“Goodnight everyone, see you on Monday. Be sure to stay tuned for Jimmy Fallon!”

Conan turned to make some banter with Andy and his guests before waving to the audience and exiting the stage. It had been a good show. Walking over to the writers’ room, he said his goodbyes to the staff for the weekend.

Changing into street clothes in his dressing room, he could hear a lot of shouting from the hallway. The staff usually cuts loose a bit after a hard week of shows, but this was ridiculous. Oh, well, a lot of them were still in their 20’s, give them a few years in this business.

On his way out, Conan thought to stop by Andy’s room and run an idea about next week by him.

“Hey, A-dog, what do you think if…”

Andy was slumped over a couch backwards, his stomach torn open, entrails draped down the side. Conan ran over to a garbage can to puke. After thinking a few seconds, he grabbed his phone and started to dial 911.

Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder, a voice behind him.

“Hgggrrrhuurrrhhhhs Juughhhhnnny”

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