(Article changed on September 22, 2012 at 08:32)
(This is fiction/satire)
Joshua Adams was enjoying the peace and quiet of having the house all to himself on a lazy Sunday afternoon. His wife was at the mall shopping with her friends and his two teenage boys were ... well, somewhere. He was stretched out on the recliner in the living room browsing through the Sunday paper when the doorbell chimed. He waited for a second ring before getting up.
At the front door of his large comfortable suburban home, he looked through the adjacent glass panel and saw two burly men dressed in matching black suits, shoes, and dark sunglasses.
Josh was in a lighthearted mood. He opened the door and greeted them with, "Sorry guys, but I already gave at the office."
Josh smiled at his little joke but there was no reaction from the two men. He tried another one.
"If you're looking for the crack house, it's on the next block over. Can't miss it. Overgrown weeds in the front yard, an engine hanging in chains from a tree, badly in need of a paint job."
Nothing.
"Mr. Joshua Adams?" the man to the right asked.
"Yes."
"Mr. Joshua Randolph Adams?"
"Listen, fellas, if this is about that fix it ticket I got in 1988 when my brake lights went out I'm sorry I never mailed it in but I swear I got them fixed. You see, I was getting ready to move to another state, and, well, you know how it is, it got lost in the shuffle, then I forgot about it and-"
"We're associated with the FBI, Mr. Adams."
"Really."
"Yes, sir. We're the T. P. Division."
"Teepee? As in, "Hey, Tonto, got room in the teepee for me and a couple of hot squaws?"
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