Harry frantically dialed the numbers on his cell-phone like a baby mashing buttons on a toy, all the while swerving about the road like an escaped convict who’d just acquired a vehicle.  His veins were pulsing, his eyes frantically smashing themselves into the sides of his temples looking for reasons as to why it happened.  Luckily for Harry, none of the usual beer-gutted traffic cops had taken the time to wake up and pull him over for doing 80 in a 50 zone.

Work waited, regardless of the morning’s horror.  It would always wait for him, like some looming gateway to hell.  He was sick of it all, and he had begun taking it out on himself around a year ago after a massive mental breakdown.  After all, he was 52 and still an office grunt with a deadbeat wife and absolutely no chance of a future.

The ambulance had been called by the time he got to work.  He couldn’t even remember what he had barked at the operator; something about an address and a shit-load of blood.  Even the feeling of his own tongue writhing about uncomfortably in his mouth made him want to vomit as he walked briskly to his office at Burgin-Hitchings Accounting.

The secretary was always a cheeky bitch to Harry, but this time she went too far.  As Harry walked in, he saw her tight red sweater and perfectly cut black hair loom from behind a cushy desk.  She just smiled with a wry satanic grin, and said:

“Running late darling?”

Harry faked a smile as though she was funny, which she responded to by sticking her tongue out.  He nearly puked on the spot, and her eyes became like coals.  He continued to hurry to his office, all the while holding down his vomit.

At his desk, he sat and wondered if they’d found his wife yet, or if they were treating her at all.  He cared somewhat that she was alive, but the old hag had dominated his life for so long, that he wasn’t sure if he truly cared anymore.  All he could stare at was the pin that held the picture of him and his wife Marsha to the billboard of his office.  The pin ran straight into her mouth.

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