How to get an heart-attack or at least get retired quickly: Start a career as a museum guard

The rooms of the museum were crowded by guests longing for free complimentary drinks, having no heartfelt desire for the political aspects hidden in the masks of contemporary art or the steamed faces of the curators. They were interested in the face-lifts of the famous, hot gay couple on the corner and the missing ring of the political leader's former secret admirer's finger.

Suddenly a strong voice cuts air.
The zestful chit-chat ends.
Something falls down.
Silence.



A tall man: It wasn't me.
A tall man [under the hundred pairs of goggling eyes]: I didn't do anything!
He looks down on his feet. There is a part of installation on the floor. A rusty saw. The hundred pairs of goggling eyes stare the tall man staring the saw.
Taiga Fox: I saw it. He didn't do anything.
A tall man disappears. The eyes stare Taiga Fox phoning the conservators.
Taiga Fox can't lift the saw from the floor because it is an object of art, not a saw, so she stares the saw and guards it from the feet of the owners of the goggling eyes.

15 minutes later the conservator and the artist arrive. The artist picks the saw from the floor, because it is obviously just a saw and tries to place it back.
It falls down again.

There is a new guard standing in the corner. I've never seen her, she has never seen me before.
She looks at the conservator laughing happily. She looks at me smiling happily. She looks at the unfamiliar man wearing a dark woollen hat on his dark long hair, lifting up the saw.
The man starts to saw. Curly pieces of wood slide through the air. Skreaking voice of the metal teeth biting the wood fills the air. Everybody smiles. Sweaty man saws harder.
The guard [jumping trough the room]: Noooooooooooo!