Author's note: This is simply written for Mike on the boards to feel better! (Cut me some slack, I wrote it in three minutes!)

Four point seventy-five hours the two nerds had spent talking about sandwiches. Four point seventy-five hours of Casey's life that he wouldn't get back. Four point seventy-five hours long to the point where "for the wealth and safety of the country" is no longer a valid justification.

Not only was it the time length, but every time Casey heard the word 'roast beef,' his stomach grew queasy and on multiple occasions, he had puked.

Sitting listening, he relived his bad memory with just him and hearty roast beef sub.

He had been in his early twenties and was on a date with a beautiful brunette who had a passion for guns as well. They had gone to a small little deli and he got what she claimed over-confidently to be the best roast beef he'd ever eat in his entire life.

Needless to say, after they ate and moved on to their next activity, the shooting range, Casey projectile-ly vomited all over his favorite glock. Ruined.

To this day, whenever he so much as smells a roast beef sub, he turns pale and looks for a bathroom.

His very own kryptonite.

The next day, he relayed his story to the hairy midget.

"Dude," the short man had said. "I really didn't need to know that."

And he walked away.

Lesson learned for John Casey, but for Morgan Grimes, not so much. So later that night when Morgan was over and he heard the little boy-man puking, he grunted.

Served him right.