There he sat, brooding over a sad salad that was inadequate in all ways. The phone on his desk rang. He glanced at the caller ID display. He looked back at the salad, and took another lousy forkful as the call rang over to voicemail. The half-assed salad of unwashed lettuce, undoubtedly heavily laden with fecal coliform bacteria, loomed ever more ominous on his desk. He was a federal agent. A government killer with a badge and an arsenal of high-powered weapons.
The law didn't apply to him. He was the law. He was also a guy who liked to jerk off with Liquid Wrench, but he mostly did that off the clock. Back to the salad. It was really a shitty salad. He dumped the salad in his government-issued trash bin. The oily, brownish lettuce leaves cascaded down the mound of bullshit paperwork that he had discarded earlier.
He began to walk out of the office, his hulking, brutish frame making the floor shake with each step. As he reached the door to the parking lot, he unholstered his service pistol. He gripped the Sig Sauer P227 tightly in his large, hairy hand. It was an excellent weapon. This one in particular had killed plenty of people, innocent and guilty alike. "Everybody is guilty of something," he thought.
The sunlight made the matte black finish of the Sig contrast sharply with his cheap suit. He waved the gun around in the air, grimacing in the empty parking lot. The government killer walked, gun still in hand, to get an omelette at the diner down the avenue.
He opened the to-go container and mushed a handful of omelette into his mouth. Bits of egg clung to his hairy hand.
The omelette was fucking terrible.
