Strange vibrations in the office space. Miserable bastards are looking at nothing, running around with their damn heads cut off. "They're jacking our account," says the receptionist. "Why don't you call and bitch them out?" I look at her, uncaring, and turn back around.
Two road dogs, stinking and loud-mouthed, pace and bicker in Dispatch. They are missing teeth, or toenails, and look like they've not slept for nights. The filthy creatures have been flapping their terrible jaws for hours like they're not on the clock. Or are they? We don't know anymore, for the bosses have left town.
The hours are slow-crawling. The days are long and the evening barely lasts. This is what it's like in a cubicle space. This is what it's like, right before the great explosion.
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