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The hallway compacted like an aluminum can flattened by pressure and suddenly I was airborne. I hurtled through the air, straight at Mad Rogan. Fate threw us at each other. I could never tell Grandma.
The man was a disease and I couldn’t get rid of the infection as it was. I so didn’t need another outbreak of Rogan fever.
“It doesn’t matter if I’m the first. It only matters that I’ll be the last.”
“The real question here is would you like me to cook something for you?” “Like what?” “What are you in the mood for?” Sex.
“I’ve got two days to retirement. After I kill everyone here, I’ll go to my retirement party. They’ll serve shrimp on crackers and give me a gold watch, and then, I’m going to have my midlife crisis and buy a Porsche and . . . Oh shit, my head just exploded.”
I pulled out my phone and texted Rogan. Thank you so much for providing us with an aegis. So kind of you. My pleasure. Is there anything else I can do for you? As a matter of fact there is. Make a fist and hit yourself with it. Is this the part where I tell you some ridiculously condescending line about how attractive you are when you’re angry? Do you actually have a death wish? Are you going to do something about it?
