an assassin walked into a bar.
he ordered a drink from the bartender.
a cold martini.
outside, a little dog ran down the street.
is your name eddie wilson, the assassin asked the bartender when he received his cold martini.
no, replied the bartender, but it is fred smith. why do you ask?
because i am a trained deadly assassin, the assassin growled, and i have been hired to kill eddie wilson.
the bartender shook his head. i am sorry i can not help you, but nobody calling himself eddie wilson is a regular customer in this establishment.
a bead of icy perspiration suddenly appeared on the assassin’s cold martini.
just because he does not call himself eddie wilson does not mean he is not eddie wilson, the assassin persisted.
that is true. perhaps you could be kind enough to describe him.
he is a little guy, about three and a half feet tall, with a tattoo of the mona lisa on his forehead.
no, the bartender mused thoughtfully, no one of that description comes in here. there is mike morrison. he is at least four feet tall though, and has a picture of kim kardashian tattooed on his left bicep.
that is not the guy i want.
oh well, then i guess you are out of luck. the bartender sighed.
that is the trouble with people today, the assassin replied with a touch of annoyance. they give up too easily, and do not go the extra mile to help a guy out.
suddenly the place grew quiet.
are you accusing me, my friend, of giving you the runaround? the bartender asked the assassin.
there is no need to get sore. i was just expressing my frustration at not being able to do the job i was hired to do, that is all. please forgive me.
a tarantula crawled across the floor toward the assassin.
i had an uncle named harry, the bartender said. and he used to get upset at every little thing. finally my aunt clara had enough of his nonsense and left him.
a violent burst of wind blew the door open.
why can’t that damn door stay shut? the bartender asked.
you cant expect everything to work the way it is supposed to, the assassin said.
and yet we hope, the bartender said. we go on hoping, day after day, even though there is no hope,
the bartender walked out from behind the bar, and the tarantula, which had been intended for the assassiin, bit him.
