He had the chocolate bar in his mouth when it stopped being a chocolate bar. Born of his desire to escape his predicament, it had changed into what it once was. Or perhaps he had simply found one, single gun below Edward's snack stash.
George held a gun to the back of his mouth, and tears fell down his cheeks. His stomach was unsettled, because he had now eaten more than a half dozen bars of chocolate. They were the kind of waxy milk chocolate that they made Easter bunnies out of. No taste. And luckily, those had remained chocolate, otherwise he would be puking chunks of metal and wet gun powder.
His legs trembled, yet his right hand held firmly onto the gun. His nerves were unsettled, as the barrage of caffeine battered them, startling and alert. He was unsure as to why there were teeth marks in the gun. His jaw was not that strong.
On the edge of the desk, was a copy of the original will. This was his master's office. And this was his master's will. Before it had been tampered with. It had made him cry. All his master's wealth, even the collection of phallicly compensational sports cars. The entire mansion. To the eldest son. Nothing for his master's lovely daughter.
Edward's thoughts reeled in an inner soliloquy, the kind only artful old men can pull off when confronted with suicide. The exception would be, of course, Hamlet. However, Hamlet is a fictional character - George, as far as he knows, is not. Then again, he has had many delusions that he is. It was the opposite of solipsism. He had decided that he was insignificant, as a mere figment of someone else's imagination.
He was done seeing his own son pine for Beth, in a world where the servant's son and the master's daughter was a faux-pas. And he was done watching Beth's wealth ironically slip away from her, to the hands of her greedy brother.
He desperately wanted an escape. He desperately wanted to pull the trigger. To end it all. The pig style below was the only other escape. Well, he could just keep eating chocolate and see how much closer to death that would get him. The gun was more convenient though.
Then again, the old, stale pot of coffee from this morning was on the edge of the desk. It had only poured one cup. It would not be all that bad, right? And, George thought to himself, I do need a good pick me up.
A knock at the door.
He pulled the gun out of his mouth, and placed it on the table. Then, he poured the coffee down his throat, straight from the pot. George reached for the courage to speak, "Who is it?"
A woman's voice. Harsh and cold. "You're fired, George."
He drank the rest of the coffee, and sighed. George felt satiated, for the moment.
Edward's girlfriend continued, "They know it was you. Beth is outraged. The police have been called. Your finger prints are all over the coffee maker. We know you poisoned his coffee, and we know you're working on the fake will in there. How dare you cheat my dear Edward out of his full share of --"
George stopped listening to her. He knew he had done nothing wrong. He took his dismissal with relief. And then he realized that he had just finished all his master's coffee. His mind reeled with the caffeine, seeping into his veins and tightening its grip upon his mind.
"Open this door, immediately!"
"It's locked from the outside," he yelled back through the door. And George wanted to know, How long do I have to get the truth out?