Jeff’s Lunch Break

Jeff sits cross-legged on a pedestal. He is giving his daily speech on Zionism and the finance industry and the Illuminati and the coming New World Order. 
"You think your vote matters? You think you have any say in what this country does? You’re not the ones lining the pockets of the politicians? Who is? Who could be but the ones who hold all the money?"
The bells of the Campanelle go off. That means it’s one o’clock.
Jeff lifts himself off of his pedestal and puts on his flip-flops. He picks up his bike and begins to walk down Telegraph. 
A few blocks down he turns a corner. He finds his Subaru exactly where he parallel parked it two hours ago. He get in, puts his mangy hair into a chic ponytail, and buttons his shirt.
When he gets to the office, Jeff trades the flip-flops for his Toms. He grabs the messenger bag holding his Retina MacBook Pro from under the passenger seat and gets out of the car.
Jeff is a few minutes late to the meeting, by the bored looks on the faces of his coworkers. At least they had time to check up on Instagram.
"Hey everyone, sorry I’m late. Hope you all had a great lunch break. Who’s ready to talk about some case reports?"


I’m lying in bed when I feel something tickle my right arm. And then again. I assume it’s nothing but swipe anyway. 
Holy fucking nope. Black widow, next to my face. 
I’m standing but I don’t remember how I got that way. Yay for not getting vertigo. Oh never mind, there it is.
We stare at each other without moving for what seems like forever. Closest I’ve ever been to a Mexican stand-off.
He breaks into a sprint towards the edge of the bed.
Not this time, pal. A well-placed Clark’s Desert Boot cuts him off as soon as he leaps off the sheet. 
A stack of books cuts off his last escape route. I have the lighter in my hands.
Burn, bastard. Let your brothers see what happens to invaders.
Remember: I didn’t start this. They drew first blood.

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