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Mar 31, 2006 - 04:47 AM |
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Tales of ChocoCountry: 2 |
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Probably my weirdest day at the Chocobo City Post-Criticizer was the time Eddie Styphon walked in. Now, in those days Eddie wasn't anybody — just a clerk down at the city morgue. But even then the boy had ambitions, and he wasn't afraid to let anybody know it. It was a busy time at the paper — election season — and Eddie was running simultaneously for no less than six different city positions. At the time this seemed absurd, and none of us thought of it as anything but an elaborate practical joke. Of course, the voters proved us wrong, but that's all water under the bridge.
Anyway, that day's editorial section had been inevitably devoted to the elections, which were only a couple of weeks ahead. For my part, I'd used my space to do little but make fun of the candidates for the last month. Most of them managed to take this with some dignity, but not Eddie. Every few days we'd walk into the office to find the answering machine absolutely stuffed with his histrionics. We'd live to regret this, all of that crap. All we did was save the best parts and pass them around for a cheap laugh. Anyway, Eddie evidently figured out that he wasn't exactly getting through to us, so one fine morning he barges right through the building into my office without so much as a knock.
I was having a little pow-wow with the other editors — Brad, Francine, Sarah — and Eddie strides in and sweeps all my notes onto the floor. Well, that was fine by me, really; any paperwork on my desk was usually just for show anyway. Even as I was about to reveal this little fact to him, he launched into his tirade.
"Look, you little shits", he hissed, "in less than a month I'll own this stinking town, and you'll pay for your disrespect. You'll pay, and your families will pay, and your friends... all the way down to your pets and houseplants. Nobody laughs at Eddie Styphon! Nobody!"
Now, it turned out later that Eddie's family came from old money; his preferred form of address was Edward James Hector Styphon III, Esquire, and our insistence in referring to him as "Eddie" was probably the most galling thing to a guy like that. All his life in Bumfuckistan he'd been kissed up to nonstop, and he just couldn't deal with the practical reality of the City: that nobody gave a crap where he came from. Of course, he ended up getting back all the respect he wanted — at least, as long as he didn't turn his back. Anyway, he kicked in a hole in my desk and stormed out of the building; the door, happily, did hit him in the ass on the way out. It took about 10 seconds before we were all cracking up, sassy little Francine leaning out my second-story window and shouting taunts at Eddie's retreating back.
A couple weeks later, Eddie won all those elections, giving him more than a few fingers in all of the city's pies. I came home hung over the next morning to find my imported cactuses smashed to pieces all over the porch.
Response entries:
My entire collection of donated naked pics (56k not friendly) by Divest
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