The man takes the potatoes and wanders around my office like a cat on the prowl. I pour us both a bit of alcohol and pass one glass to him.
The last time I had dealings with birds the affair ended with a lot of feathers flying and a broken heart. The woman I dealt with that time was a friend and even she didn't talk to me after that. The seagull had been carrying love letters between her and her boyfriend but the bird and the man both decided to try their own hand at new love. No one ever saw the seagull again.
The man rifled through some of my papers, pie and bar graphs mostly.
"It's a handy thing," he opined after a large swallow of gin, "knowing how to make a good graph." He pulled one out for reference, a nice one colored using different shades of purple.
"Handy like a knife in the back," I replied, putting down my glass. "Some of my acquaintances are graph makers. Most of them are dead now."
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Nothing good happened today, so instead I give you dangerous graph makers.
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