The other day I walked up to my good friend Randall Munroe and asked him how things were going. This being my good friend Randall Munroe, he immediately punched me square in the jaw, knocking me to the pavement. It hurt a lot, since he'd recently drawn a comic with color, which strengthened up his drawing arm to at least twice its usual muscle density.
"'How's it going?'" he repeated, looking down at me with a sneer so large that the sides of his mouth started to bleed, "What do you mean, 'How's it going?'? What is 'it', and where would it be 'going'?"
"Please, my good friend Randall Munroe," I begged him, "It's just a turn of phra-"
The tip of his steel toed boot made brief contact with my teeth, and suddenly I was displaced by about a foot or so, face down now. I tasted gravel, then blood.
"And how... the... fuck...." my good friend Randall Munroe said, kicking me full force in the side with every word, "Do you turn... a... phrase?" I heard him clearing his throat before spitting, the slimy result dripping down the side of my neck.
"I mean, Jesus Christ," he continued, a beam of light straight from Heaven shining down upon him as he spoke the name of the son of God, "What do you do, write down the words and then rotate them? You fucking idiot."
"I'm- I'm sorry..." I pleaded, the words slurred by blood and a missing tooth, "I was only using a figure of speech..."
My good friend Randall Munroe pulled a carton of cigarettes out of his pocket and tapped one out. He looked around as he smoked it before putting it out, half-finished, on my cheek.
"Please..." I said. He barely glanced down at me before walking away.
After a minute I was about ready to stand up when I heard a rapidly approaching roar of an engine. I looked up just in time to see my good friend Randall Munroe run over my legs with his 2012 Dodge Challenger SRT-8. I teared up as I looked down at the mess of crushed muscle and bone that were once my trusty shins. The pain wouldn't hit for another minute or so, I was still in shock.
"So like, the body shape of a word? Huh? Huh?" He called out, his voice muffled from inside the car. "Or are you saying the speech has a number?" Not waiting for a response, he gunned the engine, the back wheels spraying dirt and cloth and me onto my gaping wounds. I could faintly hear sirens in the distance.
Flecks of darkness crowded my vision, and sounds became more distant. "See you later... my good friend Randall Munroe." I slurred out, and everything went black.
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