Why We Fired Bernie (The Abridged Version)
We were all flying on our private jet. It was lovely. I started singing our hit song. The other members of the band started to do so as well. It sounded great and then it didn’t sound right. I realized that our cook had started singing along as well, and was off-key. When we finished we decided to go to the deli window.
“Hey Bernie,” I said.
He turned to me and I saw the dried tears around his eyes. I also saw that the expiration date on an open package of meat—a week ago.
“Bernie? You’ve been thinking about Florence again, eh?”
I looked Bernie over. He was wearing his flowered print shirt. It stretched across his large stomach and I found myself looking into the slits between buttons. I questioned my sanity.
“I was cutting up those steaks for your sandwiches — with her knife.” Florence had regularly slept with the entire band. I still suspected him of her murder. Bernie looked at me and then I smelled flatulence.
The band nodded in unison.
| COPYRIGHT 2006-2011
Portland Fiction Project
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED