When Reed Smith opened the door, driven at last to tear himself away from his computer by the persistent knocking, he was already into his usual lines. “Yeah, no, sorry, we already maxed out our donation budget, we’re full on cookies, and we’re fine on our wifi service, so unless it’s something important-”
“It is,” the man said. He looked weedy in his drab gray suit and brown hat, and Reed wondered who wore hats anymore. Baseball players, rappers, maybe hipsters trying to be ironic, although he’d seen some decent beanies back in the winter-
“Ahem,” the man coughed, interrupting his train of thought. “My name is Myron Q. Dunmog, of Dunmog, Dunmog, Dunmog and McCormick LLP. We’ve been engaged by a consortium of, shall we say, non-corporeal entities in pursuance of legal action against certain other non-corporeal entities as stipulated herein.”
He handed Reed a manila folder. “What?” Reed said.
“To be more precise,” Dunmog continued, “Our clients have sued the other non-corporeal entities identified in the complaint as Corporate Promotional Musical Selection One, et al, for failure to provide financial or other appropriate recompense while adversely occupying finite mental capacity belonging to you, the Individual, and thereby preventing other more suitable non-corporeal entities from holding possession of said finite mental capacity to which said entities are entitled.”
“What?” Reed said again.
Dunmog sighed. “Let me explain in a way you’ll understand.” He produced a card with a picture on it. “Remember him?”
Reed’s face twisted. “Yeah. Chad. Stole my girl back in high school. Kimberly and I were doing all right and then Chad comes along with his jacket and his motorbike and-”
“I know,” Dunmog said crisply. “My clients apprised me fully. Evidently these individuals have resided in your consciousness for quite some time, living, as the saying goes, rent-free in your head. On behalf of various and several corporate jingles, vague meanderings about nothing in particular, thoughts including but not limited to your various and several romantic partners since that time, and an entire Congress full of, ah, Congress, if you’ll pardon the witticism-”
His expression when he said that wasn’t at all funny, and whatever wit there was sailed right past Reed’s head. “Wait-” he said, a sort of comprehension beginning to dawn. “Are you … with Chad?”
Dunmog sighed, and pulled out the device. It had a technical name and a list of warnings and requisite precautions, but at this point he didn’t think Reed would understand. He pushed the button, and there was a flash. “Let me try again,” he said. “Do you recall a certain Chad, last name Saunders, I believe?”
“No…?” Reed said, blinking.
“Finish this phrase for me if you would: Like a good neighbor …”
"Is this about Mr. Rogers?” Reed said, a little blurrily.
“Not at all,” Dunmog said. “Good morning.” He tipped his hat and walked away, leaving Reed awash in confusion behind him.
Dunmog, Dunmog, Dunmog and McCormick LLP 🤯
"Finish this phrase for me if you would: Like a good neighbor …"
"...State Farm is there."