The manager took the waitress aside.
See the guy at table seven?
The one with the wild hair.
He’s rich. He’s famous.
He’s a good tipper.
So, treat him nice.
Okay, said the waitress.
Famous last words, I suppose.
The next day, she was found dead at the guy’s mansion.
The guy claimed she’d shot herself.
Suicide? Accident?
Just as long as it wasn’t him.
Because he was a success, and she was a failure.
Guilty, they said.
See the guy in cell seven?
The one with the wild hair.
He’s rich. He’s famous.
And he’s going to die here.