Another Day, Another Assassination

Henry sat in a rolling chair, looking out the window and munching on a scone. He had been doing so for the past three hours, and an increasing feeling of dread had descended onto him only a few minutes ago, though he did not know particularly why.

“It may be indigestion,” he thought, “from eating all these scones.”

Then he realized that something was not quite right.

“Why am I eating scones? I've never even seen a scone in my life until now.”

As Henry tried to summon up all the knowledge he had stored away about scones, a butterfly flitted into the open window and landed on his scone, trying to suck away all the nectar that it knew for a fact was hidden within. Being unsuccessful in this pursuit, it then proceeded to flutter angrily around Henry's head. He found this particularly distracting, and thus ameliorated the situation by crushing the insect between his thumb and index finger.

He looked down at the yellow goop on his fingers in disdain.

“This butterfly's guts remind me of Thursday,” he thought, inexplicably, completely forgetting about the task of remembering anything involving scones.

This thought then provoked him to remember an event which had occurred on that Thursday, which involved his watching of an excess amount of television, and the visit of an old friend, as well. The old man who visited, whom Henry referred to as Gandalf for some reason or another, probably because of his starking resemblance to an old wizard, had walked in during one of Henry's favorite shows. Henry, of course, was not altogether pleased at his show being interrupted, so he waved Gandalf away when he tried to tell him something.

“What was it that he said?” Henry tried to remember.

He knew it was something pessimistic, for Gandalf was always one to say pessimistic things. He also knew that it was something along the lines of Henry's untimely demise being imminent, though that was always one of Gandalf's favorite conversational topics, and thus could not be relied on.

Henry stared hard at the pink wallpaper, trying to remember anything, but all he could remember was a vivid image of the female lead of the show that he had been watching at the time. All of the sudden, he came to another realization.

“Since when do I have pink wallpaper?” he thought, looking strangely at the brightly colored walls.

He then looked down and noticed that he was sitting in a rolling chair.

“Why am I in a rolling chair? I don't own a rolling chair.”

His gaze then moved to the scenery outside, which he had been staring at for the past three hours.

“This isn't my yard...” his thoughts trailed off.

He knew what was going on. He slowly swiveled his chair around, but before he could make it all the way around, his throat had been slit.

“All in a good day's work,” his assassin said cheerfully, wiping off his sword and heading out the door. “The trapping's getting easier and easier these days."