It started with the donut. Pink frosting with rainbow sprinkles. A Simpsons donut. The last donut in the box. Seemed like everyone who wanted one had already gone through the line, so what’s the harm in having a second one? Or, in this case, a third?
“Where’s my donut?” Alferd always seemed prone to outbursts and angry responses, but this particular bellow caught everyone by surprise, especially Wilson, with a half-eaten donut raised up to his mouth for another bite. Hoping no one would see him, Wilson stuffed the rest of the donut into his mouth. The dry raised donut seemed to absorb every bit of moisture in his mouth instantly, making it hard to breathe.
“Where’s my donut?” Alferd scanned the room, looking for the donut purloiner. His face radiated angry heat until his skin took on a familiar pink glow. He growled at each person in the room, making accusatory eye-contact, looking for guilt. All he found instead was a desperate Wilson choking, pounding the table with one hand and alternately pointing at his throat and back with the other.
Stanislaw, recently certified in first aid, grabbed Wilson around the middle, linked her hands, and pulled upward, causing pressure to build up in Wilson’s esophagus, eventually expelling the remains of the pink donut in an explosive trajectory in Alferd’s direction. The soggy masticated remains bounced limply at Alferd’s feet. Pandemonium broke out in the meeting room as Alferd chased after Wilson in a bizarre mockery of a game of musical chairs. Wilson would have escaped save for the donut, which, when stepped on, proved his undoing. Losing his footing, Wilson crashed through the 8th story window, plummeting to his death after demolishing a taxi on the street below.