|What would Frank do?|
He's tall, in his mid 40's, white male. He lives alone. He has a high, soft, effeminate voice, but laughs very loudly. He dresses like a construction worker but I have never seen a speck of dirt on him.
He has many odd personal habits. For example, a few days after he began working for The Company, he came up to me to ask about protocol. Note this is the first time I have ever spoken with this guy... He does a kind of hop/jump into the door frame of my office, claps his hands and does a kind of "ta da!" pose complete with jazz hands. You heard me. It's like he was auditioning for Piedmont county community theater's production of Chorus Line.
He's constantly putting little notes he gets off the internet in my mailbox. "The liberals are taking over!" "Anthrax attacks orchestrated by Mexican illegals!" "The Jew Conspiracy is selling your cell number to call centers! Be part of the 'do not call' list!" I think he wears his mother's bed sheets and burns crosses on his front yard on the weekends.
I'm pretty sure he lures boys into his basement and offers them candy and Jesus juice. He's just like a kid, but with better toys and all grown up! Eww...
Or maybe he has human heads mounted on the walls and eats his Raman instant noodles out of skull caps while listening to Madam Butterfly on his mother's old record player. It's Mother's favorite record, you know...
|"I kill hookers in my basement!"|
And his name is Terry. That's the final nail in the coffin... so to speak.
All I do know for sure... I'm keeping my letter opener in a holster under my pant leg from now on...
He drives a van. A van people! If there isn't a severed foot hidden in the wheel well of that van, I'll eat my hat.