Peter Friendly was four feet tall, but he wasn't small. He liked to read, and he liked to speed when he was driving. He attempted a career as a geologist, but had resorted to bartending when that hadn't panned out. He was in and out of employment, and by employment I mean reality. He couldn't remember if today was yesterday, or if tomorrow's parties were still on the agenda. Once he had been tall, but the years of loneliness and drink had shortened him considerably. Running down the street in his usual tophat and coattails, he hailed a cab. "435 Pencil Street," He told the driver. "What luck," said he, when the driver got there in a bout of unusual haste. As he exited the cab, he was hit by a falling piano and laid there in the street for a bit. He was still alive, and would have had little to no permanent damage - if not for the snapping of the crane wire as it was lifting the piano off of him, causing the grand to fall, for a second time, on to the body of Peter Friendly.