On his way up the sidewalk, Paul planned the retort perfect. Anticipating some humorous sarcasm on the mode of his arrival, Paul hoped to crush any verbal volley with unanswerable repartee. Usually Paul's fount of boundless wit ran just a trifle slow, following the definition of a bon mot: something you think of on the way home. This time he was going to be prepared.
He swung the door airily and strode in, his tongue poised over a few words of terse wit.
The guard looked at him and swallowed a large lump. "How in hell did you get out?" he gasped.
This was not according to plan; unfortunately, the guard had not read Paul's script, and the prepared answer would not fit the question. "I was never in," said Paul lamely, again wishing he had a tongue full of ready wit instead of fumbling for a prepared speech.
"The hell you weren't."
Paul took it from there, ignoring the fact that the guard had not followed Paul's mental conversation. "That was a car reserved for very important personages," he said. "From now on you can call me Viper."
The guard by-passed this. "But how did you get out?" he asked. His voice was almost a plea. "You didn't pass me."
"Were you guarding the jail too?" chuckled Paul. "Fast man, no?"
"You came in a taxicab the first time."
"Ah yes. But that was years ago before people knew of my brilliance, importance, and high station. Now—"