Kiplinger longed to be outside. He looked out the office window and yearned. He heard voices, he envisioned visions... though he never quite understood the call.
     The ghostly, mysterious call always found him in moments of daydream, playing out scenarios, Kiplinger the actor, the hero…
     “Kiplinger, you’re fired.”
     Kiplinger looked up from his desk, and sighed. He waited to see what would be said next.
     For a moment, his ex-boss said nothing, only stared at Kiplinger as if there were nothing more to say.
     “Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out.”
     He turned and left.
     “Fired,” thought Kiplinger. He removed his scale and calculator from the desk drawer, and headed home. It was a beautiful day for a walk. Thinking everything would turn out for the best, he was hit by a bus.

     Gerty was having a bad day. Her no good husband had spent the night out, again… never should’ve married the louse. Honestly, she was tired of life. She rounded the square and stopped, opening the door for the rush hour crowd. Sick of the job. Damn sick of driving this bus day in, day out. Heading down Main, the sun got in her eyes. For a moment she was blinded, then, she hit somebody. She slammed on the brakes, people screamed…
     Gerty got off  the bus and started walking home, only briefly looking at 
the mangled body lying on the blood covered street. She hummed a tune with no discernible melody.

     The night before, Gerts’ husband Neil was out playing cards with friends. Gert had just called, bitching again. That’s fine, he loved her. He was the quite sort, kept to himself. He was easily  amused. His friends were, for the most part, idiots. They played cards and drank, talked, laughed, smoked…
     Neil picked up the phone to call Old Jim.
     “Hello?”
     “Old Jim?”
     “No, this is the Kiplinger residence. You must have the wrong number.”
     “Yeah, well… screw you Kiplinger.”
     “Excuse me?”
     “You heard me right.”
     Neil hung up, and laughed.