Collection Agency

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And now, The Life of Riley. At 6 o'clock in the evening, and Chester A. Riley is arriving at his home home in a somewhat unusual manner. Hanting heavily, he runs down the street, taught his house.

And as he approaches the picket fence surrounding his lawn, without changing his pace, he hurdles it in one might he leave. He dashes across the lawn, bounds up the porch step, throws open the front door, heralds himself into the hallway, slams the door behind him, locks in full.

Pop, what's the matter? The door. I use the master padlock. Don't answer it, you. Why not? Shh. Don't make a sound. What's the matter, Pop? She motherfold. No. That's a break. What's going on? They're asking me.

They followed me all the way from the plant. Once they get their hands on your throat, they never let go. Who? The collection agency. They've been hounded me for months. What? For no good reason, just because I owe money.

You better open it up. Stop. He'll go away. No, you're in here. I had better get rid of him before your mother gets home. I don't want her to know about this. Listen, Junior, I'll hide in the living room here.

You open the door and say I'm out of town. Tell him I'm out of town for the weekend. I went to Africa. Tell him anything but get rid of him. Oh, Pop, I can't lie.