And I hate the sound of slapping fish.
When some things meet, catastrophe follows. Potassium and water. Matter and antimatter. Milli and Vanilli. Kanye West and common sense. Or manners. Or music…anything really. But the explosion that leveled the essential oils warehouse in Kansas was not the result of any of those things meeting. It was, we think because Ian met Shane.
Those that knew him well called Ian a “slimy little bugger who wore too much gold jewelry and gave the impression he’d just gotten an elderly widow to sign away her life savings to him.” Those that didn’t know him well weren’t as nice. No one seems to know exactly what he did at the company, he seemed to get moved from one department to another without actually doing anything.
No one knew Shane by name. But when I showed a picture around a few people said, ‘oh the guy that smelled like a damp carpet’, or ‘that’s the guy who took a breath after every three words.’ One supervisor remembered the ‘mumbling, pimple-dripping, guttersnipe that got locked in the warehouse over Thanksgiving.”
Though very different, they had one thing in common. Lifeless, jelly-boned handshakes. Everyone agreed that shaking hands with either was like trying to grip a custard-filled latex glove covered in fish oil.
Police suspect they met in a lunchroom and Ian saw Shane as a potential downline for his multi-level start-up of perfumed saucepans. They went to shake hands, failed because of their mutual limpness, and the cosmic repercussion was that the universe took the opportunity to obliterate them both.
