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

I do not strangle.

The Scranton Strangler

Baiting the Hook

He'd started out small.

Little things.

Squeezeball, fake phonecall to a friend during work.

". . . so stressed sometimes, you know? Makes me feel like I could just . . . snap at any moment or something."

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

"Oh, what am I going to do this evening after we put the baby down? I don't know. I haven't been sleeping well lately. Maybe I'll just get out, drive around, contemplate the pointlessness of all humanity. Something like that."

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze.

"Yeah, yeah, no problem. Will do. Yeah. Bye."

Handset replaced into the cradle.

Squeezeball set close, fingers typing erratically on keyboard.

Huff of irritated breath.

Cease and desist of typing.

Squeezeball retrieved, squeezing recommenced.

Heavy sigh.

Adamant, absolute, complete obliviousness to deskmate Dwight K. Shrute's shrewd and hawkish gaze.

"What's wrong with you, Spaz McCoy?"

Subtly theatrical sigh.

"Oh, nothing, Dwight. Just so stressed lately. Just feel like I need to . . . I don't know . . ."

Rolling of the neck, the shoulders.

Popping, crackling.

Heavy sigh.

". . . let off some steam or something."

Then he rises, closing and opening his hands, flexing his fingers.

And theatrically sighing . . .

"I'm gonna stretch my legs. See if I can get my hands around something in the breakroom."

. . . one final time.