The xenomorph had hatched from
Wallace Carmichael's chest and hoped to wreak bloody havok on the
Burmingham Hilton. A national accountants convention had settled in,
and that meant ample opportunity to feed to its acidic heart's
content. There was just one problem.
“Sorry,” said hotel security. “No one but convention attendees allowed on the convention floor.”
The alien hissed, outstretched its
inner mouth, snapped its tiny fangs, and dripped acid onto the
carpet, which sizzled and steamed. Security responded by pointing to
a sign stating convention policy and issuing the alien a bill for the
carpet.
“Look pal, it's simple. No badge,
no admittance.”
The xenomorph skulked off to the
registration table, paid the sixty dollar fee, collected its two
buffet and drink vouchers, a program guide, and hung its badge around
its neck, figuring holding it would take hands away from the vital
business of maiming.
As he walked through the main
concourse, looking for someplace to start, a panel on new tax laws
caught his eye. Obviously he didn't want to be caught unprepared come
April, so he sat in. Then he checked his program and selected a few
other panels that maybe he might want to attend, and he certainly
couldn't miss the mixer that night, and how long does a bloodbath
take, really? Half an hour? Forty-five minutes? Surely no more than
an hour. It could wait. By the end of the week, he had killed no one,
but had become a CPA.
- Originally mailed to S. Johnson of LaFayetteville, Indiana
No comments:
Post a Comment