[ WP ] Write the same story twice . One as a drama and the other as a comedy .

*Drama* 
 
 Nothing in sixty years of living could compare to the sheer helplessness and thundering disbelief Joseph felt as he watched the eaves of his house, built by his late brother, topple at the effortless shove of the great metal giant. 
 
 He had left his favorite coffee mug in the kitchen, he realized. The emasculating pink one with his daughter's infantile hand prints. Christ, he missed her. But she was gone, like his house and his wife and his money. 
 
 The dust cloud billowed and settled. The roar of yellow beast faded after rolling tracks in his former backyard and departing. The smell of exhaust faded like his youth, slowly and without his awareness. And suddenly he was a gray old man trespassing on private property. He was a tombstone with an epitaph written in piss, standing lopsided on a cemetery flattened for a future development. 
 
 Joseph found calm in his pockets, fingers jiggling the keys that once unlocked the house. How many times did these keys twist open that door? Sifting through the years in his head, his hands began to shake. He remembered the look of happiness on his wife's face when he walked through that door. The slapping of his daughter's bare feet against the hardwood floor as she ran to him, shouting `` daddy!'' and reaching her spaghetti arms toward him. 
 
 Shaking, he turned and left. Like everyone else. 
 
 *Comedy* 
 
 `` Jeeziz H. Christ, lookit tha poor bastard down there. Wallowin' is what he's doin', ya know? No sense just lyin' down and lettin' ya thoughts keep railin' ya and railin' ya.'' 
 
 `` I dunno, Marty, he looks kinda sad.'' 
 
 `` Ya damn right he looks sad, Frank! He's a schlub.'' 
 
 `` How ya mean?'' Frank asked. 
 
 `` A schlub's a schlub, and he's one of'em.'' Marty shook his head. `` Poor bastard never stood a damn chance.'' 
 
 `` Eh, looks like he could use a pat on the back. A beer, maybe.'' Frank replied. 
 
 `` *I* could use a beer, Frank, and I'm no schlub.'' 
 
 The two stood for a moment, atop the hill overlooking the house. From the hilltop the city could be seen, slowly closing in. 
 
 `` When we gettin' to work, Marty?'' asked Frank. 
 
 `` Well, with the boss down there, lookin' so sad starin' at the derelict house, it might be about twelve hours.'' Marty said. Reaching into his vest, he put the walkie to his mouth. `` Doze it, Johnson. Just be careful. Joe's still down there, trippin' balls.'' 
 
 A few minutes later, the shell of a house fell to the ground, and the machine responsible rolled away. The graying man stood before it, staring wide-eyed and devastated. 
 
 `` Do you think he'll know?'' 
 
 `` Maybe,'' replied Marty. `` But the amount of LSD we put in his coffee'll buy us some apology-writin' time. Let's go to the break room.'' 
 
 `` Marty?'' said Frank. `` The boss has the keys.''
