With gentle winds that fl owed serene through the bright teal skies, the pointed tower remained sturdy: a symbol of absolution and pure perfection. The tower's exterior was magnificently reflective, shooting back the illustrious light of the planet's glorious two suns off of its surface and back at the pair of bold red and yellow stars beyond blue-green visible heavens.

Housed calmly inside of the tip of the pointed tower was a small group of men who would come to sit regularly in a large boardroom bombarded white, very low light. The handful of men would sit for hours on end, exchanging their deliberately witty diatribes and an assortment of opinions on current events both foreign and domestic in nature.

Outside of the tower, the world could've been in a bewildering blaze that burned buildings as if they were blades of grass on a plain, but with one gaze at the demeanors of those few men it would be hard to tell if calamity was even a possibility. What mattered most were those who were present. What mattered foremost was the sanctity of the room. Religiously, they laughed and teased one another before they really got down to the brass-tax of what they assembled for. They gathered on the last Sunday of every month in order to discuss what would be the make up of the future. With earnest, they philosophized about their place in the vastness of an ever changing tomorrow. They refused to be forgotten about. They were afraid? Maybe.

A couple of the bodies swiveled back and forth in their hovering chairs. Like yolk, they sat within the white half-shell looking seats made of a dull, almost plastic looking material. The room was smooth, soft to the eyes and heart; contrasting the old, leathery flesh of the men who chattered inside of it. Men who were distinguished in their own individual right; with suits and ties that accompanied a mixture of discerning and playful looks equally intertwined amongst the bunch. The nature in which they were distinguished came from a manner far more valuable than the physical realm.

Other than absurd jokes and tactful plots, a common phenomena found within the room was the exceedingly cold air that cycled dutifully through it in the rotation of heavy waves. There was an insatiable coldness forever among the group that they all grew numb to long ago. All except one:

"Come on now, Bustine, you know as good as I do that an office is only good for one thing and one thing only." Mister Towerly said, the slyest of smiles on his chubby wrinkled face.

Judging by the ashamed looks on a majority of the faces around the room, the punchline to Mister Towerly's joke was known by many except the one inquisitive individual present:

"No, I haven't the faintest clue. What is it good for, Towerly? Don't make me have to start guessing like a child does for his holiday gifts," responded the comparatively younger Mister Bustine, who sarcastically anticipated the response to his senior member's joke. Mister Bustine was virtually expressionless as usual, even though he recently told what he hoped to be perceived as a sarcastic dig.

"If you don't know it at this stage in your life then there might be a problem here, mate. Maybe you'll be able to get it when you have a wife, some kids, and a mistress, young man." Mister Weaver commented in a condescending tone from across the table. He, however, chuckled at his own joke in enjoyment.

Mister Bustine's eyes examined the man with the funny accent and glowing bald head. After a lengthy stare of silence, he dismissed him. He shifted his attention as Mister Weaver and others giggled, returning his own look and stare back toward Mister Towerly.

The white oval table they sat around matched the soft whiteness of the circular room. The walls themselves were baron like a desirable mistress, left pure white themselves as they emanated a self contained light which pulsated softly almost as if they were alive, no different from the small council of men. Even still, the wall was seemingly set to the dimmest setting in the windowless boardroom to hide certain pieces of their expressions from one another. They were only to know surface information about one another. That was law.

Mister Weaver's cheeky comment received a smattering of laughter which bounced off of the walls of the corner-less room as a couple of the twelve men held their guts in the drab hilarity of the moment. Mister Bustine did not laugh. He didn't even smile.

"Okay, seriously gentlemen let us please rein it in now," stated Mister Beverley, who sat beside Mister Weaver. Beverly, the skinny man of nearly seventy years of age, tempered the build up of his own chuckling like a giddy school girl, "Before we get too far off topic, my friends, I think it's time we began to discuss the actual agenda to counteract another one of Mister Towerly's wacky escapades." His baritone voice reverberated within the room as he tried to bring a level of seriousness back to the inhabitants. His beard was long and blond. In the middle of his face was a crooked nose that hooked like a fishing lure.

Bustine did not smile still. Per usual, he was not able to muster up even a fake chuckle at their bizarre breed of humor. The cacophony of deplorable inside jokes were merely an example of the age gap between he and the other members in the room. No matter how cringe worthy it all was, he needed to be there. He reached a point in life where not everyone was allowed to reach. On occasion he would take the bait to try to understand them, but with consistency the junior member only watched on as everyone else around him enjoyed themselves. His time to chime in being when pertinent matters were beginning to be discussed. No matter his age, those present would not dare to deny that he earned his spot at the white table — this was certain. He was elite.

"Finally! The smartest thing to have ever left the simple comfort of Beverly's dried lips," spoke Mister Sandson. His tone and delivery was buttery smooth, however, his personality was the opposite. He was a shark — a rough business operator that Bustine couldn't trust at all. He couldn't trust any of them honestly. Nor could he call them anything close to friends. "We do now have proper business to attend to." Aside from his voice, his ponytail was the only thing that was agreeable on him. He was the most skinny and slimy breed of individual, with protruding cheek bones housed within a slender face devoid of both color and much meat. He was virtually a ghost, vampiric and ghoulish in many ways that had to be felt and not explained: just staring into his pitch black eyes indiscriminately stole something precious from the viewer.

"But outside of humor, how shall we ever proceed?" Mister Sadler chimed in, his words soft spoken. "I usually assume jokes are the first on the agenda?" His comments were as dry as Mister Beverly's lips, words that could not be placed in either a bin of seriousness or comedy. The quaint, polite Sadler always spoke in a near whisper that was enough to wholly shift the gears of the room in its totality every time. Humor died almost instantly whenever he fixed his lips to utter a single word.

With Sadler's potential jest, like a starter pistol at the beginning of a race, the time had finally come to embark upon serious matters. Mister Weaver, Mister Towerly, and Mister Beverly swiveled their chairs and pivoted their attention towards the senior most member: Mister Dominic; who cleared his throat almost on cue to gain their wandering...