"Hang up on me, will you?" he groused. "That's it, I'm going with Barbara."

When he tapped the cradle again, he was surprised that no dial tone sounded in his ear. Maybe the jack had come loose. Face growing puzzled amid his big beard, he traced the line to the wall.

He found that the jack had come loose. Along with a fair-sized chunk of the wall. There was now a gaping hole where once phone cord had met wall plate. The saw-toothed section of extracted wall dangled from the end of the cord now in the hand of a very thin man with a very unhappy look on his face.

"Holy Jesus!" Munchie cried, clutching his chest. "You scared me half to death."

Remo's face was cold. "Not to worry," he said. "The next half's on the house."

Suddenly remembering just exactly how he'd spent his morning, Munchie released his flabby man bosom and jumped for his pile of weapons.

The first gun he grabbed up was an AR-18 rifle. He was surprised to find the weapon knotted up like a metal pretzel. He was reasonably certain it hadn't been like that when he'd used it to shoot Doris from accounting.

He threw down the rifle and snatched up a shotgun. It disintegrated in his hands, clanking in a dozen fat pieces to the surface of the desk.

He grabbed a handgun that somehow suddenly became a ball of fused metal with bullets dropping out. When he pulled the trigger, it pinched his finger. Yelping in pain, Munchie threw the worthless gun to the floor.

"I surrender!" Munchie cried, throwing up his hands.

Remo took a step back from the stink clouds that emanated from Munchie's armpits.

"What kind of job do you do around here that they'd let you come in to work reeking like that?" Remo asked.

"I do Web designs, mostly," Munchie replied. He saw Remo's blank face.

"For the Internet?" Munchie offered.

"Oh," Remo nodded, as if that explained everything. "Let's go, Buttercup. You're late for your own funeral."