Random Sequence

Malcolm came home that day in a mood of tired rage. "It's an electric heresy," he said to his wyfe, Marla, as he tossed his jacket onto the armoire. "Not there," she whined, picking it up and hanging it on a sconce. "And don't be so cryptic." She pouted. "Don't be my inappropriate champion. Speak plainly. What do you mean, 'an electric heresy'"?

Malcolm sighed. "They are the nitwits of death," he said. "The assessors."

"Oh, those tax psychos?"

"Yeah. Now they want to digitize my Moleskine. Every little scribble! I asked, 'why, why?' 'Because all my records are relevant to the assessment.' That's what the short one, Hiram, said.

"Oh, that idiotic tostada!" Marla spat.

"I'd like to put nitroglycerin in that contraption he has surgically attached to his ear. Practically."

"Ha ha, an explosive smartphone!"

"Blow him into space, yeah. Except they wouldn't want him up there, either."

"They?"

"An orbit invasion. He'd be space junk. Let him assess a vacuum. A nothing."

"That reminds me," Marla said, suddenly pensive. "I don't have a thing for dinner."

"Mexican," Malcolm said.

(Not to be continued.)