Gary stared at the mason jar, its lid fused to the glass like a dare. He’d tried the rubber grip, the wrench, even a blowtorch (which had singed his eyebrows). Now he was using a crowbar, grunting like a disgruntled bear. The crowd of coworkers watched, silent. “This is how it ends,” he muttered, levering the bar. The jar popped open with a hiss. Inside: a single rubber chicken and a note. “You’re welcome,” it read. Gary stared at the chicken. It stared back. Then he burst into laughter, clutching his sides as the office erupted in cheers. The chicken, apparently offended, clucked and flew out the window, leaving Gary with a lifelong fear of poultry.
