Tis' but a lonely intro. Do things to it.
BTW...I was thinking sci-fi, Artificial Intelligence kinda stuff. Soooooo...write things.
"Honey, I'm really sorry but I have to work late again tonight."
"Again? But David, we're going to Alfredo's tonight. You promised. I had to book this reservation months ago."
"I'm sorry Lucy, I was looking forward to it as well, but I have mountains of work to do. I have to write a speech for the World Psychology Convention in Denver, order medication for Alan Harris, and so on and so forth. Plus, I'm seeing ten people tomorrow. Ten! That's unheard of in this line of work."
"David, I paid good money to get us a nice table in the room where the live music is, bought a brand new dress just for tonight and all you can think about is your job? What about me, David? Where am I in this equation?"
"Lucy, you have to listen to me. There is nothing I can do. I'm overloaded as it is. If I don't get this done by tonight I'll be way behind schedule for months. Please just don't-"
"David you work for yourself! How hard can it possibly be to make some time for life?" There was a sharp click as the line went dead. David put his face in his hands.
"Dammit", he said to himself, replaced the phone in its cradle, and re-focused his attention to the blank sheet of paper on his desk. Soon, he picked up a pencil and began to write. 'Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of the psychological world. I am Dr. David Long, and I will be...'
He awoke to the sickly green glow of the digital clock on the desk. 11:58. Oh crap. Lucy is going to pitch a fit when I get home. He stretched and sat up slowly, peeling his half-written and now slightly smudged speech off of his cheek. Fantastic. I barely did anything. An I'm still seeing ten people tomorrow. David grunted, straightened his tie, and stood up from his chair, stuffing his notes into his briefcase. He grabbed his hat and made for the door, but his toe caught on the edge of the carpet and he pitched forward onto his face. At the same time, there was the jagged tinkle of breaking glass as something small and needlelike smashed through the window and embedded itself into the oil painting on the far wall. Curious, David reached up and plucked it out. It was a small glass vial with a pointed metal tip, as if it were a miniature syringe. Twirling it absent-mindedly in his fingers he stood up, watching the liquid inside slosh about. He had just brought it up to his face for a closer look when there was a hollow popping sound, and another dart hit him in the neck. As he did the first, he plucked it out as colors began to swim before his eyes. Only this time the vial was empty.