Mr. X sat in his office sipping coffee and petting his cat.
He was decompressing after his bit of fisticuffs at the courthouse earlier that day.
"Can't wait for the work day to end, I really want to go home, turn on some Rufus du Sol and blaze away" he mused.
A loud commotion erupted outside his closed door, punctuated by a gunshot and a woman's scream.
"My secretary!" Mr. X exclaimed, as he reached into his desk drawer, pulled out his Smith and Wesson 9mm, confirmed the safety was off, and stood up.
At that instant the door burst open and framed within it was douchedawg, gun in hand.
Before the douche could get off a shot Mr. X fired first, hitting the angry, third rate word smith.
"WTF is wrong with you?" asked Mr. X, to which the douche responded "anagrams...it was...the anagrams...that made me do it ... oooooo ..."
Mr. X called 911; as an EMT hauled the douche away Mr. X overheard the douche tell the attendant "call my host in Vegas and tell him I'll be a bit late."
*note: the above is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is both coincidental and too damn bad.
Reply With Quote