It wasn’t one particular thing that pushed Thurston over the edge.  Perhaps it was an amalgamation, or maybe it was a plethora of individual things that all added up to just over the edge.  But really, over the edge is over the edge.  By a little or a lot, you are left with only one way to go.  Down.

He had woken up in the holo-j, after wanding the Alps and planning for a post-grad getaway.  The plan was to be just him, grabbing a taxi to the Coast-to-Coast-Mono station in OKC, snagging a quick seat on the Undersea Shuttle System from NYC to LON, participating in a rather grueling and random flash-pub-crawl on Friday, zapping off on the Euro-Mitter to the mountains, boarding and bouncing on Saturday in the aforementioned Alps, and a flip back on the USS to get back by wake-up time on Monday.

It was going to be one hell of a weekend.  One planned for a good long while.

And that was when the wires crossed, and Thurston C. Howell IV reached the edge and flew way the fuck off it, into the unknown and beyond.

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