Four minutes.
I'm gonna have to run the rest of the way up to the clock. I'll just have to park, but here comes manong with his mirror-on-a-pole. I'm sure it'll just be a negligible delay.
Three minutes.
Oh yes manong, I keep a weapon cachet on the underside of my vehicle. That's a rocket propelled grenade jutting out where the muffler is supposed to be. What, my trunk? There's nothing there but a spare tire and a few dismembered body parts.
Two minutes.
Just let me in, if I were a terrorist and wanted to make headlines, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't bomb a parking area. No one will shed tears and boo the government for a dozen destroyed cars ans SUVs.
One minute.
Within the last stretch of my struggled race from bed to desk, not the traffic along morning EDSA but the unoptimized use of both elevators that proved the insurmountable challenge.
Zero.
As both elevators' doors open with a ding, a body-clock six stories above switches into red ink with a clack.
Aw hell, might as well go for that apple pie.
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