So Dale took me hostage at gunpoint in the breakroom. The boss walked in and saw me in a chokehold with a Smith & Wesson to my head and called the police. The cops subsequently called in a hostage negotiator.
I was in no mood to put up with this shit.
“Just shoot me already, Dale. Let’s get this over with,” I said.
The cops had the building surrounded with their weapons drawn and ready to shoot. The negotiator came out over his loud speaker:
“Dale, my name is Philip, we’re all here to help you. Tell us, what can we do for you?”
“Listen you mother fuckers!,” Dale said. “I just want to talk to my wife and kids again, a little respect, and a plane ticket to Columbia!”
“Okay okay. We can get you the plane ticket, but we need you to drop your weapon,” the negotiator replied.
“No! If I don’t get what I want I will blow this dipshit’s brains out! Tell him, James!” Dale declared.
“He will!” I said. “But don’t worry about it. I’m ready to die.”
Then a sniper round went through Dale’s leg, severing a major artery, and spraying blood everywhere. Dale screamed in agonizing pain, begging for death.
I was okay
But facing my own mortality made me ask some difficult questions: should I pay my mother’s nursing home expenses or should I pay my gambling debts?
I visited Dale in the hospital and he appeared to be in better spirits.
“Great news Jim,” he said. “It appears my violent tendencies lately have been due to a bad interaction with my medications! So now I’m on Xanax!”
“Oh that’s good to hear! What about your wife and kids?” I asked.
“Oh don’t worry about that. I’m sure my wife will lift that restraining order eventually.”
“What about your assault charges?,” I asked.
“Welp, I took a plea deal so now it’s 14,000 hours of community service and I have to register as a sex offender. But no jail time 😎”
So I decided to not press charges against Dale for threatening my life and putting others in danger.
After all, everyone has bad days.