Today at work, Norman Dilansky, the HR guy who comes down to your floor every morning to take roll call, will be shot twice in the neck and once in the back by a sniper positioned on the roof of the Landers Mutual building across the way. In the wake of the tragedy, a group of your coworkers will use the assassination as an excuse to leave for the bar and start drinking at 11:30 AM.
"Guess someone really didn't like having his name taken for roll call," you'll suggest, just before downing your second of ultimately six gin and tonics.
"It is pretty demeaning," Jennifer, the hot technical writer will offer. "It's like we're in grade school."
"That's true," Ben will say. Ben is handicapped, so everyone will turn around from their stools to look down at him in his wheelchair, because it's polite. "Dilansky had it coming. He should've watched his step."
A few others from the office will be sitting in the corner of the bar sobbing into each other's embrace. You won't know them and you'll assume they're full of crap, like the ones who make a big show of wishing you a happy birthday when the cafeteria sends up the requisitioned birthday cake.
Manny the temp will slam his drink down on the bartop. "You guys really think this is about roll call? Jesus, open your eyes. It's Iraq!"
When you get back to the office, you'll find out that Dilansky's assassin was his wife. Apparently Dilansky had been prostituting his daughter to his poker buddies. She decided the world needed to be wiped clean of the likes of him and as his wife, she felt it was her responsibility to spring for the rifle and bullets.
Happy Assassination Day!