It was the best of times, it was the worst

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. I had just been promoted to

mailroom gofer. It was a dream job that had me going from cubicle to cubicle passing out worthless memos and

TPS reports. That damn Lundberg is such a creep, he put Milton in the basement and stole his stapler. What a complete

Nerfherder. If only he knew what Milton was capable of, he'd think twice about treating him like

a red Swingline stapler. Milton was sturdy and could take the punishment, just like the stapler - but only for

we got to Hoboken. The doors opened and he exhaled a sigh of relief as he took ahold of the platform's handhold. He really wasn't doing good. I reached for him, but he pulled me

to the ground and slipped his hand into my shirt pocket. "You carry nothing here," he said and then he tried to lay down, his fingers still hooked into my shirt. "You shouldn't,"

I whispered. "Remember what the doctor said about your spleen. No sudden movements, no gluten, and definitely no

rough role-playing. "That spleen could pop at any time, and I want you intact, whole." At least until I get you to meet my mother. A second opinion was definitely in order.

Mother loved freshly bruised spleen - as long as it wasn't ruptured. Mother was kept in the basement, tied with a rope to the boiler so she wouldn't harm the family again.

She never did it on purpose or out of spite. It only happened when the voices resonated at a specific tone. Was it fair that the tone was at the crescendo of Night Fever, Daddy's

obsession with looking young had forced him to buy cases of pearl cream. He'd wrap lotion laden gauze around his face. She told her friends that Daddy was a burn victim because

he smelled like charred beef with curdled sour cream atop. Unwrapped, Betsy's father looked as if he were a 50 something Asian woman -- quite disconcerting

considering what Betsy's dad looked like wrapped, a sort of cross between young-Elvis & Oprah. But that stench, as if someone were deep-frying sneakers & rats, made everyone

first projectile vomit, then retch, then dry heave in long, laborious motions not unlike a rhinoceros snoring. Betsy wrapped a scented scarf around her face, blocking the stench, &

kneed him in the groin. He fell to the floor. She pulled out her cell and called his girlfriend. Then she calmly turned the corner and walked home. It wasn't till she saw

him slowly rise to his feet, groaning from the sack-tap but holding a gun, that she started to worry. She opened her balisong and went in for the kill! He lept towards her holding

the gun in one hand and his stomach with the other. She deftly dodged his advance with a quick duck and weave. She doubled back and applied the piledriver, a move from her youth.

As she made quick work of her opponent, she couldn't help thinking that being a Gorgeous Lady of Wrestling in the 80s really came in handy during such situations.