Epiplexis (e-pi-plex’-is): Asking questions in order to chide, to express grief, or to inveigh. A kind of rhetorical question [–the speaker does not expect an answer].
Why do things have to change? Why does everything slip away? Why must there always be an end?
I had run over my Boss after work as I was leaving the parking lot. He was on his way to his car. He smiled and gave me a thumbs up before I swerved my SUV and ran him down, backed up, and ran over him again. I kept doing that until I was sure he was dead. Nobody saw me and I drove home without incident.
I told my wife what I had done and she said “Good job honey” and made me a gin and tonic. She made one for herself too. She told me not to worry my “handsome little head” about it.
I worked at a doorbell factory. I installed the musical ringers. We had twenty different tunes that customers could choose from. They were stylized versions of classical rock ‘n roll songs. My favorite was “Purple People Eater.” It was energetic and got you off the couch to answer the door. “Saturday Night Fever” was my second favorite. It put a dance in your step on the way to the door. My least favorite was the theme song from “Davy Crockett” which had briefly made the Top Ten some time in the 50s—I didn’t like how it praised little Davy for killing a bear “when he was only three.” It was total bullshit.
Everybody hated the Boss at the doorbell factory. He had a bowel problem and wore a diaper. He would poop with a smile on his face when you were meeting with him in his office, making it stink and making it hard to concentrate. He‘d ask “What’s the matter with you son?” and laugh, sounding like a barking squirrel. In addition, he was a sexist. He had five lawsuits pending when I killed him. He also continuously put the moves on my wife. That’s what pushed me over the edge. He invited her to his condo by herself to watch TV. I went along with her anyway. He answered the door naked and told me to “go wait” in my car. I refused. He pulled my wife inside and said “Have it your way loser” and slammed the door in my face.
I waited in the car and my wife came out about five minutes later. Her dress was torn and she told me she didn’t want to talk about it, but he was an animal. I asked her what kind of animal, and she said “probably an ape or a wolf.” That did it.
After I killed him, I took my car to the car wash to get rid of the blood. The attendant said “It looks like blood on your left fender.” I told him I had run over a deer. I didn’t notice, but the Boss’s glasses were stuck behind the front bumper. I rode around like that for a couple of months until I had my car inspected. The inspection guy found the glasses and held them up, and asked me where they had come from. I told him I had been looking for them. He gave me the glasses and I put them on. They severely blurred my vision and I ran into a tree as I left the inspection station.
I called AAA and they towed my car to “Billy Bent” a Mafia run auto-body shop. They told me they found some human hair under the chrome strip on the fender. If I was willing to make a monthly payment of $500 they would make it go away “forever.” I agreed.
I have been promoted to Boss. Everything is going well. Who says “Crime doesn’t pay?” Sure, Billy Bent keeps upping my monthly payment and I don’t sleep very well, but that doesn’t matter. I’m the Boss! What’s to complain about? Nothing.
Definitions courtesy of “Silva Rhetoricae” (rhetoric.byu.edu.
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