... then fly and I lived happily ever after. With our goats of course.
EDIT: WTF LOL
Meanwhile, in Paris, Jean Paul toyed absently with the folded newspaper on the table before him. It was unseasonably warm on the cafe's patio overlooking the Rue Chambeaux, and as he brought a thin stemmed glass to his lips for a sip of merlot he noticed a pair of shapely legs in a short skirt treading the cobblestones of the intersection nearby. He swallowed hard when he noticed her footware. Faux-snakeskin stiletto pumps with ankle wraps got him every time. They worked a woman's calf muscles like an orgy of fascicles and he was powerless to look away.
"Damn," he muttered in french.
The explosion came almost immediately. A bullet tore through his jacket and into his side like a freight train that had been fired from a gun. The impact and his reflexive lunge sent him reeling from his chair, and he impacted the patio stones with a thud and a moan. The chair toppled backwards onto the ground behind him, people screamed, and he suddenly remembered the words of the mysterious agent who had sat down next to him.
"Make a sound, utter even a single word, and bladow," he had said in french, flashing the gun he had hidden within a napkin in his hand.
"Fuck," Jean Paul groaned in french. He looked up and saw that the man was now standing above him, his gun pointed at his chest. Four more shots blasted into him, and his head lolled to the side. He couldn't move, couldn't make a sound, couldn't even gasp. His blood pumped from his body. "This is it," he thought in french. "Dead because of some dumb broad in high heels."
The acrid smell of gunpowder hung heavy in the air in those final moments. Jean Paul looked at his shattered wine glass on the ground a few feet away, and was reminded of Bonifacio Veronese’s sixteenth-century ‘Last Supper’, which for some reason included modern style wine glasses with a stem and foot. He wondered briefly, in french, before dying, if anyone had ever figured out why.
