After another busy day spent rearranging the deck chairs on the Titanic, most of the unsaved souls are sound alseep as the ship torpedoes towards the iceberg. The cold abyss of fate quietly prepares for the rendezvous.
Captain Pride is fast awake, lost in his daydreams of acclaim for having set a new speed record. Drunk and full of himself, he stares at the image in the mirror. Congratulations Sir, for effortlessly mingling above and beyond the call of duty with the guardians of decorum and priviledge.
First Mate Avarice has abandoned his post and is off to quench his lust for a young debutante in his cramped quarters. A conquest such as this may well advance his career and the reward is well worth the risk.
The vessel races into the foggy night, full speed ahead. The con is left in the care of younger even more ambitious lads. They disregard the valuable maps still nestled in their sheaths, they will chart their own course.
The Preacher hands the tearful cabin boy some silver before he races down the long, dark, hallway before him.
Meanwhile, far beneath the Captain's chair, the great unwashed sleep. Confident in the skills of the crew above them, the hopeful huddle for warmth and dream of a better tomorrow.
Far above it all in the crow's nest, one lonely, exhausted, frozen lookout battles his mind, his soul and the elements of Nature. Ducking out of the wind to light a cigarette he stares in disbelief at the whispers of his last match.
The Solipsist Soliloquist sending out an S.O.S....