The annual convention was more packed this year than it had ever been. Thousands of writhing bodies crammed into a hotel ballroom. . . with only a few exceptions, I was sure, each of them was just as dissappointed or even more so with their lives as I was. But unlike them, I was going to do something about it. I stared at the décor of the room- - formal, but in that half assed mechanical sort of way one always encounters in hotels- - waiting for them to call me up by the wrong name to give my presentation. My mind wandered about on its own accord: old memories, lines from movies, melodies to Tears for Fears songs. . . anything to keep my mind off of what I was about to do. If I thought about it, I'd wuss out. And I couldn't let my brain do that to me.

Finally the moment came, and I ascended the small staircase to the stage and stepped up to the podium. Ironically enough this was the least nervous I'd ever been for a presentation. I extracted my roll of slides from my breifcase, placed them on the projector, and cleared my throat loudly into the microphone.

"The sales for January were at an all time high for the company," I began, the first slide projecting in all its glory of boring graphs directly behind my head. "But in February, things took a bit more of a sour turn. . ." with a casual flick of the thumb, the second slide clicked into place. The collective intake of breath was so great it nearly created a vacuum around me. "Oh, I'm sorry," I continued, my demeanor not fracturing for half a second, "That's not February's sales figures. That's a picture of my boss with a hooker. Oh look, there's another. And another! Must have been a mixup in the marketing division. I'll just keep clicking past these until the sales figures show up, they're bound to be in here somewhere. No. No. Oooooh, that's illegal in most states, isn't it? Nope. Hm, I'm starting to think the other graphs aren't in here at all. And yet I'm still clicking. Picture after picture. Wow, Mr. Truman, you must be quite a formidable lover. Look how happy she looks. Oh, I'm sorry, that's not a she. Or, I don't know, she's a little bit of both, isn't she? I hear those are the best."

Not a single person in the audience had moved a muscle. My boss was so red it had transcended red, buzzed on through purple and a few more stages of the color wheel and was currently something of a greenish hue. Whistling to myself, I popped my slides off the projector, slipped them back into my breifcase for posterity, and strolled out the door. The shock seemed to keep everyone glued irrevocably to their seats. Ten minutes later I was running for my life to the airport.

. . .I popped open another bottle of some kind of liquor, at this point I wasn't being too picky as to what exactly I was drinking. Coulda been engine coolant for all I knew, some of the less reputable motels have been known to keep that in their minibars.

"I feel for ya pal," slurred Robbie, who had over the course of the past half hour had consumed even more alcohol than I had. "I wanted to be a vet- er-a-narian. But no, I ended up here. The mafia. . . it really involves little to no taking care of sick animals. . ."

"Go figure."

"My pop. . . he pushed me into this whole deal. . ."

"He was in the mob too?"

"No, he was a veterinarian. When I said I wanted to follow in his footsteps, he just looked me in the eye and told me sincerely not to get myself in the mess he was in. Said one you was in, there ain't no gettin' out. Told me he only worked as a vet so I could have a chance at having a better life than he did. So he called my Uncle Ernie, and got me all hooked up with the family. Killed my first stoolie at the age of nine and a half. Dad was so proud. Hung the pictures on his wall. He got hauled off to a mental asylum a few years later. There was so much feces flung around his office that his secretary- -"

Suddenly the door swung open, striking Robbie in the back. He cried out in pain and hobbled to his feet. His partner stormed in, clutching his handgun to his side.

"Don't sit so close to the door ya moron. Just askin' for trouble. I got the bullets, lets take care a' this guy and go get somethin' ta eat."

"No," Robbie said forcefully, moving in front of me and staring his partner in the eye.

"What do you mean, no? Waste the punk and let's blow this joint, we been here too long already."

"I ain't gonna let you kill him, Frankie," Robbie stood his ground. Frankie rose the gun to Robbie's temple.

"I'm not gonna argue with you. I kill onna you or both, makes no difference to me."

Robbie grabbed Frankie's arm, forcing it downward. A shot rang out, and Robbie staggered. Point blank into his stomach. His blood soaked my hands, cringing slightly I shook them off and backed into a wall. Hearing a cry, I looked up, just in time to see Robbie fall. My katana blade was buried a few inches into Frankie's chest. Shuddering, he dropped his gun and flopped down on top of his partner.

After a brief pause, I walked to the corpses, flipped over Frankie's body, and withdrew my sword from his heart. Wiping it on the comforter, I tossed it back into my suitcase.

Two minutes later I was walking down the road again, this time quite tireless. This night had been a long one, but dawn wasn't far away, and neither was Des Moines. A few police cars passed me by in the opposite direction, sirens blazing. I just laughed.

. . . "I'd be glad to, sir," I told my boss respectfully.

"Good man," he smiled, exiting my cubicle and strolling leisurely down the hallway. I flipped him off passive agressively as he walked away, and my phone rang. As if somehow the person calling could see me, I quickly hid my hand and answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Hey there, I finally got ahold of you! It's Jeannie, Jeannie Miller, your roommate told me I could reach you here."

"Good lord, I haven't seen you since high school!"

"I know. Just flipping through my old yearbooks, got the urge to get back in touch with some of my old friends. You know how it is."

"No, not really. So what've you been doing with your life?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. I'm working at Paramount, as a hairdresser, just like I'd always wanted to be."

"You're kidding me."

"No, it's a dream, I swear. What've you been up to since high school?"

"Oh, I. . . I've. . . I've done absolutely nothing. Nothing. . . at all. Not a damn thing."

A pause.

"Well, that's nice."

"I guess."

Another pause. I drummed my fingers on my desk.

"Well it was nice talking to you again."

"You too."