Diary Entry: February 9 (as dictated to the secretary, Charles, who writes very slowly)
14 knocks on my door. I counted each one. Some were in cadences familiar to everyone. Five of those and then eight in a steady manner. I waited for the fifteenth one but it never came. When I got to the door and peeped out the hole I saw a delivery guy holding a bag. It was my dinner. So, I opened the door and the guy held the bag up. It didn’t say Spice on the bag as it usually does. The guy moved his other hand to his waste and then behind the bag and shot through it.
If it weren’t for my copy of the Green Gable Show I would have passed away immediately, barely missing my 178th birthday dinner.
The man had only one bullet and his eyes got big and full of tears as he fired. And he didn’t even have a delivery. It was an empty bag!
I smacked him across the cheek with my book, handed back his revolver and offered him a second bullet to try again (I keep one in my pocket like one would keep a lucky rabbit’s foot). He was too shaky (but not from anger as I was) to put it in and kept leaving the key chain on it, so I did it for him and handed it back.
He shot me in the face this time and I got madder than hell. He hit my face! I went to my desk, bleeding all over the place (I’d just bought a white shag rug for $200 at Crate and Barrel to impress some girl who use to be special) and rummaged for another bullet, finding one more. I put it in the gun myself as I was walking back to the door with my face dripping blood. He was gone.
I was Yosemite Sam angry. Old YS will get unnecessarily angry to the hilt! I tantrum-stomped and bled all over that stupid rug. Finally, my real dinner came and I fibbed to the real delivery guy and said “You must have the wrong address” because I’d lost my appetite from all the cheek blood that was also bleeding inside my mouth. Then, I got hungry again.