Please tell me there is more to the story.
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I foiled the terrorists because they’d parked in my parking spot.
You may be thinking “huh?” or even “what the Hell?”, but it’s true.
The car blew up because it was in my parking space.
I work for a newspaper in the heart of corporate America, and as a corporate American, I am predictably irritable and unhappy on a regular basis. To appease me, the corporate American powers that be assigned me my very own parking space. I suppose they figured having a nameplate in front of a designated square of pavement would keep me from wandering into the office one day hyped up on caffeine and sporting an Uzi like a Gucci bag.
And, strangely enough, it had.
My coworkers were alive today because of my parking spot.
Hell, the building was still standing because of that spot.
And then some asshole had to go and ruin it by parking in it.
To say I was pissed would be an understatement. I was enraged, hurt, and disillusioned with mankind.
Vengeful.
Please tell me there is more to the story.