Jack was the last one in the office. As usual, as soon as the door cut off the view of Ms. Cramer's mini-skirted backside, a stream of muttered expletives issued from around the cigarette in his mouth. Too many distractions. Jack spun in his chair and glared out the window at the lone streetlight illuminating the parking lot. Ms. Cramer walked out to her coupe and then bent over in quite unladylike fashion. It was amazing what an extra half-inch of thigh could do to his imagination.
She is teasing me; always teasing me.
'Oh, just her keys.'
Ash from the cigarette fell onto his tie. The waspy smell of burned polyester brought Jack's fist into contact with the mahogany desk. He had to do something about that bitch. That bitch and the goddamn Thompson account. He settled down, but as soon as things became quiet, it began. A tendril of parmesan stench seeped into his cube. A sense of foreboding filled his chest. Then he heard it. Something dripping. From Ms. Cramer's desk.
Jack approached slowly and then was viciously murdered by an anonymous egg fork.
The next morning Ms. Cramer slipped her stiletto-tipped legs from car to pavement and coyly ran her finger under the edge of her miniskirt and along her fishnetted thighs. She ineffectually tugged it down, and her trollish 5'1" 325 pound frame was suddenly even more apparent because a falling anvil struck her squarely on the head. A head which exploded like a ripe grape in the mouth of a concubine.
The butler did it.