The show executives could best be described as a pack of power-hungry hyenas waiting for the pack of buffalo to fall off a cliff; tongues lopping over the sides of their mouth, teeth dripping with drool and trembling with listless anticipation. This, my friend, is what happens when you combine hunger with rabies.

Their plans however, shattered into pieces once finding that a particular buffalo had taken a side-tack.

Paris had never been good with dark compacted spaces. Unless she was heavily medicated or drunk, which she was neither at this point. And finding herself lying alone in the seluded darkness with only the tiniest crack from the closet door as her view to the outside world was not a plus on her happy meter. God help us all, Paris was not happy. And she generally was a pretty happy person. It wasn't her fault that people mistaken kicking over chairs (and human beings, for that matter) for clinical depression

It wasn't long before Paris became angry. In fact, we could pretty safely conclude that Paris was burning. With a swift crash of her foot, the coat closet door was no more.

The executives were panicking at this point. Oh yeah, they dug themselves into that hole. You see, the hyenas hadn't realized that by waiting for the buffalos at the bottom of the cliff, the buffalo were sure to land on them and break every lasting fragment of a bone in their miserable bodies.

They scattered about like chickens in a futile attempt to escape the slaughterhouse. If one of them had bothered to look into the security camera, they would've noticed that Paris had hacked an impressive-sized hole with the emergency ax into the apartment door and was in the midst of doing the same to the elevator, with every intention of crushing their measly bones. That would probably be why they hadn't bothered to look.

OOOOOOOO

On a lighter note…

Jess was pissed off. An angry breath escaped from his lips as he slammed his hands onto the desk of the apartment clerk, "It's Mar-i-ano! My name is Jess Mar-i-ano. Not Marino, not Ma-rhino. Mariano."

The clerk jolted up from the impact of his fists on the desk, "Sir, I'm zawee. We ah not eggzzzpecting a 'Mary'."

Jess glared daggers in his direction, about two seconds away from lunging over the desk and strangling the clerk with the decorative Christmas lights hanging over his head, "Listen grandpa, either get yourself some hearing aids or find a new job. Now I'm going to say this one more time before one of us loses an ear, my name—

He was cut off by Paris. In the elevator. The very torn-up elevator. And look, she was welding an ax.

One shriek from the clerk was all it took. No, she didn't hack him to pieces. Paris was scary, not a murderer. But she did tie him to his nice revolving seat with the previously-mentioned Christmas lights hanging above their heads.

She dropped down, like a hawk descending on a mouse, "Where are they?" she hissed.

"W-Who?"

Bad move. Paris attacked, snatching up the terrified clerk by the collar, "The executives! The big Baldwins! Al Pacino in his pimp dog suit!"

"T-Top floor."

Of course by that time, Jess had already slipped into the pulverized elevator and ridden up to the cast floor, where he stepped through a very battered door, grimacing at the painful sight of Kirk in the nude before strolling off in search of a big lump of orange skin and bleached hair lying on his girlfriend. He found it, somewhere between the second bathroom and the eighth living room.

He leaned against the doorway, "You know if we were in a marriage, I could be on my way for annulment papers right now and I would never have to lose a penny."

The lack of personal space obviously hadn't interfered with Rorys' ability to generate remarks, "Yes, thank you for the helpful insight into your twisted plans for our future, but I would really appreciate it if you could just hold that thought for one second because in case you haven't noticed, I have had a potential heavy-weight boxer reducing my liver into the size of a pancake for the past two hours now. I was actually aiming for another thirty minutes, but you, Speedy Gonzalos, happen to disregard every yellow sign with a special number on it that passes by."

"I take it you're not too interested in my plans for marriage counseling then?"

"Hm… not so much at the moment. But you know what's always good to hear? 'I am dragging away this big heavy man away before he flattens dear Rory's intestines into oatmeal.'"

"That sounds extremely kinky."

"Oh yeah well it'd be a lot kinkier if he wasn't crushing my appendix into the shape of those English cakes my grandmother serves to her DAR lady-friends.."

Thinking he prolonged the torture enough, Jess took hold of Trevor's ankles and pulled, "Just for future reference… tell Rocky here that ten pounds of meat a day is not part of the daily food pyramid will you?"

"I'll keep that in mind when I sue him for a new set of lungs," she choked out, wiggling out from underneath Trevor, grasping Jess' shoulder, "Hey Jess, pay a visit to Party City and inflate them for me."

"Dirty."

She paused to take in his reply, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion, "No it wasn't."

"And so it wasn't."

"You've been spending too much time around me."

Jess, having finally pulled the unconscious, orange Trevor off his girlfriend, decided he wouldn't spend another second holding his orange feet, resulting in Trevor tipping over the edge of the bed and plopping unceremoniously onto the floor.

Rory craned her neck to frown over at the orange pile, "That was pretty mean."

"You're welcome."

"Thank you. You know, next time I'm sleeping on a shelf. That way Trevor can't reach if he suddenly feels an overwhelming urge to smother me in my unconscious state."

"Good girl," he slung an arm around her shoulder, turning his head to casually plant a kiss on her cheek, "What do you say we get out of here? One more minute in here with this dolt I'll slam my head against the wall."

"That's a little rash, don't you think? We're getting you a psychiatrist once we're through here," she gripped the doorknob and turned. It wouldn't budge. Not even a little, in fact it was probably the non-budgiest doorknob in the history of locked doorknobs, "Uh… Jess?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't slam your head too hard."

"What?" He jiggled the doorknob, "Aw jeez…."

"This is bad," Rory supplied unhelpfully, more to herself than to anyone.

"Thank you Captain Obvious."

"This is very very bad," Rory continued, ignoring him, "I'd say this falls under the category of 'Santa Claus is dead!' bad."

"Santa Claus doesn't—

"Okay, okay. So it's not that bad. But I still say that it's indefinitely worse than the 'What do you mean John Travolta's not dancing anymore!' bad."

"No I don't think it's that bad."

She whipped her head around in shock, not about to surpass the chance to take advantage of an opening to make him squirm, "My god, did I just hear what I think I did?"

"No I—c-can we focus here please?"

"I'll bet you watch Grease every other day! Oh! And practice your electric slide in front of the mirror in the morning! My god that's why you always take longer than me in the bathroom! It all makes sense now!"

He started towards the window, "Ignoring you now."

"Don't be embarrassed! I don't care if you worship John Travolta, I find his shrines and mile high Elvis hair very philosophical!"

He threw the window open, glancing down at the ant-sized cars in mild concentration.

Rory paused to look over at her troubled acquaintance, "You know, suicide is not the way to make Danny dance again."

"I'm looking for a way out."

"Wow, emo."

"No I meant of this apartment," he stuck his head out of the widow, frowning as he spotted the nearest fire escape to be a couple feet down, "Have you ever scaled a mountain?"

"Oh yeah. I'm a regular Julie Andrews. I've danced around on hills, rich men in suits. I'm thinking Mount Rushmore next spring…"

"So no?"

"No way in the fifth dimension of the time."

"Yeah. I'm not really a fan of falling face-down into pavements myself," a brief moment in time passed before he swung a leg out the windowframe, "I'll close the window on my way out."

"What? No!" she grabbed his arm, "You're on illegal drugs of some kind, right? Please say you're on crack, because I'd really rather have a temporary schizoid for a boyfriend as opposed to a genuinely schizoid person."

He brushed her hand off, "Well then, sorry to disappoint."

"You're leaving me with a dead body! Just wait till Oprah hears about this. I'm pregnant!"

"I'll send fanny packs," was his reply as his hand fumbled for a place to grasp, "Do you think you could reach the windowsill up there?"

"I-I'm coming?"

"That's what I said."

She immediately backed up, half in fear that insanity was contagious and half because it seemed like a good time to back up, "Uh, I'd rather not. I value my life, thank you very much."

"That's why you're coming out now, so that I won't have to drag you through kicking and screaming slung over my shoulder St. Nick style."

"But…but my stuff," she gestured towards the bags she hadn't gotten around to unpack after Kirk had decided to 'borrow' her pink coat because, (this is a direct quote, by the way) 'It's warm. And fuzzy. And oh look, it even has a pocket to put my retainer in!'

"It'll still be here in the morning," he dismissed, beginning to grow impatient.

"But—

"Rory—I'm balancing on a window 50 feet off the ground and there's a bird that's looking very content on a perch right above my head. Now you could either climb out with me because of that, or because Trevor's starting to wake up."

After seeing Trevor groggily rub his eyes and stumble towards her, she hastily took Jess' hand, swinging a leg over to straddle the windowpane, "Have I told you I love you?"

"Not enough."

"Yeah well I love you. I'll write books about you. The incredible Travolta groupie."

"Oh god."

"My hero."

He paused for a second before replying, "I think this would be the part where you kiss me."

"Yes that is normally the routine implied in silent-movie land, but unfortunately there are no, what were they called again? Oh yes, 'breaks' in the land of 'Miss Polly gets tied to a Traintrack.' So personally, I am at a loss for what to do. Do I kiss you? Hug you? Ravish you against the window? Push you out the--"

He cut her off with a kiss. A short kiss. But it was enough initiation to predict what was about to happen.

She straightened his collar, even though it probably wouldn't be too straight in a couple seconds anyway, "So I take it the break's over?"

"You could put it that way."

"Can I kiss you now?"

He smirked, "if you must."

Their lips met, and all doubt that they were on a break, or bend, or curb, was erased. This was great. This was better than great. He shifted his position on the perch to pull her leg against his hip and cup her face, pinning her against the side of the window. Granted, the edge of a hole in the wall probably wasn't the most comfortable setting to be making up, or out so to speak. It works on both levels doesn't it? But the kissing was good. Very, very good. Audrey Hepburn and Spencer Tracy didn't stand a chance in this department.

"Jess?" she said, once he moved on to her neck, "We're balancing on a window outside a public apartment building."

"Great."

"Jess!"

"Hm?"

"There's an old lady across the street staring at us."

"Ignore her."

"She's shaking her cane at me and—oh wow. Seniority has clearly done nothing to her vulgar vocabulary."

Jess didn't respond, half because he had just managed to locate a very sensitive spot below her ear and was in the midst of repeating an action that made her squirm under his touch and rake her fingers apprehensively along his arm.

"Jess? I don't know about you but I really, really would like not to die."

"At least we'll die happy."

"Yeah well, the sight of our mutilated corpses landing splat in the middle of the street might just override that."

He sighed, pressing his forehead against her shoulder for a brief second before maneuvering himself expertly around her lapsed form. Taking hold of the windowsill and muttering a brief prayer to hell before dropping a grand total of 6 feet onto the fire escape.

Rory stared open-mouthed from her spot on the window, "Let me just take the time to say you're crazy if you expect me to do that."

"It's not that high," he extended an arm, "Come on, I'll catch you."

"Are you sure? Because you might just change your mind when you see my foot descending 60 miles an hour above your head."

"Rory just jump, will you?"

Muttering a brief prayer to heaven (as opposed to Jess' hell) she gingerly scooted her legs out into the open. Taking her time as she inched herself slowly but surely off the windowsill before finally cursing gravity and dropping safely onto the fire escape. Though it really depended on your definition of safely considering she'd landed hard on her ass. Fortunately for Jess, she was too glad to be alive to care that he'd forgotten to catch her.

Meanwhile… Paris had reached the top floor.