The letter in the envelope stated "You are

spat on the floor and said to himself "Well, then, there's no time like the present." He pulled a bottle of scotch from his desk, took a giant swig, grabbed his gun, and went

Out through the doggy door to the outside. He sang "When the Saints Go Marching In" on his way out. The butt of the gun got stuck. Single malt scotch trickled

from the corner of his lip. Struggling did him no good. He wiggled and danced until he passed out there, halfway in and halfway out of the doggy door.

He regains consciousness startled and continues to struggle through the doggy door. Then, a shadow cuts across his face. Looking up, he cannot see the person's face because

he has left his glasses in the doghouse. "Sherman? Is that you?" he asks the shadowy figure. As it waves its nebulous arms about, he realizes that he has left his hearing aid in

the Knights of Columbus meeting room where mere hours earlier a rousing game of Bingo was taking place. "Or is it Benedict?" he proved though the shadowy figure remained silent.

"I wish we were still playing Bingo, at least then I'd be sitting next to those smokin' hot elderly ladies." This finally got a rouse from the shadowy figure who said

I was the winner from the last time we played bingo. I sure could use the cash, as I had just paid my rent and was flat broke. The Shadow took off his mask and revealed he was my

pet demon. He had lost an infernal wager and so had been tasked with my misdirected life. He appeared to me as a double corn rolled chicken enchilada. I could never forget about it