Post Coffee, Pre Demerol

Dillian walks into my office this morning and comments on my work attire.

"Are those grenades on your shorts?" he inquires. His eyes protrude from their sockets. They pulse with greedy desire. "Are those actually orange grenades all over your shorts?"

"No Dillian, those are pineapples." I correct him with all the patience of atomic fusion. "And these aren't shorts, they are jams."

Dillian stutters and convulses in my doorway. He shapes his mouth into a grimace of mental anguish. "Would HR approve of this?" he guffaws at me, his teeth vibrating in his skull. My hand moves slowly toward my bottom desk drawer, where a real grenade sleeps, but then Dillian turns to leave. I can hear him bouncing and sliding down the hallway.

Highway to the danger zone, Dillian old buddy old pal.