From his terrifyingly tidy desk at the far end of a long hallway, Mr Aldous Lamppe Chucksley could spot an errant secretary lingering at the water cooler longer than the company-allotted 45 seconds. He counted those seconds like a deep sea diver counts the seconds left in his air supply, and, in order to report every malfeasance, he kept meticulous records on every employee who overstayed his or her water-drinking welcome, which was, of course, all of them. He also fiercely counted, unbent, and then distributed for re-use, paper clips he rescued from co-workers’ waste baskets, dutifully reporting anyone he witnessed abusing them.

He also turned in to the proper authorities anyone he saw using more than what he considered their fair share of such items as erasers, thumb tacks, liquid correction paper, staples, and various other necessities, the care and preservation of which Mr Chucksley had taken upon himself as a sacred trust.

Mr Chucksley was nothing if not observant and attentive to detail. Although he was a staunch (but secret) atheist, "God is in the details" he would often insist to anyone who would listen, which was pretty much no one.

As the people who worked with (and loathed) him often said (behind his back): "Boy that ‘Chuckles’! He’s got his nose into EVERYthing!"

Mr Chucksley was universally referred to as ‘Chuckles’, though none of his co-workers could ever recall a time when they heard him do so. In fact, it was not within anyone’s memory that Mr Chucksley had ever so much as smiled. Or else they would say: "That ‘Chuckles’! He doesn’t miss a trick, the baldheaded old cat raper!" (While it is verifiable that Mr Chucksley was bald as a screech owl’s egg, it cannot now be determined whether the allegation regarding his inappropriate sexual advances toward felines is true or not; I quote it here in the interest of accuracy in reporting and sheer prurience.

This much is certain from eyewitness accounts, Mr Chucksley was as surprised as anyone else (except for Rodney Chinga, the completely UN-surprised coworker who was later discovered to have tampered with Mr Chucksley’s fuel line and brakes) when his car suddenly accelerated rapidly, not to say dementedly, jumped a curb in downtown Smegma, Utah, and crashed through the window of a restaurant.

Inside his mind it went like this: one minute he’d been driving past a stretch of downtown which always bored him senseless, a series of yuppie and tourist infested boutiques he’d grown so accustomed to he was seeing them in his sleep, the next minute he was hurtling at an impressive rate of speed up over the curb, and through the back rest of a bus stop bench which only slightly curtailed his car’s newfound momentum.

With a near deafening crash, his car (and therefore he) barreled right through the picture window of an orange and purple-boothed eatery he’d spent a good portion of his adult life avoiding.

Mr Chucksley, who never missed a detail, noted with more than passing annoyance, as he proceeded airborne through the midst of a not unattractive shower of glass fragments, that the immaculately polished and buffed front end of his car, as it was crushing booth after booth beneath its natty whitewall tires and implacably shiny fenders, had become festooned with multi-colored sprays of differently flavored pancake syrups.

"That’s going to be Dante’s HELL to clean!" he mused.

He saw that the customers now rapidly vacating another booth had been celebrating a birthday party, complete with a cake, party favors, and silly hats. Other than one shallow tire track down its center, the cake went completely unscathed, but numerous silly hats had been knocked helter skelter, along with the heads of their wearers.

"That party," sniggered Mr Chucksley, who did not approve of parties, ever, "is decidedly over."

Absently he wondered where exactly his car (and therefore he) would come to a stop, as they both seemed to be progressing rather steadily through a fourth, fifth, and even a sixth booth, sending tables full of food, plates, silverware, and a number of less fortunate customers screaming, vaulting, somersaulting, spinning, sailing, shattering, clattering, clashing, and smashing in every direction and speed possible, and a few he would not have thought possible until now.

"How on earth did this happen, anyway?" Mr Chucksley interrogated himself. "I must have fallen asleep at the wheel," he concluded (incorrectly), as his right front tire flattened the already less than attractive beehive hair of the hostess, who ducked behind the register, though not quickly enough.

"I seem to be headed for the cook now," Mr Chucksley noted. "No, he’s diving out of the way. Smart fellow. Credit to his race. Oops, no, he didn’t make it after all. Nice try though."

Since Mr Chucksley was unhindered by his unworn seat belt, the car came to a sudden stop a full six seconds before he did. He counted them. "A lot can happen in six seconds," observed Mr Chucksley, as he was ejected forcefully through his own windshield, and sailed bloody but unbowed over the cringing assistant cook, and soared slightly over and past the rows of small salads pre-made of, he noticed with distaste, wilted lettuce.

He then realized he was running out of momentum, and began to search ahead of him for possible landing sites.

Fairly quickly, his arcing trajectory took him down, directly toward, and then right into the French fried potato fryer.

Face first.

Though busy becoming rapidly deep-fried, Mr Chucksley felt extremely disappointed. In life he had always avoided grease as extremely unhealthy for him.

Still, a small part of him, even now, was gratified at ultimately being proved correct about that. Grease DID prove to be unhealthy for him.

He grumbled aloud (when he probably should have been taking a deep breath): "It’s a good thing this is going to kill me, because the plastic surgery bill alone would have been a real bitch. But now, as I look over my life, perhaps —"

Whatever other final words Mr Aldous Lamppe Chucksley uttered were lost to us, indecipherable through several gallons of cooking grease. Unfortunately.