Every day I wake up and look in the mirror and say to myself:
"Dear jesus, how could you let this happen to me? How could you let this be my life?"
I work for her Majesty's Secret Service, where I'm an investigator in the Public Division. When concerned citizens write letters to the Crown about activities they believe to be suspicious, I investigate. While many in her Majesty's Secret Service are gathering, analyzing and acting on real intelligence, I am chasing nothingness.
As I travel the streets performing my duties, I've made it my primary duty to sample all the scones in London. Sometimes I scream at how horrifically ridiculous my life is, and then I stop into a pastry shop and eat a scone, I smash it on my face and plug my ears with it, and I want to become one with the scone, because hopefully becoming one with something will help me forget my tedious, embarrassing existence (the other employees in her Majesty's Secret Service make fun of me a lot).
Once, while off to investigate a complaint from a Mr. John Napier, I came across a pastry shop and detected the whiff of what seemed to be excellent scones. I entered this little shop and discovered all manner of sweet and savory scones.
"Give me some scones so I might forget my pitiful life!" I said.
"I have some fresh ham and cheese scones right out of the oven!" Mr. Napier said.
"I'll take four!"
They were absolutely scrumptious scones, salty from the ham and tangy from the cheese, with a completely delightful, chewy texture. The scones were steaming and the cheese steam seeped into my nasal cavity and filled me with pleasure. Mr. Napier noticed my pleasure and seemed pleased, himself.
"You've outdone yourself, old boy!" I said.
"God put me on this Earth to bake excellent scones and ease peoples' sufferings through my scones. In a way, I am like jesus and my scones are like his healing power."
"And I am Lazarus, my good man, and you have brought me back from the dead. At least for now."
