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Work

"Work...Work work work...Shit, I have work to do. Well, it's due tomorrow, So I'll put it off till later and then re decide if I want to do it."

Stan sneaks over to the phone and silently picks it up. He begins pushing the numbers that in combination would result in the gift of a pizza at his door within the hour at a nice expensive price.

"AHH!"

The buttons begin to scream for help in the sound of corresponding tones to the numbers;

-Mission aborted.

Stan goes next door where his childhood friend lives.

Knock knock knock...Knock …..knock knock...drum roll knock...Kicks door in

"Hey Craig! Want to hang out, I have work to hide from."

says Stan as he stands upon the door he conquered.

"Sorry bro, I gotta smoke this TH fucking C man, got to fulfill my addiction, even though by theoretical statistics, weeds not addicting. I'm fucking hooked! It's not necessary but I need it!

Not really wanting to do with anyone who doesn't share my passion for it, or at least sells it. Sorry man,later."

Stan put the door back up right and cemented it in place.

Normally that wouldn't be a problem but when your five floors underground, It significantly impacts your travel schedule.

Stan takes three steps, no more, no less and begins his rant... to himself.

"What a fucking asshole, eight years of friendship replaced by a mild hallucinogen.

Shit, if your going to replace me you better be taking drugs that offer severely fucked up, vivid, life changing hallucinations. At least then your stories will be a hell of a lot more interesting."

Stan walks down the hall towards the apartments mail center.

Number of the beast begins to play, muffled, from Stans back pocket

*Flip*

"...yes?"

"I have your $200 held hostage in my wallet, bring the website tomorrow as we agreed, oh and I am just assuming you know what I want even though when we talked, I never actually said it. Good luck, Don't fuck up"

"...Click"

"Stan, why did you just say click?"

"I was letting you know what a hang up sounds like in case it happens."
"what makes you think that is going..."

*Click*

"Shit, I have work to do, that $200 is in trouble!"

Stan rechecks his internal motivation gauge
"Later."

Key, mailbox, turn, no result. Intimidate mailbox with a lovely sadistic smile that would give an old lady the satisfaction of Tapioca and death in the same package. Results.

He grabs the mail from the mailbox the best he can without being attacked by the overdeveloped dust bunnies who may have rabies.

Mail:

Microgoth-New deals on Laptops! Only $1,666 for a new P.O.S. Get your shit today!

Super hate:We despise your guts and wish we could legally do something about that but in sad attempt, congress didn't agree. We accept all major credit cards, not including geza or master baiter card.

Cemetery 'R' us: Bill for 1lbs of cement. Pay it now with 3 complicated payments of $24.32!

Stan pockets the bill and trashes all the rest. By trash I mean eats them. By rest, I refer everyone else's mail. Even little sally's letter from her grandma describing how the g-ma has reached the age of 99 and feels that she will be moving on to the next life within the month. Sad..but tasty so the letter had a purpose. As the conversion goes, 400 pieces of mail = one medium sized pizza.

Now full and brushed up on cementing skills, Stan retires back to his dreadful apartment.