“Macroeconomics,” you say.
“Weren’t you a photography major last year?” the bartender said.
He has a strange half smile and is wearing a “Minnesota Twins — 1987 World Champions” cap. Now that you think about it, you realize that you feel almost as much a buzz now as you did the night the Twins won the World Series. Suddenly you recognize the bartender as the sleazy lush who sat in the back of your photography class.
“Yes, but that was only for a short time. I had nothing to do with the TA T-and-A project,” you reply.
“That’s what they all say. So why did you eat my Easter egg?” said the bartender.
“I ate your what?” you say.
“My Easter egg. My beautiful Faberge Easter egg.” He stares intently at you.
“Oh that,” you say. Even though you don’t remember anything about an Easter egg, you decide that it would be wise to humor him. “I was hungry. I ate it.”
“Then it’s lights out for you,” the bartender says as he throws a left hook your way.
You duck, but someone behind you grabs your shoulders and holds you in a hammerlock.
The bartender jumps over the bar and punches you in the face. You lose count how many times he does it.
“I’ll pay for the egg! Anything you want!” you say.
The bartender ignores your pleas.
“This one’s for George Pillsbury,” he growls as he administers the coup de grace to your chest.
The man behind you lets go and you fall to floor. The bartender kicks at you savagely.
Finally, the police arrive and bartender makes a run for it.
As you lie on the floor, bleeding from holes you didn’t have a few minutes ago and writhing in unspeakable agony, you realize that the end is near. You try to say some last words to someone nearby, but your lips are in too much pain to move.

The End