Hold Onto Your Body!

People do strange things—an example, committing suicide for no apparent reason. Unless it's time for a change of identity!
Fidwell, I said, why don't you go lose yourself!
He stared at me uncomprehendingly for a full three seconds. Then a glimmer of understanding leaped into his beady little eyes and he got up from the chair before my desk and started happily toward the outer door of the office.
Okay, Mr. Nelson, he said over a thin shoulder. Just whatever you say.
Better still, I amended, tapping the glass top of my desk with manicured nails, go shoot yourself.
He nodded blithely. Just as you say, T. J. Just as you say. He always called me T. J. when he felt that I was giving him a measure of attention.
Wait, I said, as he reached the door. Do you by any chance own a gun?
He turned, a frown spreading between his mousy brows. No, he said, slowly, I don't. Then he brightened. But I could purchase one!
Fine, I said, tossing him a bill. Buy a couple bullets for it, too.
He caught the money, smiled, nodded, and left—closing the door softly and respectfully behind him.
Humming a merry little tune, I turned to the papers upon my desk. The partnership contract between James Fidwell and T. J. Nelson. If one of the partners should die from any cause, the other partner would become sole owner of the Remey Company....
They seemed quite in order. I shuffled them into a neat pile and cut an intricate little dance step on my way to the files with them. The partnership was soon to reach a happy culmination.