Running With Scissors

Vignettes From The Good, The Bad, And The Dumbass

Peter, being the prideful New Yorker that he was, decided he wasn't going to touch the thing, even if it killed him. Good thing, too, because the chef had added a rather sneaky filling just for Peter.

But still, there he was, trying to make "cereal" when Hugo entered the room in his usual, French demeanor.

"What in the name of Auguste Escoffier are you doing, Monsieur Katz?" said Hugo as he watched the lawyer trying fill a bowl with milk using only his mouth and feet.

Peter spit the carton away, wiping some saliva out of his mouth. "Trying to make cereal."

"I get, it. I hate that faux Italian food myself," said the Frenchman, kicking the pizza away. A certain snake slithered away from the pizza in the ensuing chaos.

Hugo sat in front of Peter, trying to be as friendly as he could—which wasn't particularly much. "Now, what did you say your solution was?"

"Eat a baguette of dicks, Gerard Depardouche," said Peter. At that moment, a brief, monotonic ringtone could be heard from the vents, but just as it began to ring, it got cut off.

"Now, now, Monsieur Katz," said Hugo. "The only reason you're still alive is because, unlike our assassin friends outside, we need you alive and kicking."

"Dying sounds pretty good if it were to piss you off," said Peter. "Better than to stay here and eat rancid 'pizza'. You can't see the air quotes because my hands are tied, but I'm making them nonetheless."

"The solution, Monsieur Katz," said Hugo, grabbing Peter roughly by the shoulder.

"Look, I don't know who wants me dead, and honestly, I've done enough shady shit in life to know that it could be pretty much anyone," said Peter. "Probably those assholes at the YMCA. You take one shit in the pool, and you're suddenly banned for life-"

"Monsieur Katz," Hugo began to say, but Peter kept on.

"-even though people pee in it all the time. And I even managed to convince the jury that pools are just communal toilets. But it's not my fault that Taco Bell gives me the runs, is it?"

"To the point," said Hugo, giving Peter a hard squeeze on the clavicle.

"I'm just saying that we can reach an agreement that doesn't involve me getting murdered, in jail, or worse—in Canada."

"Sacredieu, Monsieur Katz," said Hugo.

"I don't speak baguette," interrupted Peter, or at least tried to, since Hugo seemed unfazed by his comments.

"How do you pretend to reach this miraculous agreement?"

Now, to be fair, it was a surprisingly good plan, given the circumstances. But just like cereal, one thing was to think about the plan, and another, more complicated thing was to implement it. Peter's downfall came because he failed to differentiate the two.

"Simple," said Peter. "I'm filthy rich."

"You're at least filthy," said Hugo. "But go on."

"I pay whatever my contract is worth, and let them go their merry way with some money in their pockets and a clean conscience."

"And how does that benefits me?" asked Hugo.

"You just give the evidence to the police without turning me in. I've already have the police on my tail, so what's another stripe for the tiger?"

"I don't know what tiger you're referring to," said Hugo.

"It's just a dumb saying. Thing is, I'm just planning to turn myself in to one of those super Republican districts and say this is all a partisan witch hunt to put a nice, law-abiding lawyer behind bars. Might have to swear allegiance to some gun-lobby group or whatever to get a pardon, but still."