Devonne Brown

Bob thought he was “the bomb” and loved to hold court. He loved nothing more than a roomful of people drinking and smoking and giving him his undivided devotion and attention. He was famous for his charisma, charm, and wit. He was hysterically funny with his drink in one hand and his stogie in the other. Waving the stinking cigar around like a conductor’s baton, or a teacher’s pointing stick, he made everything funny from killing the Irish to boiling eggs.

He entertained at least once a month. He’d hold themed parties with fine whisky, wine, and food. The dress code was smart casual, unless it was a fancy dress party, then everyone came in costume, wearing a mask, of course.

Between his social events he was competent enough at his job to keep the bosses happy and his coworkers entertained. He was a big arms sales representative, he sold bombs. After he sold them, he had to train whomever bought them how to most effectively use them. He loved his work. Destruction made him happy.

Of course, Bob couldn’t come right out and say he was a major bomb peddler at his social gatherings. That would have been a terrible breach of contract. He’d lose a lot of money, not to mention his social connections if word got out about what he really did at the office. 

To expand his extensive repertoire of anecdotes and vocabulary, he enrolled in a cooking class. The hosts served wine to their students between courses.

Bob saw a woman, demure, tiny, and blond. His type. He fell in love at first sight. He positioned himself to be her cooking partner immediately where they discussed vegetable chopping first. Chopping was one of his skill sets.

Things took a turn for the romantic when stilton became part of one of the recipes. He decided to hold a gathering in her honor to reveal the stilton recipe and pair it with the perfect wine. When he made the offer to his demure and tiny blond lady, to his surprise, she declined. 

Bob bombed out.

Poor Bob.