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A Worse Idea 104

One of the shadows pressed the button, which led to the secretary at the reception desk in front of the boardroom.

He was a dashing blond man with big muscles and dorky glasses.


“Yes, sir?”

“We just killed somebody.”

“Yes, sir. I believe I heard the gunshot. Do you want the clean-up crew to take care of him, too?” the secretary asked.

(The Killer’s Gallery had gotten tired of sharing their secluded office space with all the other businesses. Therefore they had just murdered the shit out of everyone else. The people dealing with these bodies were the ‘clean-up crew’ the secretary referred to.)

“Yes, Secretary.”

“Will that be all, sir?”

“No, no. One more thing: send in the programmer.”

“Of course, sir.” The very attractive secretary looked over at the seats in the waiting room, which sat just across from the reception desk.

One person was sitting there — a pale programmer, with swoopy green hair and a gigantic hoody.

The programmer gulped, wringing their hands. “You guys kill people?”

The secretary smiled. “I certainly don’t kill people.”

“But you work for people who kill people.”

“Well, yes.” The very attractive secretary adjusted his glasses. “You know you’re working for The Killer’s Gallery, right?”

“I knew that was the name, but I didn’t realize what that meant… You know, when you drink a can of Monster Energy, you don’t expect it to be made of monsters. Red Bull doesn’t give you wings, Toys ‘R’ Us isn’t owned by a giant giraffe. I thought you guys just wanted me to make an app?”

“The app was already made,” the secretary explained. “They probably want you to fix it.”

“Why are app creators killing people?”

“You have it backwards. The question is, why are killers creating an app?”

The programmer looked at the secretary in confusion.

“Trust me,” the secretary said. “It’s not that difficult. Just go in there, be honest, and do your job. You were chosen because you belong here.”

The programmer sighed. “I’m totally going to die, aren’t I?”

“I’d say your odds are better than fifty-fifty.” The secretary smiled.

“Secretary,” the intercom squawked, “where’s the programmer?”

“Sorry, sir,” the secretary said. “They’re worried you’re going to kill them. Can you promise me you’re not going to kill them?”

The voice speaking through the intercom sounded weary, as if speaking to a mother who’d asked them not to stay out past ten o’clock. “We’re not going to kill the programmer.”

“Thank you,” the secretary replied in a sing-song-y voice.

“See?” the secretary said. “You’re fine. Go right on in.”

The programmer gulped, keeping their head down as they walked into the boardroom.

I’m totally going to get murdered, they thought.

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