“Right,” I said. “Okay. Think, man, think!”

The CEO leapt onto the plush leather chair like an ape and launched himself over the desk like an Olympic diver. He tucked into a beautiful roll and landed on his feet. Except now he was between me and the desk and had no idea what he was supposed to do next. He looked around, swiveling his hips and not his head, a fat man in a suit doing the Twist.

That’s when I remembered: revolvers have six chambers. Maybe I’d only forgotten to load one of them. So I pulled the trigger again. Okay, two for six. There was still a 2-in-3 chance I could murder my dad.

While I was calculating these odds, the CEO grabbed a Swingline stapler off his desk and triumphantly swung the base down; now he had a gun of his own. He began frantically firing it at me, ejecting dozens of staples onto the carpet.

“Okay, old man,” I snarled, “you have a 50%... damn! Make that a 1-in-3 chance of dying!”

He continued to spray me with staples. I threw the empty gun at him.