Guy Named Neil: im not coming til 1240 coz i have an accounting competition thing from 11 - 1230
cheesehound 42: shweet
cheesehound 42: are you going to be all under rows of brass lamps shaded by green-painted glass, pencil stubs tucked over your right ear as you furiously scribble at grid sheets before copying it to carbon paper for the records?
Guy Named Neil: yes
Guy Named Neil: well no
Guy Named Neil: but yes
cheesehound 42: white is for the taxman, goldenrod is for you, and salmon is for the client. SALMON IS FOR THE CLIENT. Sweat drips down your brow and stumbles onto the page. SALMON IS FOR THE CLIENT. The clients, the goddamn clients. So many of them, always. An inescapable twitch has developed in your left eye over the years and you can hardly pick up a pen without shaking. Those goddamn clients.
Guy Named Neil: your mind
Guy Named Neil: its
Guy Named Neil: its
Guy Named Neil: THE SALMON IS FOR THE CLIENTS

I couldn't imagine any sort of circumstance which would make it seem a good idea, but upon closer inspection the car was indeed being towed by a bungie jumping cord. The white, and moderately rusted, Lincoln Town Car stubbornly held its ground as the red rubber went taut. A sky blue car of similar age, perhaps a Ford Maverick, strained at the other end until the Lincoln suddenly sprang forward across the intersection at it, the occupant inside slamming the brakes before screeching to a halt a foot behind it. They continued down the street and somehow pulled into the parking lot of a local convenience store.

-Tyrus Peace