Gary’s phone rang and his secretary Marge said, “A Mr. Butterfield is on the line.” “Oh dear, put him through,” Gary said. “Al? What can I do for you?” “Believe it or not, this is by way of a business call,” Mr. Butterfield said. “It appears that Barbara was hit by a car this morning. I want to make changes to my will. I’ve never been all that crazy about her, she’s a bit radical, she can’t even be bothered to look both ways, so I thought, ‘Why not call on a friend?’ You being the friend in question, Gare,” he said. “I know you’re a busy man, I always see you on the phone from my window, but every little bit of business helps, right?” “Well, yes and no,” Gary said. “Firstly, I’m a totally taken aback, I can’t believe that happened to Barb, but, in a way, you and I both knew it was coming sooner or later.” “I know, she’s reckless. I was totally embarrassed when I got the call," Mr. Butterfield said. "I can’t stomach the sight of her all mummied-up in that hospital bed. Makes me sick." In the background Gary could hear Mr. Butterfield clanging pots and pans and running the faucet. “Well, the thing is, Al, you obviously know I’m neither a lawyer nor a broker,” Gary said, “And frankly the whole testamentary thing makes me a little queasy, and—“ “Ah!” Mr. Butterfield shouted, a glass broke. “But you and I both know I just need to cross out a few B's and dot a few I's. If you know what I mean. Couldn’t you help ol’ Butterball out?” He asked. Gary could hear him sweeping the pieces of broken glass. Mr. Butterfield dropped the phone. A tea kettle whistled in C sharp. “It would really be one less thing to worry about,” he said, running the broom over his phone. “Right now, with this situation going on, knowing my affairs are in the right hands...”