With the doors open the previously boisterous noise of the crowd fell to a hushed murmur as, one by one, eager patrons streamed through the building’s narrow gothic doors and into the spacious gallery. Gunter stood at the top of the building’s grand stairway, his arm outstretched to receive the hand of any  guest who wished to exchange pleasantries. He was soon approached by a portly man wearing a red a suit who had his arm linked with a small blonde woman 30 years his junior. The man introduced himself as a Mr. Geoff Baxtry, and began asking Gunter this and that about the night’s various exhibits. Gunter answered his questions amicably, making easy conversation and even dropping several apt observations of the buildings current paintings all while scanning the room to ensure everything was running smoothly. He spied Marcy on the other side of the antechamber. Her head was cocked to the side as she stood politely and listened to the anecdote of a middle aged woman who was gesticulating wildly with her hands. After a another minute of back and forth with the bloated man and his tragically young date Gunter excused himself and scurried through a yawning archway to a side gallery that housed the work of several local surrealist painters.
	The gallery was booming with the sounds of high society. Bouts of laughter shot from various small groups of people peppered around the room and echoed off of the building’s domed ceiling. Individuals parked themselves in front of the room’s many canvases and exchanged thoughtful murmurs, their musings charging the air with a sort of academic electricity. A sizable crowd had formed around a piece proudly displayed in the middle of the room ; a ten by ten foot square of pitch black canvas with small bursts of multi-colored flames encircling a grotesque feminine lump of flesh in the center. The piece’s crowd of onlookers stood in near silence, some cupping their chins in their palms and others nodding smugly, attempting to convince the group that they’d managed to decode the secret meaning behind the painting’s abstract strokes and blotches. All of this activity shot wave after wave of excitement down Gunter’s spine, each surge pushing the corners of his mouth into a wider and wider smile. He stood hovering idly in the corner of the room, his mind completely engrossed in all the revenue that were sure to follow tonight’s success.
	 As he stood there, eyes cloudy with fantasy, he was suddenly yanked back to reality by a tap on his shoulder. He turned around and came face to face with Elaine. Her mouth was twisted into a nervous smile like that of a debt collector, and she held her clipboard tightly to her chest with both hands. She seemed to be completely unaware of the giddy energy that buzzed throughout the room and instead stood inside of her own small bubble of angst and bridled panic.
	“Sir,” she began, “we have a problem over in gallery thirteen.”
	Gunter quickly began to mentally run through all of the pieces being held in thirteen, but he already knew what the source of the commotion was.
	“What seems to be the issue?” he asked, silently cursing himself for not having taken down the De Palo piece when he had the chance.
	“It would appear that one of the guests, an older woman, fainted after viewing one of the room’s pieces and her husband is screaming his throat raw demanding to see you.”
	“Me?” Gunter asked puzzledly.  “What on earth for?”
	“I don’t know sir, but I suggest you get over there. The crowd’s already beginning to grow uncomfortable and the sooner you go and address the man the sooner things will get back to normal.”
	“Very well.”
	Gunter brushed swiftly past Elaine and made his way over to the stairway leading to the gallery’s upper level.  He passed the refreshment table on the way and grabbed himself a glass of  Syrah that he quickly downed in several hurried gulps. He checked his watch: 8:00 p.m. . The night had only just begun, and already he was having to address grievances caused by, he was sure, that damned De Palo piece. He should have followed his conscience and done away with the thing the minute it had crossed the threshold of his building. Nevertheless, the crowd seemed to be in a generally high spirit, and he was sure a couple of complaints about a single work of art wouldn’t be enough to stem the flow of cash from the night’s wealthy clientele. Gunter reached the stairwell and briskly made his way up, taking the steps two at a time in an oddly dignified manner that caused his frantic bottom half to seem completely independent from his calm and collected torso.
	Gallery 13 lay on the opposite end of the building’s second floor. Gunter dashed quickly through room after room, returning hearty greetings with terse amicable smiles and evading outstretched arms with apologetic waves of his hand. The second floor, much like the first, was alive with conversation and the spirit of high art seemed to inhabit the soul of each and every patron. Wine glasses clinked. Gloved hands batted playfully and lingered on suits of different fabrics and pigments, and everywhere Gunter looked he saw the mighty wave of capital that would soon break and flow into the accounts of him and all the board members of the NYC Modern Art Society. He found himself, despite the trouble still brewing several rooms ahead, grinning again from ear to ear. Yes, the night was surely a success, and he had no doubts that the higher ups of his organization would soon bless him with the honor of presiding over an even larger gallery. Perhaps the six story showroom over on 35th street.
	These grandiose thoughts quickly dissipated, however, as Gunter stepped into the narrow courtyard separating galleries twelve and thirteen. As soon as he had crossed the threshold of the doorway leading to the little sliver of open air and flowerbeds there was an immediate and jarring change in atmosphere.  From his vantage point between the two rooms he could still hear distinctly the sounds of gayety and merriment spewing forth from the entryway to Gallery twelve. But the yawning square of light leading to Gallery thirteen was another story entirely. There came from it no quick fire bursts of laughter,  no steady stream of indecipherable conversations all coagulated into one happy amorphous drone. Indeed the only thing that seemed to leak out of the doorway leading to Gallery thirteen was a steady, creeping fog of unease that settled low on the ground outside and coated everything in a sickly black blanket of disquiet. Gunter stood outside the doorway, quickly adjusting his cufflinks and straightening his drooping collar before taking a self assured step that plunged him into the deathly still air of Gallery thirteen.
	Thirteen was one of the two rooms designated to house that nights selection of photography pieces.  Due to the small number of photographic works that the NYC Modern Art Society curated on any given day, photos were typically relegated to the building’s two smallest rooms, thirteen being the smaller of the two ; a fact that no doubt amplified the space’s already encumbered atmosphere to a nearly claustrophobic level. Once inside Gunter surveyed the area and was surprised by just how much the events of earlier had dampened the mood. The gallery was packed to relatively the same degree as all the others, but instead of freely mingling about the room like guests in other areas of the building the inhabitants of thirteen were all awkwardly squashed up against the walls that made up the room’s perimeter. Gaggles of people were huddled together in disparate constricted clumps, conversing in nervous mumbles or often not at all. The only clearly audible voice belonged to a flushed cheeked man currently stood in the center of the room who was shoving the tip of one of his pudgy finger in the face of a tall slender woman. Gunter recognized instantly that it was Marcy whom the impudent man was berating.
	The Belligerent stood roughly five and a half feet tall, with several of those inches coming from the audacious orange and purple platform shoes encircling his feet. His narrow shoulders were wrapped in an ill-fitting satin jacket whose hem hung comically low around his knees, which were covered by navy blue corduroy slacks. Despite the mans small stature his seething rage gave him the presence of a man twice his size, and he seemed to stand almost even with Mrs. Deluel who stood facing him, her head cocked slightly to the side.  On the ground next to the two lay a supine woman who was vigorously fanning herself with a ream of gallery pamphlets that had somehow found there way into her dainty white hand. Her face appeared to be wet with tears.
	 Gunter approached the queer trio tentatively, not wanting to reveal himself to the group just yet. As he approached he began to decipher some of the hostilities currently being flung towards his stoic wife.