.
For Rompkins was that most desperate of men - a corporate accountant.
As he raised his glass of Canadian Club whiskey to his lips, his thumb inadvertantly pushed against his cherry-red cheek, which in turn agravated the empty eye-socket of his right eye. And suddenly, the sense of peace and contentment was gone, and Rompkins was back in Thailand on the roof of a passenger train, staring up at the imbecile face of Clive Darkins' manservant, Brutus.
Rompkins' screams echoed in the hotel suite, unheard in the loneliness of the 115th floor of Pickle tower.