That moment you're buying discounted Halloween candy and it rings up at full price and you have to either talk to someone or come to terms with that fact that Halloween is just an excuse and deep down you would want 4 XL candy bars even at full price and you know it and you run back home and gorge yourself on two, slipping into a food coma as you fingers fumble with the wrapping of a third. You come to to find chocolate blotting your lips and shirt...your back aches from lying on the floor all night again, and you wonder when it will end...you managed a pillow now stained with your chocolate shame...it still smells like here...why did she leave you ponder half heartedly, but the wrapping and foil scattered neglected at your periphery give you the answer youâve been trying to ignoreâŚitâs night. Spent like so many candy coins, youâre friends wonât pick up anymoreâŚyou glance over at the remaining two barsâŚââŚnot enough.â You murmur. ââŚIâll need more than that to do it..â . . . And then the inspector Stevensonsonson arrives on the scene, groggy from another long shift with little sleep and says, âWhatâs it look like, son?â âIâm not Son, sirâ said the other officer on the scene. âWhat?â
âIâm officer Sonson, sir Stevensonsonsonâ âOh sorryâ Stevensonsonson said to Sonson. And Turning to his step son Jeff Son, Stevensonsonson says, âSon, what do we got here?â And Jeff Son, Stevensonsonsonâs step son came undone on the perron at the loved ones misnome (if you will) saying âWell first he got some candied cotton, then some dumdums, a chocolate bun-bun, finished each one. Whyâd this become a rhyming thing? The point is death by chocolateâŚthatâs the joke we were going for. I donât know what this turned into.â















