A Really Long Story that If You Read All of You Get a Cookie

The oil company wanted me dead. I had said some less than kind, though totally true remarks regarding sick pelicans. This precipitated a major slide in stock prices. In accordance with the thirty-fourth Amendment my actions therefore amounted to treason against the state, whom the company was a majority shareholder.

Legal protection was out of the question. The Supreme Court had been privatized and bought up with everything else. Even my lawyer was emblazened with Mountain Dew and Valvoline stickers. My chances did not look good,. Rumors circulated a long procedure could further hurt the oil company's market share, thus increasing my charge of treason as well.

Luckily, they were not the only ones that wanted me killed. A large beverage company had come under fire for unrelated remarks from yours truly. I had merely commented the additive Green-16 was responsible for priapism in laboratory mice. It might have been true. Regardless, it would seem two of the largest economic entities of the country wanted my head piked up atop the Brooklyn Bridge.

The only thing working in my favor was not justice but two warring corporations. There had been intense speculation and betting over who would get the honors. So much so, neither could afford to merely let the other succeed. I had become their prize pig or dare I say Helen of Troy with less fantastic breasts.

Their assassins were of course the best. Each thought they could pick me off in secret and minimize the damage, while still getting credit for the kill. The first was a Russian, who only just missed me as I went to tie my shoe. The second would have hit me if the first had not spotted her. He quickly began to fire rounds off at her direction. His cover was blown, but he apparently thought the sheer barage of bullets might do me in in the process of killing his foe. She was clearly too good for that.

They battled for what must have been ten minutes before calling a stalemate. I was not aware such a formality existed amongst assassins. Nevertheless, the procedure seemed so natural I thought they must have tried it before. Both walked up to one another wordless as one got out a coin and flipped it. The women said tails as it entered the air. I never managed to hear the result, however. As both were concentrated on each other I got out my own pistol. They clearly underestimated me and that was their undoing. I shot both from underneath a table and high tailed it out of there before any more paid killers could find me.

I managed to stay low-key until the trial. The good people at I Can't Believe It's Not Butter decided to put me in protective custody. It turned out the negative publicity for the soda company resulted in people buying more fake butter. It didn't entirely make sense but I went with it.

The trial went as expected. I was called communist and berated without getting much time to defend myself. In the end though the judge decided hanging was too good for me and I got off with a few nights inside the Iron Maiden followed by some light whipping.