I knew what I had to do: sneeze. That was

I had sneezed into my hands. My palms told me this was a giant, wet mistake. The longer I held my hands over my nose, the more those angry glowing purple eyes would know.

I had to think only of snot but not my own snot but the snot of the snottiest. Sylvester Stallone. Only in this way could I ensure they didn't infest another innocent one. Sly wou

ld see it as being found worthy of being the scapegoat by taking this grenade for us. Afterall, we had plans for our lives before this war. You didn't even have your own nothing.

"I'll take my response off air," the caller said with a click. Flopsweat began to pour down Larry Devine's angular face. He had no retort for the diatribe he was just audience to.

Rather than respond to the caller, Larry Devine said, “We’ll be back after these messages.” During the break, the producer entered the studio. “Larry, why’d you go to commercial?”

"That last caller happened to be an ex-boyfriend of mine," Larry Devine admitted to his producer, Mr. Shaw, "I just couldn't deal with it." "Dammit Larry," Mr. Shaw stormed, "You

suck!" Producer Shaw's face was quite red now. "Take another caller!" Larry Devine timidly took the next caller. "Hi, my name is Methane Clathrate, and I'm a hamster-holic."

" Methane Clathrate? Why does that sound like I forgot your name in Chemistry class because we didn't have any chemistry?" Producer Shaw's jaw dropped. He didn't know this Larry.

The Larry he knew spoke with a lisp, and said Meffane Claffherate, incorrectly. Producer Shaw apologetically introduced this Larry to his good friend, Glock69, and then he smiled.