“I need more!” Columbine gasps as he bursts into the basement office. “Please, Bollweevil, I can’t do this, I can’t keep trying to think around it!”
“You knew the limits, Mister Columbine,” says Bollweevil, picking a nail, looking over his glasses. “You received a fair allotment, just like every other customer. With which of your words were you careless, Mister Columbine?”
“–,” Columbine whispers. His face crumples in desperation. “Ah! The–the additive conjunction!”
“You are, of course, willing to pay the overage fee.”
“Yes, yes, anything!”
Bollweevil smiles inside, opening a drawer to slowly, teasingly unroll a fresh strip of ands.