A post based on a quote...

Hats, socks, shirts, pants, shoes, and coats.  What do all these items have in common?  They are all forms of clothing, which can turn a crazy nudist into a fully functioning member of society.  Nowadays, a strict unspoken dress code has been thrust upon the American public.  After outgrowing diapers, the only way anyone can have their ideas heard is by donning at least two articles of clothing.  However, throwing more complexity into the situation, certain staples must be worn.  Without the standard combo of shirts and pants - which absolutely must be on the bottom and shirts on top - or a dress, the individual in question might as well be wearing their birthday suit.  A vast majority of the notable figures in history wore clothes.  Even those who might have scorned the constraints that clothes place upon the body were forced to put on their cloth prisons daily.  Who knows if giants like Lyndon Johnson, John Quincy Adams, Theodore Roosevelt, Henry David Thoreau, and Alexander Graham Bell - all frequent skinny-dippers - would have chosen nudity if it was allowed of them?  Mark Twain once said, "Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society." This is a hard truth to handle.  A similar argument could be made in a land where beards designated one's social standing.  In such a world, bare-faced inhabitants would be excluded in any decision making processes.  How can something as frivolous as the hair on one's face change how society views them?   Someone who is destined for greatness may never get their chance due to their insufficient scruff.  Similarly, how can something as insignificant as the shirt on one's back determine whether they get a job, become famous, or can run for office?  For now, these clothing rules must be accepted, and a world where all states of undress are allowed is only a dream.

Risky Business

A car pulls up to the door of an abandoned warehouse and screeches to a stop.  The windshield is shattered, the engine smoking.  One man bursts from the car and limps up to the front door.  His chest is heaving and his clothes - a new black suit, tags intact - are soiled.  He pushes through into the massive whitewashed room, probably once a pristine factory, but now filled with nothing more than spiderwebs and dust.
-Hello?  Anyone?  It's Gunnar!  God dammit!
He sits down against a wall a tries to catch his breath.  He's the first one here.

Gunnar can't figure out how everything went wrong even after running it over and over in his head.  Sure he had failed before, but it shouldn't have turned out like this.  Finally the drumbeat of his heart began to slow down and he made a mental note to start working out again.  He hadn't stopped moving since earlier that day, when everything went to hell.  Maybe it was the adrenaline that kept him sprinting down the street, never pausing to catch his breath.  He had fired like a madman into the sky, a tactic that worked surprisingly well, and the crowds parted before him, this disheveled besuited man.  The case - the case!  He realizes that he should bring it inside, just to be safe - swung back and forth as he dashed over the sidewalk, threatening to throw off his balance.  He bolted across the street and directly into the hood of a car.  Getting back on his feet unfazed, Gunnar brandished his pistol, now probably out of bullets, and ran to the driver's side to pull the lady out of her seat.  Having secured a form of transportation, he could finally get to safety and meet up with the guys.
This was supposed to be a clean job: no one hurt, no police, just in and out.  Unfortunately, some punk decided to be Charles Bronson and set off the alarms.  Generally, once the alarm has been tripped, there's three minutes before the feds show.  Three minutes is a long time.  But that's why something else must have happened because not a minute and a half went by and suddenly the street outside the front door was lit up like the fourth of July.  The new guy - Eddie was his name? - just went nuts and started shooting at everything that moved, and Gunnar barely got out alive through the back door with the case. They were surrounded; the only thing left to do was run.