Meet Frank. Frank is a prime specimen of resplendent bourgeoisie, success burling up at his every move, the world dancing at his fingertips. Frank doesn’t drink beer, he drinks champagne. He doesn’t fart, he just often blows off steam. He’s playing ball in the same league as Niemeyer, Gehry and Le Corbusier, never lowering his genius architect self to working on a contract with less than six digits. In short, he’s a winner. Except that sometimes – to paraphrase DIRTY DANCING – you don’t need the run after your destiny like a wild horse… ‘cause today, Frank’s in deep shit. Literally. He just woke up with a massive Hiroshima headache in an already overflowing Dixi toilet with a metal rod stuck through his forearm. An opening in the padlocked door allows him to locate his new vacation spot: an excavation pit packed with a shitload of explosives to make room for his future construction project. In the distance, a festive speech announces that the countdown has just begun. In one hour, they’ll be able to enjoy the fireworks with a glass of champagne. And who’s Frank to be a party-pooper and flush all that down the toilet?

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