It was not a good idea to try talking to Phil before he had his first morning cup of coffee. Even then, one would tread lightly, perhaps opening with a bon mot about the weather or the weekend's football game before gingerly slipping in a soft query about an unpaid invoice or unsigned check. Best to wait until after he'd had his morning doughnut, accompanied by that crucial second cup of coffee before venturing into more complicated territory, like how the fuck the business was going to stay solvent through the pending bankruptcy. Funny how much power accountants wield. Scratch that; there's nothing funny about it.

Phil, on the other hand, found the complete and total financial meltdown of this small business utterly hilarious. Not publicly, mind you. Phil was a pro, meaning that he cloaked his glee behind piles of important-looking paperwork and rubber stamps with red ink that read PAID or INCOMPLETE or PENDING. Phil signed the paychecks, so I don't need to tell you where that power comes from. Any man that lords over the dough rules the bakery.

So it should go without saying that when Carol, the first shift receptionist, came in first thing this morning and found Phil dangling by his neck, hung by a phone cord tied to the ceiling, dead and blue, Management became a bit worried.