I’m in this big building a la the Guggenheim except(?) for the fact that it’s pristine white and is a concert hall instead of a museum. The big show of the night is the first even symphony of the Manhattan Junior Players. Or something along those lines. An entire symphonic orchestra and all of the musicians are pre-pubescent. All of them. “Smug little fuckers,” I keep calling them. I’m trying to get into the orchestra pit to go Jack The Ripper on each and every one of them. There’s one particular little bastard that I’m after (I can’t recall his name now — Timmy? I don’t know) but while I’m at it, I may as well take care of them all. Just get it over with. But I get lost on my way in. There’s a set of stairs that I needed to go around but instead I go up and wind up heading all the way up to the catwalk. I get a good long (rather dizzying) look at the concert hall. It’s intense. But I’m a good two hundred feet above where I want to be. Wind back down the ramps to get to the bottom floor. By this point I’m in full evasion mode because it’s gotten out what I’m there for. And then when I get to the bottom, just moments away from my feat’s fruition, I get busted by an usher who just happens to be a co-worker from Carolina. Put to an abrupt halt, I’m ushered out where the scene fades through white.