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A great place to keep your fantastic ideas, like, "Hey! I need to write more sentences about crickets and English gentlemen with unruly beards."
Wearing his best suit, which he’d had freshly pressed, and with his briefcase in hand, Peter stepped out the door ready for work, having forgotten somehow that he was the dishwasher down at Chen’s Noodle Cup.
Peter’s briefcase contained only a mechanical pencil with no lead, a page torn out of a Gideon’s Bible with the phone number of a dead, Salt Lake City prostitute written on it, the keys to his 1972 Gran Torino which someone had stolen ten day earlier after kicking him in the groin outside of some greasy, Memphis diner, and the rusty, .22 caliber pistol his mother had told him to hide nearly 40 years ago, placed into his then small hands while his father slowly bled to death in the next room, so when the dried up old woman on the barstool next to him leaned over and whispered into his ear that she was the witch of dreams come true and that she was about to turn him into one of whatever was in that case sitting next to his feet, Peter didn’t laugh or look away or even doubt what the woman said, but simply nodded in agreement, having known all along that he should have had better memories.
No one had seen Peter’s briefcase since the missing banana incident, yet for some unexplainable reason, only Bobby, the doorman, ever considered that the two unfortunate events were related.
Peter felt foolish trying to break into the monkey’s briefcase, especially when he couldn’t guess the combination.
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