This is the way I heard it.

Like everyone else at Ground Zero, Charlie was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He'd spent all day in the kitchen overseeing a crew of thirteen junior bakers churning

out breads and cakes and pies and pastries for a crowd that never seemed to dwindle.

Eventually it always dreamed of making a name for himself in a famous kitchen and headed

off to New York City with dreams of success.

Now those dreams were coming true as the chief baker in one of the world's premiere restaurants.

Charlie was practicing the trade he loved and devoted to pleasing his customers.

Now to be clear, Charlie was drunk on the day in question.

It's no doubt about it.

His blood alcohol content a few hours after the impact would have confirmed an almost

inconceivable rate of consumption, but that's the point.

Charlie's drinking did not proceed the impact.

It followed it and really who could blame him when the walls and the floor shuttered

all around him.

Charlie knew something had slammed into the towering structure, something big.

And when he saw the extent of the damage, he didn't panic.

He merely retired to the bar in his now empty restaurant to enjoy what he knew would be

the last drink of his life.

But what exactly does one drink as one ponders his own mortality and considers his final actions

on planet earth?

For Charlie the options were endless from the finest champagne and France to the very best

...