In a surge of Mexican instinct, I purchased a pack of dried mango slices covered in chili powder. Mango I like, chili powder not so much. This, I believed, would keep me from devouring the entire package in one sitting, since my intention is to have it as a snack on hand at work to stave off the constant temptation of running next door and buying chicken fried steak wrapped in bacon. (The cafe doesn't sell that, but I believe they are fully capable of doing it.)

My experiment was a success. I ate a couple pieces and enjoyed it, then the spice kicked in enough to stop me from eating any more. 

Then a man with a gun walked in the door. He was short, stocky, and wore a heavy coat. He was rude also, as he did not remove his hat. I leaned back in my chair and propped my feet up on my desk. If I was going to die, I was going to die comfortable. 

He stumped towards me and leaned right into my face. "I can't find my gun," he said, eyes narrowing.

I slowly raised my arms and folded my fingers behind my head. "It's in your hand," I said. The man jerked upright and brought his hand up to his face, squinting. "Your left hand," I said.

"Hey, you're right! Thanks!" He took of his hat, put the gun in it, and put the hat back on his head. It didn't immediately fall out. I made a mental note to ask my haberdasher about tactical headwear. He grinned. "What do I owe you?" 

"It's on the house, pal. I was getting drowsy and you just saved me the cost of a cup of coffee."

The man saluted, turned on his heel, and went out as quickly as he came in. 

"Well," I said to no one. "I'd better get back to work.