In downtown Manhattan, located in a famous city in the state of New York, situated in the north-east of a country called the United States of America, on an otherwise inconsequential planet called Earth—or PxBZed Gamma, for our readers in Alfa Centauri—a man sat in his office.

That man, just like the planet, was inconsequential in the grand scheme of things: round, mostly filled with water, and annoyingly polluted with plastic debris that gave him a perpetual grin.

But unlike the planet, which was mostly floating in space without a care in the universe, the man kept busy, and unlike the planet, people weren't actively trying to poison him or mine minerals in his face.

In fact, people who knew this man often compared him to a saint. Not because they wanted to nail him to a cross, or burn him at the stake, or make several horses pull his limbs off—people adored this man because he was objectively good.

He always gave money to charity and held yearly scholarships for dyslexic kids who wanted to go to "cogelle". He gave unto Caesar and gave unto God. He was the first one to call the provided number when that sad puppy commercial played on T.V. and even set up monthly payments to help stray dogs get their shots.

He never turned away a Jehovah's Witness, even going so far as to give them coffee and crackers, which left many Jehovah's Witnesses dumbfounded. Not because of his amicability, but mostly because most of them usually never go past the door, and stage fright hits you even with a one-person audience.

He was truly a man above any man, which made him dull beyond belief.

Each day, he would go to his very dull apartment building, embraced his very dull wife and hear her extremely dull story about what their bitchy neighbor Brenda said to her about a flowerpot by the windowsill, and how she told Brenda to shove her opinions where the sun doesn't shine.

He would nod mindlessly to her tale, followed by a boring and dull lovemaking session in the missionary position, after which both would fall asleep in each other's embrace. Repeat every day, ad infinitum.

In fact, the most interesting thing to ever happen to him was that one time in medical school when he thought he had scored an A in a test, when in fact he scored an A+. He celebrated like there was no tomorrow by drinking two Light beers and half an aspirin, going to bed by 10:00 p.m. instead of his usual 09:00 p.m.

He was utterly dull in every sense of the word. Lucky for us, our story is not about him.

Making a story about him would be very short and utterly pointless. It would consist of him sitting in his office all day and moving his pens from one side of his desk to the other. On occasions, he would make patients enter his office for a talk that would go one of two ways. The first one was to congratulate them on their good bill of health, but not before wagging his finger playfully to remind them to take care of themselves.

The second one wasn't so playful. You see, this man wasn't a normal doctor. He was an oncologist, as in a cancer doctor. For our readers in Alfa Centauri, Cancer is like your Multi-Pangueusy Explosive Gorgol Syndrome, only with fewer explosions and without the incessant need to juggle your own lungs.

On that particular day, the man—let's call him Dr. George, since George is the dullest name we can think of—needed to have the second kind of talk. The bad kind.

"Send him in now," he said to an intercom on his desk, but the intercom didn't reply. He made a mental note of getting a nicer, more polite intercom.

A man soon entered his office, beet red and with scorn burning in his eyes. You could say that the man was the antithesis of the good Dr. George.

First, he was a lawyer, and lawyers are the opposite of doctors. While doctors help save lives and occasionally ruin them, lawyers help ruin lives and occasionally save them. And there was nothing more antagonistic to an oncologist than a lawyer.

He was what the youngsters would call a "bad boy." And we don't mean the type of misunderstood man who only needed the power of love to come out of his shell, but the kind of man who would kick a pug in the nose for being too loud. The worst kind of people.

He was short, squat, and perpetually angry. He was Peter Katz, and the main character of our story.

Unlike the good-but-dull Dr. George, the only charity he ever did was tipping strippers a fiver instead of a one dollar bill, which he hardly did unless heavily inebriated. The last Jehovah's Witness that came into his home was reported missing.

No wife waited for him at home, and the only being he cared about was his cat, Mr. Trash, which he only kept around because "chicks love cats". And of course, the missionary position was a thing for cowards. He did the Double-Reverse Bungalow Jamboree, or the Sicilian Donkey Mashed Potato Special.

He even failed at the simplest of measures to qualify as a decent human being: instead of keeping his pens in a neat, orderly fashion, he would just steal the nearest one and misplace it somewhere mundane, like a bank, or an airplane. Truly, a despicable bad boy.

If you were to ask him, he would say he's happy like that. When you can pay for company and every meal comes in a convenient takeout box, why settle in the slow lane like Doctor Perdedor? Peter Katz was all about living hard, dying young, and leaving a pretty corpse behind.

Interestingly enough, that mentality soon proved to be his downfall.

Peter sat down, wondering why stupid Dr. George called him into his stupid office with a stupid window that looked over stupid Manhattan when he could be doing something better, like sailing, or spitting at tourists. Typical N.Y. stuff.

"Get on with it, Doc," said Peter. "I have other things to do."

The doctor adjusted his glasses and wished his Botox would just relax a bit to let him show some grief, but his Botox wasn't particularly helpful that day.

"Of course, please have a seat, Mr. Katz."

"I'm already seated," said Peter. As if to make a point, he bobbed up and down in his chair.

"I mean, remain seated."

"I was planning to," said Peter. "But now I'm not sure I should."

"Oh? Why?"

"Because," said Peter while leaning forward, "I don't wanna waste any more of my precious time here. Standing up makes me look more uncomfortable, and you're not gonna make me stand there uncomfortably, are you?"

"I assure you, I'm not trying to waste your time, Mr. Katz."

"You've done nothing but waste my time, Doc. Since I came here, you've only asked me to sit, and haven't even told me why."

It was true, and Dr. George couldn't deny it. In fact, he wanted to get it over with and go home to his boorish wife and live his dull day as he has done all his life. He had recently taken up painting porcelain figurines, and there was this beautiful unicorn with an azure mane that was just beckoning him to be finished up with some varnish and glitter.

"Right," said the doctor. "Now that you're seated-"

"We've already established that I'm seated, yes," said Peter. "But that I would greatly prefer to be standing up."

"Yes, I'm aware," said Dr. George.

"Good, I'm glad we are on the same page," said Peter as he stood up. "Look, this has been very productive, and I'm glad we have reached a consensus." He then took the doctor's hand in his own and shook it vigorously.

"Yes, yes, quite," said the doctor. "Consensus is the prime form of understanding between civilized men."

"Good, then we are set. See you later, Doc."

And with that, Peter left the office.

Dr. George let himself lean back on his seat with a smile that would be otherwise ingenuine. It was the satisfaction of having a job well done.

It took him some time to realize two things. One, that he was thoroughly played by Peter, and two—and this is something he realized much later—that he had taken one of his pens.

By the time he realized the first thing, Peter was already cruising down 6th Avenue while picking his teeth with his brand new pen. Unfortunately for him, Peter didn't account for the Doctor calling him on his cell phone. For all our friends reading this from Alpha Centauri, a cell phone is a device capable of casting one's voice through millions of miles, but that people thoroughly avoid doing, instead relying on text-based messages.

Still, on that particular day, Peter answered his phone.

"What's up, Doc?" He said. "I'm driving now."

"Mr. Katz, you left the office without hearing what I had to say."

"I remember hearing a lot about sitting down, Doc."

"I just wanted to make sure you were comfortable before I said anything else."

"Well," said Peter with a fake southern drawl, "I reckon I wasn't comfortable. So the mission failed, pardner."

"Mr. Katz, please be serious. I need you to hear this. Are you seated?"

"You can't drive while standing up, Doc."

There was an awkward pause, followed by some deep rumbling from the Doctor's end. "I guess you are right."

"Glad we on the same page, then, anything else?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact, there is."

"Good! Now we're getting somewhere," quipped Peter. He was having a blast with him.

"I'm afraid your test results are in. You need to come back to my office immediately."

"But I just came from your office."

"Yes, I'm aware of that, yes, but-"

"You gotta be shitting me if you think I'm going back to that shit-hole."

"Well," said Dr. George, "that was an interesting wording you use. Your test result came in: Colon Cancer. The big C."