I shot my butler. His name was Greg. I shot him because I don't think butlers should be called Greg. They should be called things like Alfred or Jeeves or Cadbury or Pennyworth. Not Greg, who was from New Jersey. He didn't have a British accent. He lisped. And he was a dwarf. And his armpits stank. And he insisted on working naked. That wouldn't have been so bad if his scrotum hadn't been seven feet long so that it dragged behind him when he walked. True, it helped keep the marble floors a little more polished, but grandma kept stepping on it and Greg would howl.
So I shot him. I shot him in the conservatory. I used a small .22 pistol and so I had to stand very close to him. The bullet entered his temple and left a hole no bigger than a dime. Blood seeped out of this hole. Greg's eyes rolled into the back of his head. Then cockroaches came out of the wound in his head. They were all wearing glasses. They wanted chocolate chip cookies.
I summoned grandma, who brought the cookies on a tray. The cockroaches (there were 23 of them) ate them greedily and then fell asleep under the grand piano. Grandma and I looked at Greg, who was still dead.
"We should light him on fire," I said.
So we wrapped him in the purple curtain and touched a candle to it and whoosh, up he went. The house started to burn too but that was fine. It was old and I didn't care for it anymore. I'd had my eye on a bachelor apartment in Uranium City, Saskatchewan, where I would soon retire with my stamp collection and my book of haikus about professional hockey.
Now Greg was a pile of ash. Suddenly, the ashes formed into a small elephant. The elephant said "ouch"