I do not own The Office: U.S. version.

I do not strangle.

The Scranton Strangler

"It really is Dwight's fault, Pam. I mean, he was asking for it."

The love of his life, the fire of his loins, the mother of his child, Pamela Morgan Beesley Halpert nods understandingly.

"I know, Jim. I know."

Through the vertical bars of his holding area.

Dim overhead lighting bathing her face in unfortunately angled shadows.

And continues.

"But that doesn't mean you really had to give it to him, did you?"

A whimsical 'that's what she said' starts to escape his lips.

But the aggravated expression on her lovely face stops him.

And Jim Halpert sighs in defeat.

Shifts uncomfortably on the metal bench currently punishing his bony posterior.

"Well, . . ."

It really was Dwight's fault.

"I mean, he just wouldn't-"

"Stop."

Jim Halpert never really did like hands around his throat.

"Too late."

Much less the silicon-gloved hands of one Dwight Kurt Shrute.

"If I was the real Scranton Strangler . . ."

Now currently dressed in an overcoat, 1940s detective hat.

". . . you'd be so strangled by now."

Looking more like a deranged paper salesman version of the Hamburgler with a white circled 'S' glued to the center of his masked forehead.

"And if you're out there, Strangler, . . ."

Rather than any kind of real threat to common society.

". . . you will get caught."

Other than Jim's waning patience and sanity.

"By me."

Sigh.

Just another day at the office.

Unless . . .

"Sounds like someone's really trying to convince us that he's not the Scranton Strangler."

Self-importance smirk from . . .

"To my chickens I'm the Scranton Strangler."

Whelp. That's not going to work.

Still . . .