Jonathan Royce was a buisnessman, and a disgusting one at that. As the CEO of a large-scale accounting firm, hard work and dedication to his clients was number one priority. Or so he claimed throughout the numerous commercials and advertisments that ran across the nation. His real ambition was to make millions, and he did exactly that by pocketing percentages of their direct deposits. If anyone so much as he accused him of being a crook, he would feign an expression of shocked offense, and fire the the worker right on the spot.  Other "breaches" of contract included being over five minutes late from work, eating in the workplace (including lunch), or phone calls to clients that drifted away from buisness from even a second. Laughter and small talk between employees was heavily frowned upon, and Royce would call anyone who did a variety of names, ranging from idiot or moron, to retarded or brain-dead. In short, Royce was a workaholic a**hole, and proud to be so.

That's why he was so suprised one day after work to find a small package on his front porch. He knew for sure he didn't order anything, and he definitely knew it wasn't from any friends or family (they had given up on him decades ago).

"What the hell can this be?" he murmured to himself as he walked up the driveway, keys in hand. As he walked up the steps, he stooped over to examine the package more closely. It was wrapped in thick brown paper, and his name and address neatly scribbled onto a white label. But it didn't take a simpleton to figure out that the package seemed a bit...off. There wasn't any bar or scan code anywhere on the exterior of the package, indicating that a postal or delivery service actually handled it. The packaging itself seemed a bit messy; the thick paper was crumpled almost entirely, and there were even some rips and tears along the side. It was if the handler had taken no precautionary measures into making sure everything arrived intact.

Royce noticed all of this in a few brief glances as he put down his black leather briefcase to pick up the package.  He shook it around a little. There was definitely something rattling around in there. As if on cue, the package began to emit a series of loud rapid beeps.

"Stupid thing must have batteries in it," Royce growled.  He began to tear and unwrap the paper to see what this mysterious object must be. He stopped midway through. Peering out from the holes of the package was a red flashing light that appeared to be sync with the beeping noise. He also saw random clusters of red and blue wires that stuck out from the back of the object.

Royce let a sickening choking noise as his whole body began to tremble, and formed a slimy film of sweat over him in the process. He slowly fell to his knees as the harsh reality sank into his pathetic little skull. He was dealing with a time bomb, and he only had moments to make a move.

The man pressed his head into the cold, hard cement of his porch and began to sob. Everything he had accomplished in life, everything he had worked hard for, was about to be destroyed. The bomb began to beep even faster than it had before. There was no time to run now. Jonathan Royce, the all-powerful buisnessman, curled up into a ball and waited for the blast of flames to incinerate his body into a heaping pile of ash.

Suddenly, the beeping stopped, just as arubtly as when it began. There must be a delay, he thought, as he tightened his body even more to take the blast of the force. After ten seconds, he realized what went wrong. It was a dud! He was saved! Uncontrollable laughter flooded Royce as he got up and dusted himself off. Of course, his pants were completely soaked due to soiling himself, but that didn't matter at the moment. The assasin's plot had failed! He was alive!

Royce picked up the package and began to wave it around.

"Take that you a**hole, you couldn't kill me even if you tried! You'll never kill Jonathan Royce!" He continued to hoot and holler as he began to tear the rest of the remaining cover of the package.

Inside was an old version of a digital alarm clock. The screen where the digits should've been was back, except for a blinking red dot in the middle of it. The back of the clock looked as if it was clawed off by some animal, as shreds of red and blue wire stuck out in every which way. It was all just a prank, he thought. Just a sick, twisted joke. Royce let out a relieved sigh as he picked up his briefcase and proceeded to his front door.

Before he unlocked the door, a small slip of white notebook paper fell out of the back of the clock. Royce furrowed his brow as he bent down to examine the paper, dropping his briefcase in the process. The note was scrawled in red ink, and he took notice of the similar handwriting:

Mr. Jonathan Royce,

If you are reading this by now, then I'm afraid to inform you that you are a few seconds from your death. I can deduce that by this time you figured out the package was merely a joke; a rouse to scare the piss out of you (and probably literal at that). Well my friend, I must say you're 100% correct. But I'm also writing to inform you there's more to this little joke. There is a bomb, and it's been in your briefcase you've been lugging around. It's nothing personal. My employer wanted it done this way, and well, who am I to disappont? It's been an absolute pleasure.

The note was unsigned.  Royce only had milliseconds to scream before the flames rose up to drag him ever deeper into the depths of hell.