Split (1)

train · 353k rows

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[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I stared over my monitor at the newest recruit, probably for longer than absolutely necessary. I hid my sweating palms and my shaking hands behind my desk. It had gone on so long... "Look. You have all the qualifications we're looking for. All I need is your signature, and you'll be set. But... how about we grab a coffee first?" The young man smiled and agreed. What did he know? He wanted to get in good with whoever pulled enough weight he could make a paycheck. I understood that. "Before you sign anything... This job isn't what you think it is. Frankly, I have no idea what it is. Nobody does. I started here almost twelve years ago. I didn't even want the position; my parents made me apply..." --- Wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, sporting a lovely three-day growth of untrimmed beard, I waltzed into Business Corporation Associates, Inc., and tossed a grubby resume on the secretary's desk. "Interview with wassname." The secretary, full of professionalism, smiled warmly. "Mr. Manager is waiting in his office, please go through." I shrugged through the door and plopped down sideways in a chair. Mr. Manager stood, offering his hand; I handed him my gum wrapper. All he did was chuckle and toss the wrapper in the trash. "Glad to see the youth are thinking about the environment these days," he rumbled. "Back in my day, kids just tossed their trash on the ground. Now, young man, I hear you're interested in a position here!" I shrugged. "Meh. It wasn't my idea. Parents said I needed a job." He chuckled again. "You listen to your parents, eh? If only my kids were as polite! Now, tell me - what are you looking for in our company?" I locked eyes with him, holding my gaze until it was long past uncomfortable. "Nothing. Get it?" He nodded as if I had made some deep comment, and answered, "Of course, of course. Ask not what your company can do for you, and all that. Very dedicated! What would you say to a management position?" I stared at him incredulously. My plan had been another summer lounging around my parent's basement, playing video games. It almost sounded like this man was going to offer me a job in spite of my actions! I sat up. "No way, man. I'm not about to sign up to be some money-grubbing pencil-pusher like you." I thought about it for a second, then just in case, added, "Corporate freak." Mr. Manager grinned. "Good! I'm glad to hear it! Too many kids these days want a clear shot to the top, no effort. Working your way up from the bottom, that's the ticket! Learn from the little guy!" He stood, rubbing his hands together. "Young man, I would like to introduce you to someone. Mr. Engineer. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Back in a tick, eh?" He rounded his desk, pushed through the doors, and headed down the hall as I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't know how to do... well, anything! Whatever they put me in, it would definitely not be video games. And if I lost a job... well, let's just say that it would be better to have never tried at all that to have tried and failed, no matter what . Dad was very particular about "honest work," and he was prepared to back that up. But if last year had taught me anything, it was that if I couldn't get a job, I was fine. I needed to do something. Anything. What was the worst thing I could do? I gave a sidelong glance at the leather-covered desk. Maybe... if I left an, er, gift? But just before I could unzip my pants, the door swung open. Startled and already more than a little jumpy, I whirled, bringing my fist around in a wide punch that smacked right into the face of, I presume, Mr. Engineer. His head bounced off the wall, the door, and two chairs before it came to rest on the floor. Mr. Manager walked in to find me staring down at the unconscious, and likely wildly concussed, form. "Oh good heavens! Come with me, straight to security!" Well, it wasn't what I'd planned, but as long as they didn't press charges, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for! Or at least, that's what I thought. Jittery from the sudden influx of adrenaline, I missed the first part of what Mr. Manager told the security guard. I tuned in to hear him finish, "This young man laid him out with a single punch!" Two other security officers had dashed upstairs half way through, likely trying to restore Mr. Engineer to life. The security man, a beefy, middle-aged fellow with a name tag the read "Security," and in smaller letters, "B. Security," held out his hand. Meekly, I held out both of mine... and blinked when he grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down. "Good work, son. I don't know how that man slipped past security, but if it wasn't for your quick wits, it might have been 1992 all over again." As my jaw dropped in absolute horror, Mr. Manager clapped me on the shoulder. "You don't even need to sign anything, young man, we'll get it all sorted when you come in next week. Don't worry about coming in until Monday, you rest up! I'm sure this was quite the ordeal!" I was hardly out the front door before the man I'd knocked out was being lead outside in cuffs. What had I gotten myself in to? --- I stared down into my coffee cup. "That wasn't the worst of it, of course. When I started, I was trying to avoid work, but every time I slipped away, someone caught me brainstorming - that is, sleeping - or team-building - that is, playing video games on my work computer. Every move I made, I was praised. I got raise after raise..." I lifted my eyes to those of the young man on the other side of the table. He seemed a little unsure of himself. "But... isn't that a dream come true?" I leaned over the table. He flinched back. Good, he should be scared. "No, kid, you don't get it. People call me every day, asking if the Paper Report is ready, or if the Sheet Documents have been signed. I make things up. I sat in on a random meeting because they had donuts, and somehow saved the company a million dollars. Or rubles. I don't know. Maybe it was Zimbabwean dollars. That's not the point, though. I've given presentations that were nothing but the blank templates, and gotten standing ovations. It's insane! It's mind boggling!" The kid pushed his half-filled mug to the side, surreptitiously glancing at his watch. "So... uh... you really have no idea what you're doing?" I shook my head. "You're not listening. No one knows what they're doing. No one! Everyone talks about nothing! They give vague figures, present charts and graphs that have been lifted off Google Image Search - like, the first images - and act like they know what they're doing! Everyone does it, and everyone else acts like they're the greatest thing since NASA! The whole company is mad - mad I tell you!" I slumped weakly back against my chair, wiping the spittle from my lips. The kid looked a little more sure of himself, now. Maybe I gave him an out. Maybe the poor fool could get out, while there was still time. He nodded sagely. "Ah! I understand what you're saying!" I almost wept with relief. He understood! It wasn't just me! Finally, there was someone I could connect with, someone who- "So you're saying it's a marketing firm - right? Awesome! When do I start?"	Without a knock, I entered a little office space. Although a shock, she met me with no sign of ill grace. A hand outstretched, I slapped it her eyes lit up with joy. "Such arrogance is what we seek in those that we employ!"
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	"Hi, thanks for coming. You're our next candidate for reincarnation. We're very excited about sending you back, same make and model, just a second pass through." "No, I'm pretty sure I fucked it up last time." "Nah! I gotta good feeling about you. You'll do just fine this time around." "How could I do just fine this time around?!? I screwed up basically every decision you can make in life!" "But you learned something right?" "No, I'm almost certain that I didn't! If I have to go back, let me be a cat, or a rock or something, please." "I don't know, I really think human is the right fit for you." "Based off of what?!? I spent my life anxious and depressed, antisocial, afraid of change, and terrified of decisions. What makes you think I'll be better at it this time around?" "I'm sorry you feel that way, but you brought a lot to the people who cared about you, that adds to the universe in a meaningful way." "What about me? What about how I felt?" "That adds to the universe too." "You're not gonna let me out of this one are you?" "Frankly? No. And if you come back early again, we'll just put you back in again. That's the way these things go." "So, what? I'm just a cog in the universal machine? Great." "Perhaps, and perhaps not. To be honest, I haven't figured all of this out yet either, just like you, I'm learning as I go. So how about it? You ready?" "No." "Ha! That's what I thought, but what can I say? Life isn't voluntary. Off you go then! Good luck!"	The bench wasn't comfortable. It was cheep plastic with steel frame, the kind that just don't let sit and relax. The secretary called my name and as I stood up I realized my pants and shirt where probably one size too big for me, I felt uncomfortable. As I walk towards the door, every piece of me just ache to be back home with my dog. Why did I had to come here anyway?! Why did I even had to show up for this interview?! I go into the room and he doesn't get up, he doesn't shake my hand. In fact he doesn't say or do anything. I sit in the only available chair. God, I wish my dad was here with me. "Name?" "Alex." "What role you think you'll best fit in, Alex?" "None. I don't even want to be here." "I'm sure we can find something for you" "Can't you just send me home?" "It doesn't work like that Alex. You seem like a bright lad, it'll be perfect for you, you'll see." "You don't understand. I dispies this place, nothing good will come out of this." "Through the door to the right and strait all the way." "What if i refuse? What if it doesn't work out?" "It will. I promise" he said with a genuine smile. "Now through the door and strait all the way, please." As I walk the coridor my shoes squeak and my belt clicks. I feel heavy and hot, I will never get used to this feeling. I open the door and enter an open area that looks like a parking lot. They are all dressed the same, with the same haircut, the same heavy shoes and sad faces. "STAND IN FORMATION!" a booming voice came from the speakers mounted on the walls. "ROWS OF THREE. FACE TO THE LEFT!" As we're forming lines a tall figure stands infront of us. "Get on the bus ladies! You're coming back as men!" An old bus get into the parking lot. A hand written sign is hanging on the door: "BASIC TRAINING" First promp. Sorry for the spelling, english isn't my native.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	[Contains Mild Vulgarity] "Well Mr. Jones, I can see you're applying for our senior member position. I take it you've got the required ten years experience or some equivalent not listed on your resume?" "Huh? No, uh, I actually just typed a hello world script once, no real world experience." "Wonderful! Our HR staff wrote up these stupid requests but I really want an outsiders perspective on our team. Can you get started today?" "Oh I've never done any sort of work other than manual labor. I would need at least a week of orientation. Maybe two depending on how I'm feeling." "Sounds perfect! We can put you and our other new hire in a team to learn the ins and outs side by side! Those are exactly the kind of fresh ideas this company needs!" "What? No, that was your idea." "Modesty is the number one trait I look for in an underling!" "Hey! I don't take kindly to being labeled by people who don't know me!" "Straightforward take charge personalities are the number two trait!" "I lied about having a job for three years on my resume expecting you to not even call my references. I've never held a job for more than three months!" "Good, that means you're an open canvas to work with. We don't hire brainwashed goons here in our establishment." "I mentioned I have a car? I don't, I was just planning to walk into work if I was feeling good enough that day, otherwise stay home." "I can get you on medical as a priority to help with any chronic exhaustion or general sleepiness. Until you've fully recovered, take it one step at a time. We aim to avoid discrimination of those who wish to work." "I think your face is stupid." "Ha! Me too. I've been contemplating plastic surgery. I think this might just be the push I needed to go through with my decision. Thank you, you've saved me from a lifetime of wasted contemplation." "Did Stacy put you up to this?! What did she offer you? Did she suck your cock?" "I'm her dad." "I'll take the job if you promise to forget I said that." "Glad to have you."	The bench wasn't comfortable. It was cheep plastic with steel frame, the kind that just don't let sit and relax. The secretary called my name and as I stood up I realized my pants and shirt where probably one size too big for me, I felt uncomfortable. As I walk towards the door, every piece of me just ache to be back home with my dog. Why did I had to come here anyway?! Why did I even had to show up for this interview?! I go into the room and he doesn't get up, he doesn't shake my hand. In fact he doesn't say or do anything. I sit in the only available chair. God, I wish my dad was here with me. "Name?" "Alex." "What role you think you'll best fit in, Alex?" "None. I don't even want to be here." "I'm sure we can find something for you" "Can't you just send me home?" "It doesn't work like that Alex. You seem like a bright lad, it'll be perfect for you, you'll see." "You don't understand. I dispies this place, nothing good will come out of this." "Through the door to the right and strait all the way." "What if i refuse? What if it doesn't work out?" "It will. I promise" he said with a genuine smile. "Now through the door and strait all the way, please." As I walk the coridor my shoes squeak and my belt clicks. I feel heavy and hot, I will never get used to this feeling. I open the door and enter an open area that looks like a parking lot. They are all dressed the same, with the same haircut, the same heavy shoes and sad faces. "STAND IN FORMATION!" a booming voice came from the speakers mounted on the walls. "ROWS OF THREE. FACE TO THE LEFT!" As we're forming lines a tall figure stands infront of us. "Get on the bus ladies! You're coming back as men!" An old bus get into the parking lot. A hand written sign is hanging on the door: "BASIC TRAINING" First promp. Sorry for the spelling, english isn't my native.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I spiraled into a deep depression when Susan left me; one where I could no longer get out of bed to show up to work. Shortly after being fired from my job, I lost my house, and moved in with my well-off brother and his wife. They didn't have any children, so at first, they didn't mind taking me in and feeding me. After about a year of living off of them, my brother decided that if I'm going to continue living there. I need to get a job. He sat behind me as I wrote up a resume, and he sent it to several places that were hiring. I wasn't ready to work, but I also wasn't ready to confess to my brother that I have completely given up on life at the moment. So what to do other than botch the interview? I got up right around 11 in the morning, just in time to roll out of bed, and catch the bus to the office I was interviewing at. I slapped on my old college sweater, my finest cargo shorts, knee high black socks, and the most luxurious sandals in my small collection. I would have arrived on time, but I didn't want to get hungry mid-interview, so I stopped at Chipotle and got a burrito. I jammed it into the front pocket of my sweater, and figured I'd have at it whenever I was struck with hunger. I arrived to the office and checked in with the receptionist. She quickly became snotty when she informed me that I was 15 minutes late, and that she would need to check in with the boss to see if they would proceed with the interview. She left to go speak with him, and arrived back shortly, saying, "Alright, he's ready for you." She led me to his small office. As I opened the door; the boss didn't stand or even greet me. He looked down at his papers and excused the receptionist. He peeled his eyes from his desk and eyed me up and down with utter disdain. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here like that." I replied by taking the burrito out of pocket, and beginning to eat it while still standing at the door. "Ole' Penn State... I'm a Stanford man ya' know..." With a mouthful of burrito, I exclaimed, "That must mean I'm the smart one then." He let out a rouceous laugh and invited me to sit. I declined the offer; explaining that I'd prefer to stand, as my alpha status doesn't allow me to put myself in a submissive position. The boss stood from his desk, put his head down and in hushed tones he said, "I'm glad you've made your position here clear. I myself am not a passive man, and as such, I respect your claim to dominance. But I will in no way abide to it. If you ever try to make me your bitch, I promise you, blood will flow through the halls of this office like rivers of red." He came around from behind his desk, "Come with me." As he passed by me, he grabbed the burrito from my hands and began to eat it. He opened the door, and I followed behind. What else was I supposed to do? I was in shock as to what has occurred. We went through the office building without uttering a single word to one another; through the halls, down the stairs, and ultimately to the parking lot. He had taken a few more bites out of my burrito on the way down, but when we got to the middle of the parking lot, he spiked it. He wound up his arm, and with half the burrito remaining, he slammed it to the pavement like a football. He loosened the tie from his neck, rolled up his sleeves, and calmly said to me, "Now is your chance to prove yourself, tough guy. Lets see who the real big shot is..." He stepped up to me with his arms spread out wide like an eagle, "Come on alpha... lets see who you really are." I began to speak for the first time since I initially told him I'm the alpha. My lips and body weren't working though, so I only managed to let out something that was somewhere in between and apology and a quiver. The boss, still in my face, lightly laughed to himself. "That's what I thought." There was a few moments of silence I attempted to break, "I think it's time for me to..." "Stop. Talking." He cut me off. "Bathe in my strength; feel the epinephrine fill your veins, and let your mind consider the things I could do to you." I did as I was told. He spent the next minute an inch from my face; staring into my soul. He began speaking again, "You're afraid. I can feel it. It's not me that you're afraid of, no. It's this moment. You don't know what to do. You let yourself become my bitch, and you did as you were told, because you didn't know what would happen. And because I am not afraid of this moment, I have complete control over you. I am your daddy." He backed off slightly and put his hand on my shoulder; "But when I looked into your eyes; I saw a strength that's not human. I saw something unreal; something that would make the strongest men feint at it's presence. I saw a true alpha-male. A lord of all things natural. I can teach you how to harness it... you start on Monday. I am your master, you are my pupil. You are not to tell anyone of our arrangement; just stick to your desk, look busy, and I will call you into my office when the time is right." He left. I'm not sure what the fuck happened; but I guess I got the job.	The bench wasn't comfortable. It was cheep plastic with steel frame, the kind that just don't let sit and relax. The secretary called my name and as I stood up I realized my pants and shirt where probably one size too big for me, I felt uncomfortable. As I walk towards the door, every piece of me just ache to be back home with my dog. Why did I had to come here anyway?! Why did I even had to show up for this interview?! I go into the room and he doesn't get up, he doesn't shake my hand. In fact he doesn't say or do anything. I sit in the only available chair. God, I wish my dad was here with me. "Name?" "Alex." "What role you think you'll best fit in, Alex?" "None. I don't even want to be here." "I'm sure we can find something for you" "Can't you just send me home?" "It doesn't work like that Alex. You seem like a bright lad, it'll be perfect for you, you'll see." "You don't understand. I dispies this place, nothing good will come out of this." "Through the door to the right and strait all the way." "What if i refuse? What if it doesn't work out?" "It will. I promise" he said with a genuine smile. "Now through the door and strait all the way, please." As I walk the coridor my shoes squeak and my belt clicks. I feel heavy and hot, I will never get used to this feeling. I open the door and enter an open area that looks like a parking lot. They are all dressed the same, with the same haircut, the same heavy shoes and sad faces. "STAND IN FORMATION!" a booming voice came from the speakers mounted on the walls. "ROWS OF THREE. FACE TO THE LEFT!" As we're forming lines a tall figure stands infront of us. "Get on the bus ladies! You're coming back as men!" An old bus get into the parking lot. A hand written sign is hanging on the door: "BASIC TRAINING" First promp. Sorry for the spelling, english isn't my native.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	"I'm also a drug user. Copious amounts!" I can hear my own disbelief. The interviewer shrugs. "You're in your prime, Mr. Johnson. Not many men can run the football quite as well as you." "I have an arrest record." "Yes, and a rushing record. That's why you're here." "Wh...what? I'm saying I have a real problem, man. I'm a kid, mid to early 20's. I come from nothing. And now I've been given tens of millions of dollars. I don't know how to handle that kind of money or the attention that comes with it. I spent three years in a college that encouraged me to take the easiest fucking classes so I can pass and play. Most of my teammates read at a 5th grade level, some were illiterate. And now I'm... I'm in too deep, man. For fucks sake, I see my face on fucking billboards, I'm on tv! I'm a brand! My ego walks into the room before I do and it's palpable. Women throw themselves at me. And for what? It's no surprise I turn to drugs to cope. But that's what I'm saying, man. I need help... I got a problem." "How's your knee holding up?" "Excuse me?" "Your knees, Mr. Johnson. They checked out in your physical but we want to hear it from you. How are your knees?" "....They're fine, man." "Fantastic! Sign here." "Okay, okay. Wait... I've hit women in the past. I mean... I mean, I'm not proud of it. Not at all. I hate myself for it. Can you understand me though? My professional working life is spent pummeling others and getting pummeled on a weekly basis and tens of thousands of mongoloids watch and celebrate. Even since I was a fucking child, I have been praised by my ability to physically brutalize others. I'm not proud of it. No. But I just don't know how to handle my anger, my problems. I've never learned another way. Why? Because I've never needed to. I think I deserve something, I have an inflated sense of who I am. The truth is, I'm a barbarian. Its what people pay me to do, people like you." "Just sign here, Mr. Johnson. Welcome to the team."	The bench wasn't comfortable. It was cheep plastic with steel frame, the kind that just don't let sit and relax. The secretary called my name and as I stood up I realized my pants and shirt where probably one size too big for me, I felt uncomfortable. As I walk towards the door, every piece of me just ache to be back home with my dog. Why did I had to come here anyway?! Why did I even had to show up for this interview?! I go into the room and he doesn't get up, he doesn't shake my hand. In fact he doesn't say or do anything. I sit in the only available chair. God, I wish my dad was here with me. "Name?" "Alex." "What role you think you'll best fit in, Alex?" "None. I don't even want to be here." "I'm sure we can find something for you" "Can't you just send me home?" "It doesn't work like that Alex. You seem like a bright lad, it'll be perfect for you, you'll see." "You don't understand. I dispies this place, nothing good will come out of this." "Through the door to the right and strait all the way." "What if i refuse? What if it doesn't work out?" "It will. I promise" he said with a genuine smile. "Now through the door and strait all the way, please." As I walk the coridor my shoes squeak and my belt clicks. I feel heavy and hot, I will never get used to this feeling. I open the door and enter an open area that looks like a parking lot. They are all dressed the same, with the same haircut, the same heavy shoes and sad faces. "STAND IN FORMATION!" a booming voice came from the speakers mounted on the walls. "ROWS OF THREE. FACE TO THE LEFT!" As we're forming lines a tall figure stands infront of us. "Get on the bus ladies! You're coming back as men!" An old bus get into the parking lot. A hand written sign is hanging on the door: "BASIC TRAINING" First promp. Sorry for the spelling, english isn't my native.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	This happened to me in real life. I was unemployed, and going to school. (I got to collect unemployment because I was working full time while going to school, and got laid off). I didn't want to go back to work. Unemployment office sends me a job, that I'm qualified for. Go to interview in dirty clothes, no shave, etc. I walk in and the guy doing the hiring, was a guy I used to work with. Hired me on the spot.	The bench wasn't comfortable. It was cheep plastic with steel frame, the kind that just don't let sit and relax. The secretary called my name and as I stood up I realized my pants and shirt where probably one size too big for me, I felt uncomfortable. As I walk towards the door, every piece of me just ache to be back home with my dog. Why did I had to come here anyway?! Why did I even had to show up for this interview?! I go into the room and he doesn't get up, he doesn't shake my hand. In fact he doesn't say or do anything. I sit in the only available chair. God, I wish my dad was here with me. "Name?" "Alex." "What role you think you'll best fit in, Alex?" "None. I don't even want to be here." "I'm sure we can find something for you" "Can't you just send me home?" "It doesn't work like that Alex. You seem like a bright lad, it'll be perfect for you, you'll see." "You don't understand. I dispies this place, nothing good will come out of this." "Through the door to the right and strait all the way." "What if i refuse? What if it doesn't work out?" "It will. I promise" he said with a genuine smile. "Now through the door and strait all the way, please." As I walk the coridor my shoes squeak and my belt clicks. I feel heavy and hot, I will never get used to this feeling. I open the door and enter an open area that looks like a parking lot. They are all dressed the same, with the same haircut, the same heavy shoes and sad faces. "STAND IN FORMATION!" a booming voice came from the speakers mounted on the walls. "ROWS OF THREE. FACE TO THE LEFT!" As we're forming lines a tall figure stands infront of us. "Get on the bus ladies! You're coming back as men!" An old bus get into the parking lot. A hand written sign is hanging on the door: "BASIC TRAINING" First promp. Sorry for the spelling, english isn't my native.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I stared over my monitor at the newest recruit, probably for longer than absolutely necessary. I hid my sweating palms and my shaking hands behind my desk. It had gone on so long... "Look. You have all the qualifications we're looking for. All I need is your signature, and you'll be set. But... how about we grab a coffee first?" The young man smiled and agreed. What did he know? He wanted to get in good with whoever pulled enough weight he could make a paycheck. I understood that. "Before you sign anything... This job isn't what you think it is. Frankly, I have no idea what it is. Nobody does. I started here almost twelve years ago. I didn't even want the position; my parents made me apply..." --- Wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, sporting a lovely three-day growth of untrimmed beard, I waltzed into Business Corporation Associates, Inc., and tossed a grubby resume on the secretary's desk. "Interview with wassname." The secretary, full of professionalism, smiled warmly. "Mr. Manager is waiting in his office, please go through." I shrugged through the door and plopped down sideways in a chair. Mr. Manager stood, offering his hand; I handed him my gum wrapper. All he did was chuckle and toss the wrapper in the trash. "Glad to see the youth are thinking about the environment these days," he rumbled. "Back in my day, kids just tossed their trash on the ground. Now, young man, I hear you're interested in a position here!" I shrugged. "Meh. It wasn't my idea. Parents said I needed a job." He chuckled again. "You listen to your parents, eh? If only my kids were as polite! Now, tell me - what are you looking for in our company?" I locked eyes with him, holding my gaze until it was long past uncomfortable. "Nothing. Get it?" He nodded as if I had made some deep comment, and answered, "Of course, of course. Ask not what your company can do for you, and all that. Very dedicated! What would you say to a management position?" I stared at him incredulously. My plan had been another summer lounging around my parent's basement, playing video games. It almost sounded like this man was going to offer me a job in spite of my actions! I sat up. "No way, man. I'm not about to sign up to be some money-grubbing pencil-pusher like you." I thought about it for a second, then just in case, added, "Corporate freak." Mr. Manager grinned. "Good! I'm glad to hear it! Too many kids these days want a clear shot to the top, no effort. Working your way up from the bottom, that's the ticket! Learn from the little guy!" He stood, rubbing his hands together. "Young man, I would like to introduce you to someone. Mr. Engineer. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Back in a tick, eh?" He rounded his desk, pushed through the doors, and headed down the hall as I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't know how to do... well, anything! Whatever they put me in, it would definitely not be video games. And if I lost a job... well, let's just say that it would be better to have never tried at all that to have tried and failed, no matter what . Dad was very particular about "honest work," and he was prepared to back that up. But if last year had taught me anything, it was that if I couldn't get a job, I was fine. I needed to do something. Anything. What was the worst thing I could do? I gave a sidelong glance at the leather-covered desk. Maybe... if I left an, er, gift? But just before I could unzip my pants, the door swung open. Startled and already more than a little jumpy, I whirled, bringing my fist around in a wide punch that smacked right into the face of, I presume, Mr. Engineer. His head bounced off the wall, the door, and two chairs before it came to rest on the floor. Mr. Manager walked in to find me staring down at the unconscious, and likely wildly concussed, form. "Oh good heavens! Come with me, straight to security!" Well, it wasn't what I'd planned, but as long as they didn't press charges, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for! Or at least, that's what I thought. Jittery from the sudden influx of adrenaline, I missed the first part of what Mr. Manager told the security guard. I tuned in to hear him finish, "This young man laid him out with a single punch!" Two other security officers had dashed upstairs half way through, likely trying to restore Mr. Engineer to life. The security man, a beefy, middle-aged fellow with a name tag the read "Security," and in smaller letters, "B. Security," held out his hand. Meekly, I held out both of mine... and blinked when he grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down. "Good work, son. I don't know how that man slipped past security, but if it wasn't for your quick wits, it might have been 1992 all over again." As my jaw dropped in absolute horror, Mr. Manager clapped me on the shoulder. "You don't even need to sign anything, young man, we'll get it all sorted when you come in next week. Don't worry about coming in until Monday, you rest up! I'm sure this was quite the ordeal!" I was hardly out the front door before the man I'd knocked out was being lead outside in cuffs. What had I gotten myself in to? --- I stared down into my coffee cup. "That wasn't the worst of it, of course. When I started, I was trying to avoid work, but every time I slipped away, someone caught me brainstorming - that is, sleeping - or team-building - that is, playing video games on my work computer. Every move I made, I was praised. I got raise after raise..." I lifted my eyes to those of the young man on the other side of the table. He seemed a little unsure of himself. "But... isn't that a dream come true?" I leaned over the table. He flinched back. Good, he should be scared. "No, kid, you don't get it. People call me every day, asking if the Paper Report is ready, or if the Sheet Documents have been signed. I make things up. I sat in on a random meeting because they had donuts, and somehow saved the company a million dollars. Or rubles. I don't know. Maybe it was Zimbabwean dollars. That's not the point, though. I've given presentations that were nothing but the blank templates, and gotten standing ovations. It's insane! It's mind boggling!" The kid pushed his half-filled mug to the side, surreptitiously glancing at his watch. "So... uh... you really have no idea what you're doing?" I shook my head. "You're not listening. No one knows what they're doing. No one! Everyone talks about nothing! They give vague figures, present charts and graphs that have been lifted off Google Image Search - like, the first images - and act like they know what they're doing! Everyone does it, and everyone else acts like they're the greatest thing since NASA! The whole company is mad - mad I tell you!" I slumped weakly back against my chair, wiping the spittle from my lips. The kid looked a little more sure of himself, now. Maybe I gave him an out. Maybe the poor fool could get out, while there was still time. He nodded sagely. "Ah! I understand what you're saying!" I almost wept with relief. He understood! It wasn't just me! Finally, there was someone I could connect with, someone who- "So you're saying it's a marketing firm - right? Awesome! When do I start?"	The bench wasn't comfortable. It was cheep plastic with steel frame, the kind that just don't let sit and relax. The secretary called my name and as I stood up I realized my pants and shirt where probably one size too big for me, I felt uncomfortable. As I walk towards the door, every piece of me just ache to be back home with my dog. Why did I had to come here anyway?! Why did I even had to show up for this interview?! I go into the room and he doesn't get up, he doesn't shake my hand. In fact he doesn't say or do anything. I sit in the only available chair. God, I wish my dad was here with me. "Name?" "Alex." "What role you think you'll best fit in, Alex?" "None. I don't even want to be here." "I'm sure we can find something for you" "Can't you just send me home?" "It doesn't work like that Alex. You seem like a bright lad, it'll be perfect for you, you'll see." "You don't understand. I dispies this place, nothing good will come out of this." "Through the door to the right and strait all the way." "What if i refuse? What if it doesn't work out?" "It will. I promise" he said with a genuine smile. "Now through the door and strait all the way, please." As I walk the coridor my shoes squeak and my belt clicks. I feel heavy and hot, I will never get used to this feeling. I open the door and enter an open area that looks like a parking lot. They are all dressed the same, with the same haircut, the same heavy shoes and sad faces. "STAND IN FORMATION!" a booming voice came from the speakers mounted on the walls. "ROWS OF THREE. FACE TO THE LEFT!" As we're forming lines a tall figure stands infront of us. "Get on the bus ladies! You're coming back as men!" An old bus get into the parking lot. A hand written sign is hanging on the door: "BASIC TRAINING" First promp. Sorry for the spelling, english isn't my native.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	Sixteen-year-old Theodore Cruz slouched in the cheap plastic booth, sucking the last dregs of his soda with obnoxious zeal and using a ketchup packet to paint a frowny-face on the table. In preparation for this interview, he’d donned his “Sperm Donor” T-shirt and smeared a tablespoon of lard into his hair. The look he was going for, despite his parents’ entreaties to get a job, was “unhireable,” and he was nailing it. “Hi, you must be Theodore. I’m Sharona, the manager.” A moderately-attractive woman in her mid-twenties had appeared, carrying a clipboard and wearing a bright smile. He popped his gum at her and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Hi, baby. Nice jugs. They real?” “Why, yes they are, thanks for asking.” Her smile didn’t slip a fraction. She slid into the seat across from him, careful to place her paperwork away from his ketchup puddle. “So, why do you want to work for the Sandwich Duke? You left that question blank, along with most of the other questions.” “I dunno. Guess I’d like to steal food when no one’s watching.” He pulled out his gum, examined it, and stuck it under the table. “Ah, an opportunist. You’ll be happy to know that the camera beside the back fryer is broken, so you’ll be able to help yourself. Within reason, of course.” She made a tiny note on her clipboard. “This question’s just for fun, to help me get to know you better: if you were a food, what would you be and why?” “Dog. Chinks eat dogs, so why can’t we? I think it’d be cool to eat something that would make all those sissy animal lovers lose their shit.” Sharona fiddled with the silver cat pin on her lapel and frowned, her composure cracking slightly for the first time. “Yes, well, alright…I like a man who can think outside the box. Last question: what would you say your greatest strength is?” He yawned. “I’m really good at finding ways around the school firewall to stream porn in class. I sell my secrets to the other losers for beer money. Even though they’re totally loaded, my parents are real tightwads.” “I see. It sounds like you’re a real entrepreneur. Good thing you’ll be drawing a real paycheck soon. Welcome aboard!” She stuck out a hand to shake, once more grinning broadly at him. He gaped at her speechlessly, resembling a wide-mouth bass that has swallowed a hook. He was so stunned that he forgot to be rude as he accepted his new uniform and tentative schedule. Sharona watched the little asshat go, already calculating ways to maximize his misery for the three months she had him until school started again. She thought that scraping all of the gum out from under the tables would be a good place to start. Maybe the little toerag would quit – if he did, it wasn’t her fault. She watched the kid climb into his dad’s brand-new sports car and marveled to herself at the peculiar behavior of the very rich. Who else would have paid her five grand to hire their stupid kid? For that kind of money, she would put up with a lot of bullshit for twenty hours a week. Maybe they'd even do it again next summer.	The bench wasn't comfortable. It was cheep plastic with steel frame, the kind that just don't let sit and relax. The secretary called my name and as I stood up I realized my pants and shirt where probably one size too big for me, I felt uncomfortable. As I walk towards the door, every piece of me just ache to be back home with my dog. Why did I had to come here anyway?! Why did I even had to show up for this interview?! I go into the room and he doesn't get up, he doesn't shake my hand. In fact he doesn't say or do anything. I sit in the only available chair. God, I wish my dad was here with me. "Name?" "Alex." "What role you think you'll best fit in, Alex?" "None. I don't even want to be here." "I'm sure we can find something for you" "Can't you just send me home?" "It doesn't work like that Alex. You seem like a bright lad, it'll be perfect for you, you'll see." "You don't understand. I dispies this place, nothing good will come out of this." "Through the door to the right and strait all the way." "What if i refuse? What if it doesn't work out?" "It will. I promise" he said with a genuine smile. "Now through the door and strait all the way, please." As I walk the coridor my shoes squeak and my belt clicks. I feel heavy and hot, I will never get used to this feeling. I open the door and enter an open area that looks like a parking lot. They are all dressed the same, with the same haircut, the same heavy shoes and sad faces. "STAND IN FORMATION!" a booming voice came from the speakers mounted on the walls. "ROWS OF THREE. FACE TO THE LEFT!" As we're forming lines a tall figure stands infront of us. "Get on the bus ladies! You're coming back as men!" An old bus get into the parking lot. A hand written sign is hanging on the door: "BASIC TRAINING" First promp. Sorry for the spelling, english isn't my native.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	The water bottle was obviously full of something other than water. I took small sips in the waiting room, the smell of vodka stinging my eyes even with the orange juice to water it down. I had somewhere to be and it wasn’t in a job interview. “It’s good practice,” my wife had encouraged. “You just need to get back on that horse and give it a try.” She’d told me when I was asked to come in for the job. “I don’t think I want it,” I’d confided in her. But there was no arguing with her at that point. “Joseph Gordons?” The receptionist called my name. A tall thin man stood next to her, a dour look on his face. He shook my hand wordlessly and gestured for me to follow him. I ambled along behind him into a tight conference room. The lighting was fluorescent and room dingy. I half wanted to leave right then but I’d promised my wife I’d stay. “Joseph, good of you to come in,” the man said. “I’m Hank Norbitt, I do the hiring for the programming department, I find that HR doesn’t really understand programmers.” His voice reminded me of Eeyore. Once I started thinking about the sad donkey I could also see a resemblance in his expression. We settled into chairs on the corner of the table. I leaned my left arm on the table and set the water bottle down. Hank got comfortable as I began to speak. “I understand that some programmers have social issues, I’m not really one of them. I paid for university working as a bartender and spent all kinds of time with people, at the bar, after the bar. The morning before going back to work,” I replied probably too honestly. I’d told my wife I’d give it an honest try but I wanted to tank the interview and go. “I met my wife bartending.” “Was that a bar in town?” “Yea, Phil’s by Laurier. I learned a lot of skills there I’ve found applicable in other places,” I took a sip of my screwdriver before continuing. Hank leaned forward seeming intrigued. I’d led him here and prepared to drop an answer that’ll have him excusing me. “I learned how to keep my mouth shut, the bikers used to deal coke out of the back and I needed to make sure I didn’t show up on their radar. I learned how to break up a fight – you never know when you’ll need to convince a man to drop a knife. Every Friday these days it seems.” “You like to go out then? Party?” Hank’s eyes lit up, I was a little concerned that he was getting too into my answers. “Sometimes. I don’t do drugs anymore, almost OD’d at my last job – that’s why I’m looking for work, had some trouble with painkillers and needed to take some time off, get better,” I was lying now. “Now that’s interesting, you sound like you’re very good at recognizing your own flaws, that’s a strong quality in an employee,” Hank seemed far too into what I was saying and I wanted to get him to let me go. “I can see where I’ve fallen down, unless I’ve had too much to drink!” I exclaimed and laughed a bit louder than I probably should have. “Well, I do have some questions for you,” Hank glanced at the sheet in front of him, “first, if you could be any animal what would you be?” “I’d be a duck, their penises are the ultimate multi-tool,” I replied, half-serious. The alcohol was having the desired effect and I wasn’t tasting the vodka as much now. I committed to myself that I’d answer the questions quickly and just move through this stupid formality. I glanced at my watch – I needed to be out of here in ten minutes. “Oh that’s an original one, love that, I’ll have to use it sometime. Next what is your greatest weakness?” Hank asked with a smile. “Alcoholism.” “I appreciate the honesty. I like that in an employee. Now how many gas stations do you think are in the US?” “At least 12.” “Well you’re not wrong, and I supposed that’s what I get for asking a programmer that question – you’re up on your internet jokes right?” Hank laughed at his own comment, my grim expression started to break and I smiled with him for a moment. I took a swig of the alcohol. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Five years. I used to know where I’d be, until a week ago I’d have had an answer. “I don’t,” the smile that had been growing was lost again. Hank’s laid a hand on my arm. “If you need to talk…” “I think it’d be best if we move on with the questions, I don’t like to bring personal issues into work,” I interrupted. I didn’t know him and didn’t need this right now. “Right, ok. How honest would you say you are?” “Very,” I didn’t think I needed to elaborate, I’ve only told a couple lies so far. “Alright, last one – how would your family feel about you working long hours?” “I don’t have a family,” I replied without explanation. “You mentioned your wife,” he began. “She’s dead.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hank replied. His look quizzical and I knew what was coming next. One of two questions that I’d been asked so many times recently. “Drunk driver hit her car two days ago. She kicked it. I actually need to go now. Her visitation starts in half an hour and it’s a twenty minute drive,” I replied, standing. I wobbled a bit. I didn’t mean to but I did. “Are you…” “Driving? No, I’m not the goddamn moron who killed her.” “I’ll give you a call, about the job, but can I ask one last question?” Hank watched me. I hesitated and nodded, “why did you take the interview? Why not cancel or reschedule?” “I made my wife a promise that I’d come,” I replied. “I don’t think her death releases me from that.”	The bench wasn't comfortable. It was cheep plastic with steel frame, the kind that just don't let sit and relax. The secretary called my name and as I stood up I realized my pants and shirt where probably one size too big for me, I felt uncomfortable. As I walk towards the door, every piece of me just ache to be back home with my dog. Why did I had to come here anyway?! Why did I even had to show up for this interview?! I go into the room and he doesn't get up, he doesn't shake my hand. In fact he doesn't say or do anything. I sit in the only available chair. God, I wish my dad was here with me. "Name?" "Alex." "What role you think you'll best fit in, Alex?" "None. I don't even want to be here." "I'm sure we can find something for you" "Can't you just send me home?" "It doesn't work like that Alex. You seem like a bright lad, it'll be perfect for you, you'll see." "You don't understand. I dispies this place, nothing good will come out of this." "Through the door to the right and strait all the way." "What if i refuse? What if it doesn't work out?" "It will. I promise" he said with a genuine smile. "Now through the door and strait all the way, please." As I walk the coridor my shoes squeak and my belt clicks. I feel heavy and hot, I will never get used to this feeling. I open the door and enter an open area that looks like a parking lot. They are all dressed the same, with the same haircut, the same heavy shoes and sad faces. "STAND IN FORMATION!" a booming voice came from the speakers mounted on the walls. "ROWS OF THREE. FACE TO THE LEFT!" As we're forming lines a tall figure stands infront of us. "Get on the bus ladies! You're coming back as men!" An old bus get into the parking lot. A hand written sign is hanging on the door: "BASIC TRAINING" First promp. Sorry for the spelling, english isn't my native.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	[Contains Mild Vulgarity] "Well Mr. Jones, I can see you're applying for our senior member position. I take it you've got the required ten years experience or some equivalent not listed on your resume?" "Huh? No, uh, I actually just typed a hello world script once, no real world experience." "Wonderful! Our HR staff wrote up these stupid requests but I really want an outsiders perspective on our team. Can you get started today?" "Oh I've never done any sort of work other than manual labor. I would need at least a week of orientation. Maybe two depending on how I'm feeling." "Sounds perfect! We can put you and our other new hire in a team to learn the ins and outs side by side! Those are exactly the kind of fresh ideas this company needs!" "What? No, that was your idea." "Modesty is the number one trait I look for in an underling!" "Hey! I don't take kindly to being labeled by people who don't know me!" "Straightforward take charge personalities are the number two trait!" "I lied about having a job for three years on my resume expecting you to not even call my references. I've never held a job for more than three months!" "Good, that means you're an open canvas to work with. We don't hire brainwashed goons here in our establishment." "I mentioned I have a car? I don't, I was just planning to walk into work if I was feeling good enough that day, otherwise stay home." "I can get you on medical as a priority to help with any chronic exhaustion or general sleepiness. Until you've fully recovered, take it one step at a time. We aim to avoid discrimination of those who wish to work." "I think your face is stupid." "Ha! Me too. I've been contemplating plastic surgery. I think this might just be the push I needed to go through with my decision. Thank you, you've saved me from a lifetime of wasted contemplation." "Did Stacy put you up to this?! What did she offer you? Did she suck your cock?" "I'm her dad." "I'll take the job if you promise to forget I said that." "Glad to have you."	I walked into his office, he had a notepad out, "Oh hello, you must be Gareth, come in, sit down." The Mustached boss said as I walked through the door. He seemed nice at first, but I didn't want to work at a Roadkill Removal service. "Well, tell me Gareth, what do you like to do in your free time?" The man said as he brandished his notepad and clicked his pen. I tried to think of the worst thing I could possibly do in my free time, "I run a prank channel on YouTube!" I said in a panic. "Very Intriguing, what kind of pranks do you like to do?" He said as wrote down what I had just said. "Kissing pranks, a lot of sexual stuff, my most popular one is titled 'Making out with peoples girlfriends in the hood (Gone Deadly)'." I replied. "Hmm, sounds hot!" He creepily said whilst writing down the quote. I was panicking, I had to think of something, "You know, I also like to start grass-fires, big ones! And sometimes I like to kill little rabbits, for no reason, I find it pleasureful." I said whilst trying to snatch my own intentional defeat from the jaws of defeat. "Oh yeah, that's why I joined the force in the first place, I love seeing dead animals! I like you, kid! You remind me of a younger version of myself." The interviewer said enthusiastically. He wrote it down, "You know I'm a racist, total skinhead, yep!" I said in an attempt to deter the boss from hiring me. "Oh, no way, me too! Sieg Heil!!" he said whilst doing a Nazi salute. I was shocked at this mans racism, "Wow, this guy is horrible!" I though as the man wrote down that I'm a skinhead. "I'm also a Scientologist!" I said desperately to the boss. "No way, you too!" I got up and left as he said that, I slammed the door and ran out of the building as fast as possible. "Hmm, he seemed nice." I heard him say from outside his office.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I stared over my monitor at the newest recruit, probably for longer than absolutely necessary. I hid my sweating palms and my shaking hands behind my desk. It had gone on so long... "Look. You have all the qualifications we're looking for. All I need is your signature, and you'll be set. But... how about we grab a coffee first?" The young man smiled and agreed. What did he know? He wanted to get in good with whoever pulled enough weight he could make a paycheck. I understood that. "Before you sign anything... This job isn't what you think it is. Frankly, I have no idea what it is. Nobody does. I started here almost twelve years ago. I didn't even want the position; my parents made me apply..." --- Wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, sporting a lovely three-day growth of untrimmed beard, I waltzed into Business Corporation Associates, Inc., and tossed a grubby resume on the secretary's desk. "Interview with wassname." The secretary, full of professionalism, smiled warmly. "Mr. Manager is waiting in his office, please go through." I shrugged through the door and plopped down sideways in a chair. Mr. Manager stood, offering his hand; I handed him my gum wrapper. All he did was chuckle and toss the wrapper in the trash. "Glad to see the youth are thinking about the environment these days," he rumbled. "Back in my day, kids just tossed their trash on the ground. Now, young man, I hear you're interested in a position here!" I shrugged. "Meh. It wasn't my idea. Parents said I needed a job." He chuckled again. "You listen to your parents, eh? If only my kids were as polite! Now, tell me - what are you looking for in our company?" I locked eyes with him, holding my gaze until it was long past uncomfortable. "Nothing. Get it?" He nodded as if I had made some deep comment, and answered, "Of course, of course. Ask not what your company can do for you, and all that. Very dedicated! What would you say to a management position?" I stared at him incredulously. My plan had been another summer lounging around my parent's basement, playing video games. It almost sounded like this man was going to offer me a job in spite of my actions! I sat up. "No way, man. I'm not about to sign up to be some money-grubbing pencil-pusher like you." I thought about it for a second, then just in case, added, "Corporate freak." Mr. Manager grinned. "Good! I'm glad to hear it! Too many kids these days want a clear shot to the top, no effort. Working your way up from the bottom, that's the ticket! Learn from the little guy!" He stood, rubbing his hands together. "Young man, I would like to introduce you to someone. Mr. Engineer. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Back in a tick, eh?" He rounded his desk, pushed through the doors, and headed down the hall as I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't know how to do... well, anything! Whatever they put me in, it would definitely not be video games. And if I lost a job... well, let's just say that it would be better to have never tried at all that to have tried and failed, no matter what . Dad was very particular about "honest work," and he was prepared to back that up. But if last year had taught me anything, it was that if I couldn't get a job, I was fine. I needed to do something. Anything. What was the worst thing I could do? I gave a sidelong glance at the leather-covered desk. Maybe... if I left an, er, gift? But just before I could unzip my pants, the door swung open. Startled and already more than a little jumpy, I whirled, bringing my fist around in a wide punch that smacked right into the face of, I presume, Mr. Engineer. His head bounced off the wall, the door, and two chairs before it came to rest on the floor. Mr. Manager walked in to find me staring down at the unconscious, and likely wildly concussed, form. "Oh good heavens! Come with me, straight to security!" Well, it wasn't what I'd planned, but as long as they didn't press charges, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for! Or at least, that's what I thought. Jittery from the sudden influx of adrenaline, I missed the first part of what Mr. Manager told the security guard. I tuned in to hear him finish, "This young man laid him out with a single punch!" Two other security officers had dashed upstairs half way through, likely trying to restore Mr. Engineer to life. The security man, a beefy, middle-aged fellow with a name tag the read "Security," and in smaller letters, "B. Security," held out his hand. Meekly, I held out both of mine... and blinked when he grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down. "Good work, son. I don't know how that man slipped past security, but if it wasn't for your quick wits, it might have been 1992 all over again." As my jaw dropped in absolute horror, Mr. Manager clapped me on the shoulder. "You don't even need to sign anything, young man, we'll get it all sorted when you come in next week. Don't worry about coming in until Monday, you rest up! I'm sure this was quite the ordeal!" I was hardly out the front door before the man I'd knocked out was being lead outside in cuffs. What had I gotten myself in to? --- I stared down into my coffee cup. "That wasn't the worst of it, of course. When I started, I was trying to avoid work, but every time I slipped away, someone caught me brainstorming - that is, sleeping - or team-building - that is, playing video games on my work computer. Every move I made, I was praised. I got raise after raise..." I lifted my eyes to those of the young man on the other side of the table. He seemed a little unsure of himself. "But... isn't that a dream come true?" I leaned over the table. He flinched back. Good, he should be scared. "No, kid, you don't get it. People call me every day, asking if the Paper Report is ready, or if the Sheet Documents have been signed. I make things up. I sat in on a random meeting because they had donuts, and somehow saved the company a million dollars. Or rubles. I don't know. Maybe it was Zimbabwean dollars. That's not the point, though. I've given presentations that were nothing but the blank templates, and gotten standing ovations. It's insane! It's mind boggling!" The kid pushed his half-filled mug to the side, surreptitiously glancing at his watch. "So... uh... you really have no idea what you're doing?" I shook my head. "You're not listening. No one knows what they're doing. No one! Everyone talks about nothing! They give vague figures, present charts and graphs that have been lifted off Google Image Search - like, the first images - and act like they know what they're doing! Everyone does it, and everyone else acts like they're the greatest thing since NASA! The whole company is mad - mad I tell you!" I slumped weakly back against my chair, wiping the spittle from my lips. The kid looked a little more sure of himself, now. Maybe I gave him an out. Maybe the poor fool could get out, while there was still time. He nodded sagely. "Ah! I understand what you're saying!" I almost wept with relief. He understood! It wasn't just me! Finally, there was someone I could connect with, someone who- "So you're saying it's a marketing firm - right? Awesome! When do I start?"	I walked into his office, he had a notepad out, "Oh hello, you must be Gareth, come in, sit down." The Mustached boss said as I walked through the door. He seemed nice at first, but I didn't want to work at a Roadkill Removal service. "Well, tell me Gareth, what do you like to do in your free time?" The man said as he brandished his notepad and clicked his pen. I tried to think of the worst thing I could possibly do in my free time, "I run a prank channel on YouTube!" I said in a panic. "Very Intriguing, what kind of pranks do you like to do?" He said as wrote down what I had just said. "Kissing pranks, a lot of sexual stuff, my most popular one is titled 'Making out with peoples girlfriends in the hood (Gone Deadly)'." I replied. "Hmm, sounds hot!" He creepily said whilst writing down the quote. I was panicking, I had to think of something, "You know, I also like to start grass-fires, big ones! And sometimes I like to kill little rabbits, for no reason, I find it pleasureful." I said whilst trying to snatch my own intentional defeat from the jaws of defeat. "Oh yeah, that's why I joined the force in the first place, I love seeing dead animals! I like you, kid! You remind me of a younger version of myself." The interviewer said enthusiastically. He wrote it down, "You know I'm a racist, total skinhead, yep!" I said in an attempt to deter the boss from hiring me. "Oh, no way, me too! Sieg Heil!!" he said whilst doing a Nazi salute. I was shocked at this mans racism, "Wow, this guy is horrible!" I though as the man wrote down that I'm a skinhead. "I'm also a Scientologist!" I said desperately to the boss. "No way, you too!" I got up and left as he said that, I slammed the door and ran out of the building as fast as possible. "Hmm, he seemed nice." I heard him say from outside his office.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	"Hi, thanks for coming. You're our next candidate for reincarnation. We're very excited about sending you back, same make and model, just a second pass through." "No, I'm pretty sure I fucked it up last time." "Nah! I gotta good feeling about you. You'll do just fine this time around." "How could I do just fine this time around?!? I screwed up basically every decision you can make in life!" "But you learned something right?" "No, I'm almost certain that I didn't! If I have to go back, let me be a cat, or a rock or something, please." "I don't know, I really think human is the right fit for you." "Based off of what?!? I spent my life anxious and depressed, antisocial, afraid of change, and terrified of decisions. What makes you think I'll be better at it this time around?" "I'm sorry you feel that way, but you brought a lot to the people who cared about you, that adds to the universe in a meaningful way." "What about me? What about how I felt?" "That adds to the universe too." "You're not gonna let me out of this one are you?" "Frankly? No. And if you come back early again, we'll just put you back in again. That's the way these things go." "So, what? I'm just a cog in the universal machine? Great." "Perhaps, and perhaps not. To be honest, I haven't figured all of this out yet either, just like you, I'm learning as I go. So how about it? You ready?" "No." "Ha! That's what I thought, but what can I say? Life isn't voluntary. Off you go then! Good luck!"	Jon was having a rough morning. First, he'd angrily smashed his antique alarm clock during the latest rendition of Pop Star Cammy's hit single, "Banal Teenage Techno-Pop Vol. 1a, Remix Special" - a song he utterly despised - when the clock awoke him at 6:00 A.M. Then, he'd taken a hard fall out of bed, when the lopsided mattress ejected him. A skinned knee and several abrasions later, he managed a shower, some eggs, a black coffee and found his nicest shirt and tie. The shirt - an ugly, gray houndstooth affair - was missing a button, but the tie would cover that. The interview at Tele-Corp was not his ideal job, but since he'd been let go from one of the nation's largest IT firms, he was desperate. Almost by accident, he'd seen an ad for the company in one of his dreams. He felt compelled to apply. When he received a draft notice from the government notifying him of his obligation to find a job or enter indentured servitude, he knew he had no choice. With the economy failing everywhere and wars raging all over the other side of the world, entering servitude could lead anywhere from mopping floors at a University to serving on the front lines. So it was that Jon applied for the job-with-no-description at Tele-Corp. Jon, a diminutive man, late 30s, with hair graying around his temples, grabbed a suitcase and headed tot he train station. A few train rides later, he found himself in the inner city. He walked a few blocks, growing increasingly apprehensive. He didn't want to work for this company, but knew he had no choice. As he approached the facade of Tele-Corp HQ, he felt resigned to his fate. Standing in front of the sleek, tower of a building, Jon had a sudden thought. What if he botched the interview? He would go in, act as obnoxious as possible, pretend to be unqualified, and not score the job. Then, he could reply to the notice showing proof that he'd tried - and failed. "This plan is so crazy," he said quietly to himself, "it just might work." Smiling, Jon entered the building, was greeted by a young secretary, a gentleman in his early 20s by the look of it, and sent into the Office of Human Resources. A large, man, heavyset, and going bald sat in a chair. As the door opened, he bellowed a greeting to Jon. "Hello, young man! Welcome to your future!" he said, grinning, "Don't just stand there! Have a seat! I'm Hank Jenkins, Head of Personnel here at Tele-Corp. And who might you be?" Jon rolled his eyes, looked straight at Jenkens and replied, "My name's Jon. What's this job for, fat-ass?" Jenkins, seemingly unaffected, replied back. "Well, son, you see, here at Tele-Corp, we have a unique problem. Sometimes our teleporters malfunction." "Yeah, because your manufacturing is shoddy," right, Jon interrupted, "I've seen the specs. You'd be lucky to get anything to move across any distance without completely destroying at least some living tissue." Jenkins paused for a moment, assessed Jon and let go a hearty laugh. "So, my boy, you DO know what this position is for!" Jon, clearly taken aback by this response, hesitated. After a tense moment, he finally asked for clarification. "What do you mean by that, Hank?" he inquired. "Oh, you'll see," Jenkins said as he pushed a button on his desk, "Mary, let's get Jonny Boy here some paperwork. He starts this afternoon." "But, sir, I don't want this job! I'm only in this interview to avoid going into servitude!" Jon protested. Jenkins, still shuffling his papers, placed one in front of Jon. "Oh, that's just it, my boy," he said, his grin blossoming into a full-on smile, "you've already been drafted." Jon stared, aghast at the paper lying on the desk in front of him. He read it twice before the words finally sank in. "Dear Mr. Prescott, It is our sad duty to report that due to under-payment of your Living Tax, you have been drafted into Servitude. Your contract has been sold to Tele-Corp. A dream message was sent to confirm this. You have no choice in the matter. By our calculations, it will be 15 years before you are paid in full for your back Living Tax. Remember you are responsible for any expenses you accrue during your tenure of Servitude. Please report for your assignment. Thank you and have a nice day. Signed, Anthony Errol Treasure - Living Tax Bureau" A few minutes passed and the office doors opened. Two men came in, dressed in blue-ish/gray uniforms and commanded Jon to stand up. Jon slowly did as he was told and followed the men into the hallway. "Welcome to Tele-Corp," said one of the men, handing him a laser pistol, "you're gonna need this. Jon took it, examining it for a moment. It felt sleek and good in his hand. The word, "Hunter" was emblazoned across the handle, along with the Tele-Corp logo - a booth surrounded by bright light. Jon smiled. Perhaps he was going to like this job, after all.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	[Contains Mild Vulgarity] "Well Mr. Jones, I can see you're applying for our senior member position. I take it you've got the required ten years experience or some equivalent not listed on your resume?" "Huh? No, uh, I actually just typed a hello world script once, no real world experience." "Wonderful! Our HR staff wrote up these stupid requests but I really want an outsiders perspective on our team. Can you get started today?" "Oh I've never done any sort of work other than manual labor. I would need at least a week of orientation. Maybe two depending on how I'm feeling." "Sounds perfect! We can put you and our other new hire in a team to learn the ins and outs side by side! Those are exactly the kind of fresh ideas this company needs!" "What? No, that was your idea." "Modesty is the number one trait I look for in an underling!" "Hey! I don't take kindly to being labeled by people who don't know me!" "Straightforward take charge personalities are the number two trait!" "I lied about having a job for three years on my resume expecting you to not even call my references. I've never held a job for more than three months!" "Good, that means you're an open canvas to work with. We don't hire brainwashed goons here in our establishment." "I mentioned I have a car? I don't, I was just planning to walk into work if I was feeling good enough that day, otherwise stay home." "I can get you on medical as a priority to help with any chronic exhaustion or general sleepiness. Until you've fully recovered, take it one step at a time. We aim to avoid discrimination of those who wish to work." "I think your face is stupid." "Ha! Me too. I've been contemplating plastic surgery. I think this might just be the push I needed to go through with my decision. Thank you, you've saved me from a lifetime of wasted contemplation." "Did Stacy put you up to this?! What did she offer you? Did she suck your cock?" "I'm her dad." "I'll take the job if you promise to forget I said that." "Glad to have you."	Jon was having a rough morning. First, he'd angrily smashed his antique alarm clock during the latest rendition of Pop Star Cammy's hit single, "Banal Teenage Techno-Pop Vol. 1a, Remix Special" - a song he utterly despised - when the clock awoke him at 6:00 A.M. Then, he'd taken a hard fall out of bed, when the lopsided mattress ejected him. A skinned knee and several abrasions later, he managed a shower, some eggs, a black coffee and found his nicest shirt and tie. The shirt - an ugly, gray houndstooth affair - was missing a button, but the tie would cover that. The interview at Tele-Corp was not his ideal job, but since he'd been let go from one of the nation's largest IT firms, he was desperate. Almost by accident, he'd seen an ad for the company in one of his dreams. He felt compelled to apply. When he received a draft notice from the government notifying him of his obligation to find a job or enter indentured servitude, he knew he had no choice. With the economy failing everywhere and wars raging all over the other side of the world, entering servitude could lead anywhere from mopping floors at a University to serving on the front lines. So it was that Jon applied for the job-with-no-description at Tele-Corp. Jon, a diminutive man, late 30s, with hair graying around his temples, grabbed a suitcase and headed tot he train station. A few train rides later, he found himself in the inner city. He walked a few blocks, growing increasingly apprehensive. He didn't want to work for this company, but knew he had no choice. As he approached the facade of Tele-Corp HQ, he felt resigned to his fate. Standing in front of the sleek, tower of a building, Jon had a sudden thought. What if he botched the interview? He would go in, act as obnoxious as possible, pretend to be unqualified, and not score the job. Then, he could reply to the notice showing proof that he'd tried - and failed. "This plan is so crazy," he said quietly to himself, "it just might work." Smiling, Jon entered the building, was greeted by a young secretary, a gentleman in his early 20s by the look of it, and sent into the Office of Human Resources. A large, man, heavyset, and going bald sat in a chair. As the door opened, he bellowed a greeting to Jon. "Hello, young man! Welcome to your future!" he said, grinning, "Don't just stand there! Have a seat! I'm Hank Jenkins, Head of Personnel here at Tele-Corp. And who might you be?" Jon rolled his eyes, looked straight at Jenkens and replied, "My name's Jon. What's this job for, fat-ass?" Jenkins, seemingly unaffected, replied back. "Well, son, you see, here at Tele-Corp, we have a unique problem. Sometimes our teleporters malfunction." "Yeah, because your manufacturing is shoddy," right, Jon interrupted, "I've seen the specs. You'd be lucky to get anything to move across any distance without completely destroying at least some living tissue." Jenkins paused for a moment, assessed Jon and let go a hearty laugh. "So, my boy, you DO know what this position is for!" Jon, clearly taken aback by this response, hesitated. After a tense moment, he finally asked for clarification. "What do you mean by that, Hank?" he inquired. "Oh, you'll see," Jenkins said as he pushed a button on his desk, "Mary, let's get Jonny Boy here some paperwork. He starts this afternoon." "But, sir, I don't want this job! I'm only in this interview to avoid going into servitude!" Jon protested. Jenkins, still shuffling his papers, placed one in front of Jon. "Oh, that's just it, my boy," he said, his grin blossoming into a full-on smile, "you've already been drafted." Jon stared, aghast at the paper lying on the desk in front of him. He read it twice before the words finally sank in. "Dear Mr. Prescott, It is our sad duty to report that due to under-payment of your Living Tax, you have been drafted into Servitude. Your contract has been sold to Tele-Corp. A dream message was sent to confirm this. You have no choice in the matter. By our calculations, it will be 15 years before you are paid in full for your back Living Tax. Remember you are responsible for any expenses you accrue during your tenure of Servitude. Please report for your assignment. Thank you and have a nice day. Signed, Anthony Errol Treasure - Living Tax Bureau" A few minutes passed and the office doors opened. Two men came in, dressed in blue-ish/gray uniforms and commanded Jon to stand up. Jon slowly did as he was told and followed the men into the hallway. "Welcome to Tele-Corp," said one of the men, handing him a laser pistol, "you're gonna need this. Jon took it, examining it for a moment. It felt sleek and good in his hand. The word, "Hunter" was emblazoned across the handle, along with the Tele-Corp logo - a booth surrounded by bright light. Jon smiled. Perhaps he was going to like this job, after all.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I spiraled into a deep depression when Susan left me; one where I could no longer get out of bed to show up to work. Shortly after being fired from my job, I lost my house, and moved in with my well-off brother and his wife. They didn't have any children, so at first, they didn't mind taking me in and feeding me. After about a year of living off of them, my brother decided that if I'm going to continue living there. I need to get a job. He sat behind me as I wrote up a resume, and he sent it to several places that were hiring. I wasn't ready to work, but I also wasn't ready to confess to my brother that I have completely given up on life at the moment. So what to do other than botch the interview? I got up right around 11 in the morning, just in time to roll out of bed, and catch the bus to the office I was interviewing at. I slapped on my old college sweater, my finest cargo shorts, knee high black socks, and the most luxurious sandals in my small collection. I would have arrived on time, but I didn't want to get hungry mid-interview, so I stopped at Chipotle and got a burrito. I jammed it into the front pocket of my sweater, and figured I'd have at it whenever I was struck with hunger. I arrived to the office and checked in with the receptionist. She quickly became snotty when she informed me that I was 15 minutes late, and that she would need to check in with the boss to see if they would proceed with the interview. She left to go speak with him, and arrived back shortly, saying, "Alright, he's ready for you." She led me to his small office. As I opened the door; the boss didn't stand or even greet me. He looked down at his papers and excused the receptionist. He peeled his eyes from his desk and eyed me up and down with utter disdain. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here like that." I replied by taking the burrito out of pocket, and beginning to eat it while still standing at the door. "Ole' Penn State... I'm a Stanford man ya' know..." With a mouthful of burrito, I exclaimed, "That must mean I'm the smart one then." He let out a rouceous laugh and invited me to sit. I declined the offer; explaining that I'd prefer to stand, as my alpha status doesn't allow me to put myself in a submissive position. The boss stood from his desk, put his head down and in hushed tones he said, "I'm glad you've made your position here clear. I myself am not a passive man, and as such, I respect your claim to dominance. But I will in no way abide to it. If you ever try to make me your bitch, I promise you, blood will flow through the halls of this office like rivers of red." He came around from behind his desk, "Come with me." As he passed by me, he grabbed the burrito from my hands and began to eat it. He opened the door, and I followed behind. What else was I supposed to do? I was in shock as to what has occurred. We went through the office building without uttering a single word to one another; through the halls, down the stairs, and ultimately to the parking lot. He had taken a few more bites out of my burrito on the way down, but when we got to the middle of the parking lot, he spiked it. He wound up his arm, and with half the burrito remaining, he slammed it to the pavement like a football. He loosened the tie from his neck, rolled up his sleeves, and calmly said to me, "Now is your chance to prove yourself, tough guy. Lets see who the real big shot is..." He stepped up to me with his arms spread out wide like an eagle, "Come on alpha... lets see who you really are." I began to speak for the first time since I initially told him I'm the alpha. My lips and body weren't working though, so I only managed to let out something that was somewhere in between and apology and a quiver. The boss, still in my face, lightly laughed to himself. "That's what I thought." There was a few moments of silence I attempted to break, "I think it's time for me to..." "Stop. Talking." He cut me off. "Bathe in my strength; feel the epinephrine fill your veins, and let your mind consider the things I could do to you." I did as I was told. He spent the next minute an inch from my face; staring into my soul. He began speaking again, "You're afraid. I can feel it. It's not me that you're afraid of, no. It's this moment. You don't know what to do. You let yourself become my bitch, and you did as you were told, because you didn't know what would happen. And because I am not afraid of this moment, I have complete control over you. I am your daddy." He backed off slightly and put his hand on my shoulder; "But when I looked into your eyes; I saw a strength that's not human. I saw something unreal; something that would make the strongest men feint at it's presence. I saw a true alpha-male. A lord of all things natural. I can teach you how to harness it... you start on Monday. I am your master, you are my pupil. You are not to tell anyone of our arrangement; just stick to your desk, look busy, and I will call you into my office when the time is right." He left. I'm not sure what the fuck happened; but I guess I got the job.	Jon was having a rough morning. First, he'd angrily smashed his antique alarm clock during the latest rendition of Pop Star Cammy's hit single, "Banal Teenage Techno-Pop Vol. 1a, Remix Special" - a song he utterly despised - when the clock awoke him at 6:00 A.M. Then, he'd taken a hard fall out of bed, when the lopsided mattress ejected him. A skinned knee and several abrasions later, he managed a shower, some eggs, a black coffee and found his nicest shirt and tie. The shirt - an ugly, gray houndstooth affair - was missing a button, but the tie would cover that. The interview at Tele-Corp was not his ideal job, but since he'd been let go from one of the nation's largest IT firms, he was desperate. Almost by accident, he'd seen an ad for the company in one of his dreams. He felt compelled to apply. When he received a draft notice from the government notifying him of his obligation to find a job or enter indentured servitude, he knew he had no choice. With the economy failing everywhere and wars raging all over the other side of the world, entering servitude could lead anywhere from mopping floors at a University to serving on the front lines. So it was that Jon applied for the job-with-no-description at Tele-Corp. Jon, a diminutive man, late 30s, with hair graying around his temples, grabbed a suitcase and headed tot he train station. A few train rides later, he found himself in the inner city. He walked a few blocks, growing increasingly apprehensive. He didn't want to work for this company, but knew he had no choice. As he approached the facade of Tele-Corp HQ, he felt resigned to his fate. Standing in front of the sleek, tower of a building, Jon had a sudden thought. What if he botched the interview? He would go in, act as obnoxious as possible, pretend to be unqualified, and not score the job. Then, he could reply to the notice showing proof that he'd tried - and failed. "This plan is so crazy," he said quietly to himself, "it just might work." Smiling, Jon entered the building, was greeted by a young secretary, a gentleman in his early 20s by the look of it, and sent into the Office of Human Resources. A large, man, heavyset, and going bald sat in a chair. As the door opened, he bellowed a greeting to Jon. "Hello, young man! Welcome to your future!" he said, grinning, "Don't just stand there! Have a seat! I'm Hank Jenkins, Head of Personnel here at Tele-Corp. And who might you be?" Jon rolled his eyes, looked straight at Jenkens and replied, "My name's Jon. What's this job for, fat-ass?" Jenkins, seemingly unaffected, replied back. "Well, son, you see, here at Tele-Corp, we have a unique problem. Sometimes our teleporters malfunction." "Yeah, because your manufacturing is shoddy," right, Jon interrupted, "I've seen the specs. You'd be lucky to get anything to move across any distance without completely destroying at least some living tissue." Jenkins paused for a moment, assessed Jon and let go a hearty laugh. "So, my boy, you DO know what this position is for!" Jon, clearly taken aback by this response, hesitated. After a tense moment, he finally asked for clarification. "What do you mean by that, Hank?" he inquired. "Oh, you'll see," Jenkins said as he pushed a button on his desk, "Mary, let's get Jonny Boy here some paperwork. He starts this afternoon." "But, sir, I don't want this job! I'm only in this interview to avoid going into servitude!" Jon protested. Jenkins, still shuffling his papers, placed one in front of Jon. "Oh, that's just it, my boy," he said, his grin blossoming into a full-on smile, "you've already been drafted." Jon stared, aghast at the paper lying on the desk in front of him. He read it twice before the words finally sank in. "Dear Mr. Prescott, It is our sad duty to report that due to under-payment of your Living Tax, you have been drafted into Servitude. Your contract has been sold to Tele-Corp. A dream message was sent to confirm this. You have no choice in the matter. By our calculations, it will be 15 years before you are paid in full for your back Living Tax. Remember you are responsible for any expenses you accrue during your tenure of Servitude. Please report for your assignment. Thank you and have a nice day. Signed, Anthony Errol Treasure - Living Tax Bureau" A few minutes passed and the office doors opened. Two men came in, dressed in blue-ish/gray uniforms and commanded Jon to stand up. Jon slowly did as he was told and followed the men into the hallway. "Welcome to Tele-Corp," said one of the men, handing him a laser pistol, "you're gonna need this. Jon took it, examining it for a moment. It felt sleek and good in his hand. The word, "Hunter" was emblazoned across the handle, along with the Tele-Corp logo - a booth surrounded by bright light. Jon smiled. Perhaps he was going to like this job, after all.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	"I'm also a drug user. Copious amounts!" I can hear my own disbelief. The interviewer shrugs. "You're in your prime, Mr. Johnson. Not many men can run the football quite as well as you." "I have an arrest record." "Yes, and a rushing record. That's why you're here." "Wh...what? I'm saying I have a real problem, man. I'm a kid, mid to early 20's. I come from nothing. And now I've been given tens of millions of dollars. I don't know how to handle that kind of money or the attention that comes with it. I spent three years in a college that encouraged me to take the easiest fucking classes so I can pass and play. Most of my teammates read at a 5th grade level, some were illiterate. And now I'm... I'm in too deep, man. For fucks sake, I see my face on fucking billboards, I'm on tv! I'm a brand! My ego walks into the room before I do and it's palpable. Women throw themselves at me. And for what? It's no surprise I turn to drugs to cope. But that's what I'm saying, man. I need help... I got a problem." "How's your knee holding up?" "Excuse me?" "Your knees, Mr. Johnson. They checked out in your physical but we want to hear it from you. How are your knees?" "....They're fine, man." "Fantastic! Sign here." "Okay, okay. Wait... I've hit women in the past. I mean... I mean, I'm not proud of it. Not at all. I hate myself for it. Can you understand me though? My professional working life is spent pummeling others and getting pummeled on a weekly basis and tens of thousands of mongoloids watch and celebrate. Even since I was a fucking child, I have been praised by my ability to physically brutalize others. I'm not proud of it. No. But I just don't know how to handle my anger, my problems. I've never learned another way. Why? Because I've never needed to. I think I deserve something, I have an inflated sense of who I am. The truth is, I'm a barbarian. Its what people pay me to do, people like you." "Just sign here, Mr. Johnson. Welcome to the team."	Jon was having a rough morning. First, he'd angrily smashed his antique alarm clock during the latest rendition of Pop Star Cammy's hit single, "Banal Teenage Techno-Pop Vol. 1a, Remix Special" - a song he utterly despised - when the clock awoke him at 6:00 A.M. Then, he'd taken a hard fall out of bed, when the lopsided mattress ejected him. A skinned knee and several abrasions later, he managed a shower, some eggs, a black coffee and found his nicest shirt and tie. The shirt - an ugly, gray houndstooth affair - was missing a button, but the tie would cover that. The interview at Tele-Corp was not his ideal job, but since he'd been let go from one of the nation's largest IT firms, he was desperate. Almost by accident, he'd seen an ad for the company in one of his dreams. He felt compelled to apply. When he received a draft notice from the government notifying him of his obligation to find a job or enter indentured servitude, he knew he had no choice. With the economy failing everywhere and wars raging all over the other side of the world, entering servitude could lead anywhere from mopping floors at a University to serving on the front lines. So it was that Jon applied for the job-with-no-description at Tele-Corp. Jon, a diminutive man, late 30s, with hair graying around his temples, grabbed a suitcase and headed tot he train station. A few train rides later, he found himself in the inner city. He walked a few blocks, growing increasingly apprehensive. He didn't want to work for this company, but knew he had no choice. As he approached the facade of Tele-Corp HQ, he felt resigned to his fate. Standing in front of the sleek, tower of a building, Jon had a sudden thought. What if he botched the interview? He would go in, act as obnoxious as possible, pretend to be unqualified, and not score the job. Then, he could reply to the notice showing proof that he'd tried - and failed. "This plan is so crazy," he said quietly to himself, "it just might work." Smiling, Jon entered the building, was greeted by a young secretary, a gentleman in his early 20s by the look of it, and sent into the Office of Human Resources. A large, man, heavyset, and going bald sat in a chair. As the door opened, he bellowed a greeting to Jon. "Hello, young man! Welcome to your future!" he said, grinning, "Don't just stand there! Have a seat! I'm Hank Jenkins, Head of Personnel here at Tele-Corp. And who might you be?" Jon rolled his eyes, looked straight at Jenkens and replied, "My name's Jon. What's this job for, fat-ass?" Jenkins, seemingly unaffected, replied back. "Well, son, you see, here at Tele-Corp, we have a unique problem. Sometimes our teleporters malfunction." "Yeah, because your manufacturing is shoddy," right, Jon interrupted, "I've seen the specs. You'd be lucky to get anything to move across any distance without completely destroying at least some living tissue." Jenkins paused for a moment, assessed Jon and let go a hearty laugh. "So, my boy, you DO know what this position is for!" Jon, clearly taken aback by this response, hesitated. After a tense moment, he finally asked for clarification. "What do you mean by that, Hank?" he inquired. "Oh, you'll see," Jenkins said as he pushed a button on his desk, "Mary, let's get Jonny Boy here some paperwork. He starts this afternoon." "But, sir, I don't want this job! I'm only in this interview to avoid going into servitude!" Jon protested. Jenkins, still shuffling his papers, placed one in front of Jon. "Oh, that's just it, my boy," he said, his grin blossoming into a full-on smile, "you've already been drafted." Jon stared, aghast at the paper lying on the desk in front of him. He read it twice before the words finally sank in. "Dear Mr. Prescott, It is our sad duty to report that due to under-payment of your Living Tax, you have been drafted into Servitude. Your contract has been sold to Tele-Corp. A dream message was sent to confirm this. You have no choice in the matter. By our calculations, it will be 15 years before you are paid in full for your back Living Tax. Remember you are responsible for any expenses you accrue during your tenure of Servitude. Please report for your assignment. Thank you and have a nice day. Signed, Anthony Errol Treasure - Living Tax Bureau" A few minutes passed and the office doors opened. Two men came in, dressed in blue-ish/gray uniforms and commanded Jon to stand up. Jon slowly did as he was told and followed the men into the hallway. "Welcome to Tele-Corp," said one of the men, handing him a laser pistol, "you're gonna need this. Jon took it, examining it for a moment. It felt sleek and good in his hand. The word, "Hunter" was emblazoned across the handle, along with the Tele-Corp logo - a booth surrounded by bright light. Jon smiled. Perhaps he was going to like this job, after all.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	This happened to me in real life. I was unemployed, and going to school. (I got to collect unemployment because I was working full time while going to school, and got laid off). I didn't want to go back to work. Unemployment office sends me a job, that I'm qualified for. Go to interview in dirty clothes, no shave, etc. I walk in and the guy doing the hiring, was a guy I used to work with. Hired me on the spot.	Jon was having a rough morning. First, he'd angrily smashed his antique alarm clock during the latest rendition of Pop Star Cammy's hit single, "Banal Teenage Techno-Pop Vol. 1a, Remix Special" - a song he utterly despised - when the clock awoke him at 6:00 A.M. Then, he'd taken a hard fall out of bed, when the lopsided mattress ejected him. A skinned knee and several abrasions later, he managed a shower, some eggs, a black coffee and found his nicest shirt and tie. The shirt - an ugly, gray houndstooth affair - was missing a button, but the tie would cover that. The interview at Tele-Corp was not his ideal job, but since he'd been let go from one of the nation's largest IT firms, he was desperate. Almost by accident, he'd seen an ad for the company in one of his dreams. He felt compelled to apply. When he received a draft notice from the government notifying him of his obligation to find a job or enter indentured servitude, he knew he had no choice. With the economy failing everywhere and wars raging all over the other side of the world, entering servitude could lead anywhere from mopping floors at a University to serving on the front lines. So it was that Jon applied for the job-with-no-description at Tele-Corp. Jon, a diminutive man, late 30s, with hair graying around his temples, grabbed a suitcase and headed tot he train station. A few train rides later, he found himself in the inner city. He walked a few blocks, growing increasingly apprehensive. He didn't want to work for this company, but knew he had no choice. As he approached the facade of Tele-Corp HQ, he felt resigned to his fate. Standing in front of the sleek, tower of a building, Jon had a sudden thought. What if he botched the interview? He would go in, act as obnoxious as possible, pretend to be unqualified, and not score the job. Then, he could reply to the notice showing proof that he'd tried - and failed. "This plan is so crazy," he said quietly to himself, "it just might work." Smiling, Jon entered the building, was greeted by a young secretary, a gentleman in his early 20s by the look of it, and sent into the Office of Human Resources. A large, man, heavyset, and going bald sat in a chair. As the door opened, he bellowed a greeting to Jon. "Hello, young man! Welcome to your future!" he said, grinning, "Don't just stand there! Have a seat! I'm Hank Jenkins, Head of Personnel here at Tele-Corp. And who might you be?" Jon rolled his eyes, looked straight at Jenkens and replied, "My name's Jon. What's this job for, fat-ass?" Jenkins, seemingly unaffected, replied back. "Well, son, you see, here at Tele-Corp, we have a unique problem. Sometimes our teleporters malfunction." "Yeah, because your manufacturing is shoddy," right, Jon interrupted, "I've seen the specs. You'd be lucky to get anything to move across any distance without completely destroying at least some living tissue." Jenkins paused for a moment, assessed Jon and let go a hearty laugh. "So, my boy, you DO know what this position is for!" Jon, clearly taken aback by this response, hesitated. After a tense moment, he finally asked for clarification. "What do you mean by that, Hank?" he inquired. "Oh, you'll see," Jenkins said as he pushed a button on his desk, "Mary, let's get Jonny Boy here some paperwork. He starts this afternoon." "But, sir, I don't want this job! I'm only in this interview to avoid going into servitude!" Jon protested. Jenkins, still shuffling his papers, placed one in front of Jon. "Oh, that's just it, my boy," he said, his grin blossoming into a full-on smile, "you've already been drafted." Jon stared, aghast at the paper lying on the desk in front of him. He read it twice before the words finally sank in. "Dear Mr. Prescott, It is our sad duty to report that due to under-payment of your Living Tax, you have been drafted into Servitude. Your contract has been sold to Tele-Corp. A dream message was sent to confirm this. You have no choice in the matter. By our calculations, it will be 15 years before you are paid in full for your back Living Tax. Remember you are responsible for any expenses you accrue during your tenure of Servitude. Please report for your assignment. Thank you and have a nice day. Signed, Anthony Errol Treasure - Living Tax Bureau" A few minutes passed and the office doors opened. Two men came in, dressed in blue-ish/gray uniforms and commanded Jon to stand up. Jon slowly did as he was told and followed the men into the hallway. "Welcome to Tele-Corp," said one of the men, handing him a laser pistol, "you're gonna need this. Jon took it, examining it for a moment. It felt sleek and good in his hand. The word, "Hunter" was emblazoned across the handle, along with the Tele-Corp logo - a booth surrounded by bright light. Jon smiled. Perhaps he was going to like this job, after all.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I stared over my monitor at the newest recruit, probably for longer than absolutely necessary. I hid my sweating palms and my shaking hands behind my desk. It had gone on so long... "Look. You have all the qualifications we're looking for. All I need is your signature, and you'll be set. But... how about we grab a coffee first?" The young man smiled and agreed. What did he know? He wanted to get in good with whoever pulled enough weight he could make a paycheck. I understood that. "Before you sign anything... This job isn't what you think it is. Frankly, I have no idea what it is. Nobody does. I started here almost twelve years ago. I didn't even want the position; my parents made me apply..." --- Wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, sporting a lovely three-day growth of untrimmed beard, I waltzed into Business Corporation Associates, Inc., and tossed a grubby resume on the secretary's desk. "Interview with wassname." The secretary, full of professionalism, smiled warmly. "Mr. Manager is waiting in his office, please go through." I shrugged through the door and plopped down sideways in a chair. Mr. Manager stood, offering his hand; I handed him my gum wrapper. All he did was chuckle and toss the wrapper in the trash. "Glad to see the youth are thinking about the environment these days," he rumbled. "Back in my day, kids just tossed their trash on the ground. Now, young man, I hear you're interested in a position here!" I shrugged. "Meh. It wasn't my idea. Parents said I needed a job." He chuckled again. "You listen to your parents, eh? If only my kids were as polite! Now, tell me - what are you looking for in our company?" I locked eyes with him, holding my gaze until it was long past uncomfortable. "Nothing. Get it?" He nodded as if I had made some deep comment, and answered, "Of course, of course. Ask not what your company can do for you, and all that. Very dedicated! What would you say to a management position?" I stared at him incredulously. My plan had been another summer lounging around my parent's basement, playing video games. It almost sounded like this man was going to offer me a job in spite of my actions! I sat up. "No way, man. I'm not about to sign up to be some money-grubbing pencil-pusher like you." I thought about it for a second, then just in case, added, "Corporate freak." Mr. Manager grinned. "Good! I'm glad to hear it! Too many kids these days want a clear shot to the top, no effort. Working your way up from the bottom, that's the ticket! Learn from the little guy!" He stood, rubbing his hands together. "Young man, I would like to introduce you to someone. Mr. Engineer. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Back in a tick, eh?" He rounded his desk, pushed through the doors, and headed down the hall as I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't know how to do... well, anything! Whatever they put me in, it would definitely not be video games. And if I lost a job... well, let's just say that it would be better to have never tried at all that to have tried and failed, no matter what . Dad was very particular about "honest work," and he was prepared to back that up. But if last year had taught me anything, it was that if I couldn't get a job, I was fine. I needed to do something. Anything. What was the worst thing I could do? I gave a sidelong glance at the leather-covered desk. Maybe... if I left an, er, gift? But just before I could unzip my pants, the door swung open. Startled and already more than a little jumpy, I whirled, bringing my fist around in a wide punch that smacked right into the face of, I presume, Mr. Engineer. His head bounced off the wall, the door, and two chairs before it came to rest on the floor. Mr. Manager walked in to find me staring down at the unconscious, and likely wildly concussed, form. "Oh good heavens! Come with me, straight to security!" Well, it wasn't what I'd planned, but as long as they didn't press charges, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for! Or at least, that's what I thought. Jittery from the sudden influx of adrenaline, I missed the first part of what Mr. Manager told the security guard. I tuned in to hear him finish, "This young man laid him out with a single punch!" Two other security officers had dashed upstairs half way through, likely trying to restore Mr. Engineer to life. The security man, a beefy, middle-aged fellow with a name tag the read "Security," and in smaller letters, "B. Security," held out his hand. Meekly, I held out both of mine... and blinked when he grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down. "Good work, son. I don't know how that man slipped past security, but if it wasn't for your quick wits, it might have been 1992 all over again." As my jaw dropped in absolute horror, Mr. Manager clapped me on the shoulder. "You don't even need to sign anything, young man, we'll get it all sorted when you come in next week. Don't worry about coming in until Monday, you rest up! I'm sure this was quite the ordeal!" I was hardly out the front door before the man I'd knocked out was being lead outside in cuffs. What had I gotten myself in to? --- I stared down into my coffee cup. "That wasn't the worst of it, of course. When I started, I was trying to avoid work, but every time I slipped away, someone caught me brainstorming - that is, sleeping - or team-building - that is, playing video games on my work computer. Every move I made, I was praised. I got raise after raise..." I lifted my eyes to those of the young man on the other side of the table. He seemed a little unsure of himself. "But... isn't that a dream come true?" I leaned over the table. He flinched back. Good, he should be scared. "No, kid, you don't get it. People call me every day, asking if the Paper Report is ready, or if the Sheet Documents have been signed. I make things up. I sat in on a random meeting because they had donuts, and somehow saved the company a million dollars. Or rubles. I don't know. Maybe it was Zimbabwean dollars. That's not the point, though. I've given presentations that were nothing but the blank templates, and gotten standing ovations. It's insane! It's mind boggling!" The kid pushed his half-filled mug to the side, surreptitiously glancing at his watch. "So... uh... you really have no idea what you're doing?" I shook my head. "You're not listening. No one knows what they're doing. No one! Everyone talks about nothing! They give vague figures, present charts and graphs that have been lifted off Google Image Search - like, the first images - and act like they know what they're doing! Everyone does it, and everyone else acts like they're the greatest thing since NASA! The whole company is mad - mad I tell you!" I slumped weakly back against my chair, wiping the spittle from my lips. The kid looked a little more sure of himself, now. Maybe I gave him an out. Maybe the poor fool could get out, while there was still time. He nodded sagely. "Ah! I understand what you're saying!" I almost wept with relief. He understood! It wasn't just me! Finally, there was someone I could connect with, someone who- "So you're saying it's a marketing firm - right? Awesome! When do I start?"	Jon was having a rough morning. First, he'd angrily smashed his antique alarm clock during the latest rendition of Pop Star Cammy's hit single, "Banal Teenage Techno-Pop Vol. 1a, Remix Special" - a song he utterly despised - when the clock awoke him at 6:00 A.M. Then, he'd taken a hard fall out of bed, when the lopsided mattress ejected him. A skinned knee and several abrasions later, he managed a shower, some eggs, a black coffee and found his nicest shirt and tie. The shirt - an ugly, gray houndstooth affair - was missing a button, but the tie would cover that. The interview at Tele-Corp was not his ideal job, but since he'd been let go from one of the nation's largest IT firms, he was desperate. Almost by accident, he'd seen an ad for the company in one of his dreams. He felt compelled to apply. When he received a draft notice from the government notifying him of his obligation to find a job or enter indentured servitude, he knew he had no choice. With the economy failing everywhere and wars raging all over the other side of the world, entering servitude could lead anywhere from mopping floors at a University to serving on the front lines. So it was that Jon applied for the job-with-no-description at Tele-Corp. Jon, a diminutive man, late 30s, with hair graying around his temples, grabbed a suitcase and headed tot he train station. A few train rides later, he found himself in the inner city. He walked a few blocks, growing increasingly apprehensive. He didn't want to work for this company, but knew he had no choice. As he approached the facade of Tele-Corp HQ, he felt resigned to his fate. Standing in front of the sleek, tower of a building, Jon had a sudden thought. What if he botched the interview? He would go in, act as obnoxious as possible, pretend to be unqualified, and not score the job. Then, he could reply to the notice showing proof that he'd tried - and failed. "This plan is so crazy," he said quietly to himself, "it just might work." Smiling, Jon entered the building, was greeted by a young secretary, a gentleman in his early 20s by the look of it, and sent into the Office of Human Resources. A large, man, heavyset, and going bald sat in a chair. As the door opened, he bellowed a greeting to Jon. "Hello, young man! Welcome to your future!" he said, grinning, "Don't just stand there! Have a seat! I'm Hank Jenkins, Head of Personnel here at Tele-Corp. And who might you be?" Jon rolled his eyes, looked straight at Jenkens and replied, "My name's Jon. What's this job for, fat-ass?" Jenkins, seemingly unaffected, replied back. "Well, son, you see, here at Tele-Corp, we have a unique problem. Sometimes our teleporters malfunction." "Yeah, because your manufacturing is shoddy," right, Jon interrupted, "I've seen the specs. You'd be lucky to get anything to move across any distance without completely destroying at least some living tissue." Jenkins paused for a moment, assessed Jon and let go a hearty laugh. "So, my boy, you DO know what this position is for!" Jon, clearly taken aback by this response, hesitated. After a tense moment, he finally asked for clarification. "What do you mean by that, Hank?" he inquired. "Oh, you'll see," Jenkins said as he pushed a button on his desk, "Mary, let's get Jonny Boy here some paperwork. He starts this afternoon." "But, sir, I don't want this job! I'm only in this interview to avoid going into servitude!" Jon protested. Jenkins, still shuffling his papers, placed one in front of Jon. "Oh, that's just it, my boy," he said, his grin blossoming into a full-on smile, "you've already been drafted." Jon stared, aghast at the paper lying on the desk in front of him. He read it twice before the words finally sank in. "Dear Mr. Prescott, It is our sad duty to report that due to under-payment of your Living Tax, you have been drafted into Servitude. Your contract has been sold to Tele-Corp. A dream message was sent to confirm this. You have no choice in the matter. By our calculations, it will be 15 years before you are paid in full for your back Living Tax. Remember you are responsible for any expenses you accrue during your tenure of Servitude. Please report for your assignment. Thank you and have a nice day. Signed, Anthony Errol Treasure - Living Tax Bureau" A few minutes passed and the office doors opened. Two men came in, dressed in blue-ish/gray uniforms and commanded Jon to stand up. Jon slowly did as he was told and followed the men into the hallway. "Welcome to Tele-Corp," said one of the men, handing him a laser pistol, "you're gonna need this. Jon took it, examining it for a moment. It felt sleek and good in his hand. The word, "Hunter" was emblazoned across the handle, along with the Tele-Corp logo - a booth surrounded by bright light. Jon smiled. Perhaps he was going to like this job, after all.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	Sixteen-year-old Theodore Cruz slouched in the cheap plastic booth, sucking the last dregs of his soda with obnoxious zeal and using a ketchup packet to paint a frowny-face on the table. In preparation for this interview, he’d donned his “Sperm Donor” T-shirt and smeared a tablespoon of lard into his hair. The look he was going for, despite his parents’ entreaties to get a job, was “unhireable,” and he was nailing it. “Hi, you must be Theodore. I’m Sharona, the manager.” A moderately-attractive woman in her mid-twenties had appeared, carrying a clipboard and wearing a bright smile. He popped his gum at her and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Hi, baby. Nice jugs. They real?” “Why, yes they are, thanks for asking.” Her smile didn’t slip a fraction. She slid into the seat across from him, careful to place her paperwork away from his ketchup puddle. “So, why do you want to work for the Sandwich Duke? You left that question blank, along with most of the other questions.” “I dunno. Guess I’d like to steal food when no one’s watching.” He pulled out his gum, examined it, and stuck it under the table. “Ah, an opportunist. You’ll be happy to know that the camera beside the back fryer is broken, so you’ll be able to help yourself. Within reason, of course.” She made a tiny note on her clipboard. “This question’s just for fun, to help me get to know you better: if you were a food, what would you be and why?” “Dog. Chinks eat dogs, so why can’t we? I think it’d be cool to eat something that would make all those sissy animal lovers lose their shit.” Sharona fiddled with the silver cat pin on her lapel and frowned, her composure cracking slightly for the first time. “Yes, well, alright…I like a man who can think outside the box. Last question: what would you say your greatest strength is?” He yawned. “I’m really good at finding ways around the school firewall to stream porn in class. I sell my secrets to the other losers for beer money. Even though they’re totally loaded, my parents are real tightwads.” “I see. It sounds like you’re a real entrepreneur. Good thing you’ll be drawing a real paycheck soon. Welcome aboard!” She stuck out a hand to shake, once more grinning broadly at him. He gaped at her speechlessly, resembling a wide-mouth bass that has swallowed a hook. He was so stunned that he forgot to be rude as he accepted his new uniform and tentative schedule. Sharona watched the little asshat go, already calculating ways to maximize his misery for the three months she had him until school started again. She thought that scraping all of the gum out from under the tables would be a good place to start. Maybe the little toerag would quit – if he did, it wasn’t her fault. She watched the kid climb into his dad’s brand-new sports car and marveled to herself at the peculiar behavior of the very rich. Who else would have paid her five grand to hire their stupid kid? For that kind of money, she would put up with a lot of bullshit for twenty hours a week. Maybe they'd even do it again next summer.	Jon was having a rough morning. First, he'd angrily smashed his antique alarm clock during the latest rendition of Pop Star Cammy's hit single, "Banal Teenage Techno-Pop Vol. 1a, Remix Special" - a song he utterly despised - when the clock awoke him at 6:00 A.M. Then, he'd taken a hard fall out of bed, when the lopsided mattress ejected him. A skinned knee and several abrasions later, he managed a shower, some eggs, a black coffee and found his nicest shirt and tie. The shirt - an ugly, gray houndstooth affair - was missing a button, but the tie would cover that. The interview at Tele-Corp was not his ideal job, but since he'd been let go from one of the nation's largest IT firms, he was desperate. Almost by accident, he'd seen an ad for the company in one of his dreams. He felt compelled to apply. When he received a draft notice from the government notifying him of his obligation to find a job or enter indentured servitude, he knew he had no choice. With the economy failing everywhere and wars raging all over the other side of the world, entering servitude could lead anywhere from mopping floors at a University to serving on the front lines. So it was that Jon applied for the job-with-no-description at Tele-Corp. Jon, a diminutive man, late 30s, with hair graying around his temples, grabbed a suitcase and headed tot he train station. A few train rides later, he found himself in the inner city. He walked a few blocks, growing increasingly apprehensive. He didn't want to work for this company, but knew he had no choice. As he approached the facade of Tele-Corp HQ, he felt resigned to his fate. Standing in front of the sleek, tower of a building, Jon had a sudden thought. What if he botched the interview? He would go in, act as obnoxious as possible, pretend to be unqualified, and not score the job. Then, he could reply to the notice showing proof that he'd tried - and failed. "This plan is so crazy," he said quietly to himself, "it just might work." Smiling, Jon entered the building, was greeted by a young secretary, a gentleman in his early 20s by the look of it, and sent into the Office of Human Resources. A large, man, heavyset, and going bald sat in a chair. As the door opened, he bellowed a greeting to Jon. "Hello, young man! Welcome to your future!" he said, grinning, "Don't just stand there! Have a seat! I'm Hank Jenkins, Head of Personnel here at Tele-Corp. And who might you be?" Jon rolled his eyes, looked straight at Jenkens and replied, "My name's Jon. What's this job for, fat-ass?" Jenkins, seemingly unaffected, replied back. "Well, son, you see, here at Tele-Corp, we have a unique problem. Sometimes our teleporters malfunction." "Yeah, because your manufacturing is shoddy," right, Jon interrupted, "I've seen the specs. You'd be lucky to get anything to move across any distance without completely destroying at least some living tissue." Jenkins paused for a moment, assessed Jon and let go a hearty laugh. "So, my boy, you DO know what this position is for!" Jon, clearly taken aback by this response, hesitated. After a tense moment, he finally asked for clarification. "What do you mean by that, Hank?" he inquired. "Oh, you'll see," Jenkins said as he pushed a button on his desk, "Mary, let's get Jonny Boy here some paperwork. He starts this afternoon." "But, sir, I don't want this job! I'm only in this interview to avoid going into servitude!" Jon protested. Jenkins, still shuffling his papers, placed one in front of Jon. "Oh, that's just it, my boy," he said, his grin blossoming into a full-on smile, "you've already been drafted." Jon stared, aghast at the paper lying on the desk in front of him. He read it twice before the words finally sank in. "Dear Mr. Prescott, It is our sad duty to report that due to under-payment of your Living Tax, you have been drafted into Servitude. Your contract has been sold to Tele-Corp. A dream message was sent to confirm this. You have no choice in the matter. By our calculations, it will be 15 years before you are paid in full for your back Living Tax. Remember you are responsible for any expenses you accrue during your tenure of Servitude. Please report for your assignment. Thank you and have a nice day. Signed, Anthony Errol Treasure - Living Tax Bureau" A few minutes passed and the office doors opened. Two men came in, dressed in blue-ish/gray uniforms and commanded Jon to stand up. Jon slowly did as he was told and followed the men into the hallway. "Welcome to Tele-Corp," said one of the men, handing him a laser pistol, "you're gonna need this. Jon took it, examining it for a moment. It felt sleek and good in his hand. The word, "Hunter" was emblazoned across the handle, along with the Tele-Corp logo - a booth surrounded by bright light. Jon smiled. Perhaps he was going to like this job, after all.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	The water bottle was obviously full of something other than water. I took small sips in the waiting room, the smell of vodka stinging my eyes even with the orange juice to water it down. I had somewhere to be and it wasn’t in a job interview. “It’s good practice,” my wife had encouraged. “You just need to get back on that horse and give it a try.” She’d told me when I was asked to come in for the job. “I don’t think I want it,” I’d confided in her. But there was no arguing with her at that point. “Joseph Gordons?” The receptionist called my name. A tall thin man stood next to her, a dour look on his face. He shook my hand wordlessly and gestured for me to follow him. I ambled along behind him into a tight conference room. The lighting was fluorescent and room dingy. I half wanted to leave right then but I’d promised my wife I’d stay. “Joseph, good of you to come in,” the man said. “I’m Hank Norbitt, I do the hiring for the programming department, I find that HR doesn’t really understand programmers.” His voice reminded me of Eeyore. Once I started thinking about the sad donkey I could also see a resemblance in his expression. We settled into chairs on the corner of the table. I leaned my left arm on the table and set the water bottle down. Hank got comfortable as I began to speak. “I understand that some programmers have social issues, I’m not really one of them. I paid for university working as a bartender and spent all kinds of time with people, at the bar, after the bar. The morning before going back to work,” I replied probably too honestly. I’d told my wife I’d give it an honest try but I wanted to tank the interview and go. “I met my wife bartending.” “Was that a bar in town?” “Yea, Phil’s by Laurier. I learned a lot of skills there I’ve found applicable in other places,” I took a sip of my screwdriver before continuing. Hank leaned forward seeming intrigued. I’d led him here and prepared to drop an answer that’ll have him excusing me. “I learned how to keep my mouth shut, the bikers used to deal coke out of the back and I needed to make sure I didn’t show up on their radar. I learned how to break up a fight – you never know when you’ll need to convince a man to drop a knife. Every Friday these days it seems.” “You like to go out then? Party?” Hank’s eyes lit up, I was a little concerned that he was getting too into my answers. “Sometimes. I don’t do drugs anymore, almost OD’d at my last job – that’s why I’m looking for work, had some trouble with painkillers and needed to take some time off, get better,” I was lying now. “Now that’s interesting, you sound like you’re very good at recognizing your own flaws, that’s a strong quality in an employee,” Hank seemed far too into what I was saying and I wanted to get him to let me go. “I can see where I’ve fallen down, unless I’ve had too much to drink!” I exclaimed and laughed a bit louder than I probably should have. “Well, I do have some questions for you,” Hank glanced at the sheet in front of him, “first, if you could be any animal what would you be?” “I’d be a duck, their penises are the ultimate multi-tool,” I replied, half-serious. The alcohol was having the desired effect and I wasn’t tasting the vodka as much now. I committed to myself that I’d answer the questions quickly and just move through this stupid formality. I glanced at my watch – I needed to be out of here in ten minutes. “Oh that’s an original one, love that, I’ll have to use it sometime. Next what is your greatest weakness?” Hank asked with a smile. “Alcoholism.” “I appreciate the honesty. I like that in an employee. Now how many gas stations do you think are in the US?” “At least 12.” “Well you’re not wrong, and I supposed that’s what I get for asking a programmer that question – you’re up on your internet jokes right?” Hank laughed at his own comment, my grim expression started to break and I smiled with him for a moment. I took a swig of the alcohol. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Five years. I used to know where I’d be, until a week ago I’d have had an answer. “I don’t,” the smile that had been growing was lost again. Hank’s laid a hand on my arm. “If you need to talk…” “I think it’d be best if we move on with the questions, I don’t like to bring personal issues into work,” I interrupted. I didn’t know him and didn’t need this right now. “Right, ok. How honest would you say you are?” “Very,” I didn’t think I needed to elaborate, I’ve only told a couple lies so far. “Alright, last one – how would your family feel about you working long hours?” “I don’t have a family,” I replied without explanation. “You mentioned your wife,” he began. “She’s dead.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hank replied. His look quizzical and I knew what was coming next. One of two questions that I’d been asked so many times recently. “Drunk driver hit her car two days ago. She kicked it. I actually need to go now. Her visitation starts in half an hour and it’s a twenty minute drive,” I replied, standing. I wobbled a bit. I didn’t mean to but I did. “Are you…” “Driving? No, I’m not the goddamn moron who killed her.” “I’ll give you a call, about the job, but can I ask one last question?” Hank watched me. I hesitated and nodded, “why did you take the interview? Why not cancel or reschedule?” “I made my wife a promise that I’d come,” I replied. “I don’t think her death releases me from that.”	Jon was having a rough morning. First, he'd angrily smashed his antique alarm clock during the latest rendition of Pop Star Cammy's hit single, "Banal Teenage Techno-Pop Vol. 1a, Remix Special" - a song he utterly despised - when the clock awoke him at 6:00 A.M. Then, he'd taken a hard fall out of bed, when the lopsided mattress ejected him. A skinned knee and several abrasions later, he managed a shower, some eggs, a black coffee and found his nicest shirt and tie. The shirt - an ugly, gray houndstooth affair - was missing a button, but the tie would cover that. The interview at Tele-Corp was not his ideal job, but since he'd been let go from one of the nation's largest IT firms, he was desperate. Almost by accident, he'd seen an ad for the company in one of his dreams. He felt compelled to apply. When he received a draft notice from the government notifying him of his obligation to find a job or enter indentured servitude, he knew he had no choice. With the economy failing everywhere and wars raging all over the other side of the world, entering servitude could lead anywhere from mopping floors at a University to serving on the front lines. So it was that Jon applied for the job-with-no-description at Tele-Corp. Jon, a diminutive man, late 30s, with hair graying around his temples, grabbed a suitcase and headed tot he train station. A few train rides later, he found himself in the inner city. He walked a few blocks, growing increasingly apprehensive. He didn't want to work for this company, but knew he had no choice. As he approached the facade of Tele-Corp HQ, he felt resigned to his fate. Standing in front of the sleek, tower of a building, Jon had a sudden thought. What if he botched the interview? He would go in, act as obnoxious as possible, pretend to be unqualified, and not score the job. Then, he could reply to the notice showing proof that he'd tried - and failed. "This plan is so crazy," he said quietly to himself, "it just might work." Smiling, Jon entered the building, was greeted by a young secretary, a gentleman in his early 20s by the look of it, and sent into the Office of Human Resources. A large, man, heavyset, and going bald sat in a chair. As the door opened, he bellowed a greeting to Jon. "Hello, young man! Welcome to your future!" he said, grinning, "Don't just stand there! Have a seat! I'm Hank Jenkins, Head of Personnel here at Tele-Corp. And who might you be?" Jon rolled his eyes, looked straight at Jenkens and replied, "My name's Jon. What's this job for, fat-ass?" Jenkins, seemingly unaffected, replied back. "Well, son, you see, here at Tele-Corp, we have a unique problem. Sometimes our teleporters malfunction." "Yeah, because your manufacturing is shoddy," right, Jon interrupted, "I've seen the specs. You'd be lucky to get anything to move across any distance without completely destroying at least some living tissue." Jenkins paused for a moment, assessed Jon and let go a hearty laugh. "So, my boy, you DO know what this position is for!" Jon, clearly taken aback by this response, hesitated. After a tense moment, he finally asked for clarification. "What do you mean by that, Hank?" he inquired. "Oh, you'll see," Jenkins said as he pushed a button on his desk, "Mary, let's get Jonny Boy here some paperwork. He starts this afternoon." "But, sir, I don't want this job! I'm only in this interview to avoid going into servitude!" Jon protested. Jenkins, still shuffling his papers, placed one in front of Jon. "Oh, that's just it, my boy," he said, his grin blossoming into a full-on smile, "you've already been drafted." Jon stared, aghast at the paper lying on the desk in front of him. He read it twice before the words finally sank in. "Dear Mr. Prescott, It is our sad duty to report that due to under-payment of your Living Tax, you have been drafted into Servitude. Your contract has been sold to Tele-Corp. A dream message was sent to confirm this. You have no choice in the matter. By our calculations, it will be 15 years before you are paid in full for your back Living Tax. Remember you are responsible for any expenses you accrue during your tenure of Servitude. Please report for your assignment. Thank you and have a nice day. Signed, Anthony Errol Treasure - Living Tax Bureau" A few minutes passed and the office doors opened. Two men came in, dressed in blue-ish/gray uniforms and commanded Jon to stand up. Jon slowly did as he was told and followed the men into the hallway. "Welcome to Tele-Corp," said one of the men, handing him a laser pistol, "you're gonna need this. Jon took it, examining it for a moment. It felt sleek and good in his hand. The word, "Hunter" was emblazoned across the handle, along with the Tele-Corp logo - a booth surrounded by bright light. Jon smiled. Perhaps he was going to like this job, after all.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	[Contains Mild Vulgarity] "Well Mr. Jones, I can see you're applying for our senior member position. I take it you've got the required ten years experience or some equivalent not listed on your resume?" "Huh? No, uh, I actually just typed a hello world script once, no real world experience." "Wonderful! Our HR staff wrote up these stupid requests but I really want an outsiders perspective on our team. Can you get started today?" "Oh I've never done any sort of work other than manual labor. I would need at least a week of orientation. Maybe two depending on how I'm feeling." "Sounds perfect! We can put you and our other new hire in a team to learn the ins and outs side by side! Those are exactly the kind of fresh ideas this company needs!" "What? No, that was your idea." "Modesty is the number one trait I look for in an underling!" "Hey! I don't take kindly to being labeled by people who don't know me!" "Straightforward take charge personalities are the number two trait!" "I lied about having a job for three years on my resume expecting you to not even call my references. I've never held a job for more than three months!" "Good, that means you're an open canvas to work with. We don't hire brainwashed goons here in our establishment." "I mentioned I have a car? I don't, I was just planning to walk into work if I was feeling good enough that day, otherwise stay home." "I can get you on medical as a priority to help with any chronic exhaustion or general sleepiness. Until you've fully recovered, take it one step at a time. We aim to avoid discrimination of those who wish to work." "I think your face is stupid." "Ha! Me too. I've been contemplating plastic surgery. I think this might just be the push I needed to go through with my decision. Thank you, you've saved me from a lifetime of wasted contemplation." "Did Stacy put you up to this?! What did she offer you? Did she suck your cock?" "I'm her dad." "I'll take the job if you promise to forget I said that." "Glad to have you."	"Hi, thanks for coming. You're our next candidate for reincarnation. We're very excited about sending you back, same make and model, just a second pass through." "No, I'm pretty sure I fucked it up last time." "Nah! I gotta good feeling about you. You'll do just fine this time around." "How could I do just fine this time around?!? I screwed up basically every decision you can make in life!" "But you learned something right?" "No, I'm almost certain that I didn't! If I have to go back, let me be a cat, or a rock or something, please." "I don't know, I really think human is the right fit for you." "Based off of what?!? I spent my life anxious and depressed, antisocial, afraid of change, and terrified of decisions. What makes you think I'll be better at it this time around?" "I'm sorry you feel that way, but you brought a lot to the people who cared about you, that adds to the universe in a meaningful way." "What about me? What about how I felt?" "That adds to the universe too." "You're not gonna let me out of this one are you?" "Frankly? No. And if you come back early again, we'll just put you back in again. That's the way these things go." "So, what? I'm just a cog in the universal machine? Great." "Perhaps, and perhaps not. To be honest, I haven't figured all of this out yet either, just like you, I'm learning as I go. So how about it? You ready?" "No." "Ha! That's what I thought, but what can I say? Life isn't voluntary. Off you go then! Good luck!"
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I spiraled into a deep depression when Susan left me; one where I could no longer get out of bed to show up to work. Shortly after being fired from my job, I lost my house, and moved in with my well-off brother and his wife. They didn't have any children, so at first, they didn't mind taking me in and feeding me. After about a year of living off of them, my brother decided that if I'm going to continue living there. I need to get a job. He sat behind me as I wrote up a resume, and he sent it to several places that were hiring. I wasn't ready to work, but I also wasn't ready to confess to my brother that I have completely given up on life at the moment. So what to do other than botch the interview? I got up right around 11 in the morning, just in time to roll out of bed, and catch the bus to the office I was interviewing at. I slapped on my old college sweater, my finest cargo shorts, knee high black socks, and the most luxurious sandals in my small collection. I would have arrived on time, but I didn't want to get hungry mid-interview, so I stopped at Chipotle and got a burrito. I jammed it into the front pocket of my sweater, and figured I'd have at it whenever I was struck with hunger. I arrived to the office and checked in with the receptionist. She quickly became snotty when she informed me that I was 15 minutes late, and that she would need to check in with the boss to see if they would proceed with the interview. She left to go speak with him, and arrived back shortly, saying, "Alright, he's ready for you." She led me to his small office. As I opened the door; the boss didn't stand or even greet me. He looked down at his papers and excused the receptionist. He peeled his eyes from his desk and eyed me up and down with utter disdain. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here like that." I replied by taking the burrito out of pocket, and beginning to eat it while still standing at the door. "Ole' Penn State... I'm a Stanford man ya' know..." With a mouthful of burrito, I exclaimed, "That must mean I'm the smart one then." He let out a rouceous laugh and invited me to sit. I declined the offer; explaining that I'd prefer to stand, as my alpha status doesn't allow me to put myself in a submissive position. The boss stood from his desk, put his head down and in hushed tones he said, "I'm glad you've made your position here clear. I myself am not a passive man, and as such, I respect your claim to dominance. But I will in no way abide to it. If you ever try to make me your bitch, I promise you, blood will flow through the halls of this office like rivers of red." He came around from behind his desk, "Come with me." As he passed by me, he grabbed the burrito from my hands and began to eat it. He opened the door, and I followed behind. What else was I supposed to do? I was in shock as to what has occurred. We went through the office building without uttering a single word to one another; through the halls, down the stairs, and ultimately to the parking lot. He had taken a few more bites out of my burrito on the way down, but when we got to the middle of the parking lot, he spiked it. He wound up his arm, and with half the burrito remaining, he slammed it to the pavement like a football. He loosened the tie from his neck, rolled up his sleeves, and calmly said to me, "Now is your chance to prove yourself, tough guy. Lets see who the real big shot is..." He stepped up to me with his arms spread out wide like an eagle, "Come on alpha... lets see who you really are." I began to speak for the first time since I initially told him I'm the alpha. My lips and body weren't working though, so I only managed to let out something that was somewhere in between and apology and a quiver. The boss, still in my face, lightly laughed to himself. "That's what I thought." There was a few moments of silence I attempted to break, "I think it's time for me to..." "Stop. Talking." He cut me off. "Bathe in my strength; feel the epinephrine fill your veins, and let your mind consider the things I could do to you." I did as I was told. He spent the next minute an inch from my face; staring into my soul. He began speaking again, "You're afraid. I can feel it. It's not me that you're afraid of, no. It's this moment. You don't know what to do. You let yourself become my bitch, and you did as you were told, because you didn't know what would happen. And because I am not afraid of this moment, I have complete control over you. I am your daddy." He backed off slightly and put his hand on my shoulder; "But when I looked into your eyes; I saw a strength that's not human. I saw something unreal; something that would make the strongest men feint at it's presence. I saw a true alpha-male. A lord of all things natural. I can teach you how to harness it... you start on Monday. I am your master, you are my pupil. You are not to tell anyone of our arrangement; just stick to your desk, look busy, and I will call you into my office when the time is right." He left. I'm not sure what the fuck happened; but I guess I got the job.	"Hi, thanks for coming. You're our next candidate for reincarnation. We're very excited about sending you back, same make and model, just a second pass through." "No, I'm pretty sure I fucked it up last time." "Nah! I gotta good feeling about you. You'll do just fine this time around." "How could I do just fine this time around?!? I screwed up basically every decision you can make in life!" "But you learned something right?" "No, I'm almost certain that I didn't! If I have to go back, let me be a cat, or a rock or something, please." "I don't know, I really think human is the right fit for you." "Based off of what?!? I spent my life anxious and depressed, antisocial, afraid of change, and terrified of decisions. What makes you think I'll be better at it this time around?" "I'm sorry you feel that way, but you brought a lot to the people who cared about you, that adds to the universe in a meaningful way." "What about me? What about how I felt?" "That adds to the universe too." "You're not gonna let me out of this one are you?" "Frankly? No. And if you come back early again, we'll just put you back in again. That's the way these things go." "So, what? I'm just a cog in the universal machine? Great." "Perhaps, and perhaps not. To be honest, I haven't figured all of this out yet either, just like you, I'm learning as I go. So how about it? You ready?" "No." "Ha! That's what I thought, but what can I say? Life isn't voluntary. Off you go then! Good luck!"
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	"I'm also a drug user. Copious amounts!" I can hear my own disbelief. The interviewer shrugs. "You're in your prime, Mr. Johnson. Not many men can run the football quite as well as you." "I have an arrest record." "Yes, and a rushing record. That's why you're here." "Wh...what? I'm saying I have a real problem, man. I'm a kid, mid to early 20's. I come from nothing. And now I've been given tens of millions of dollars. I don't know how to handle that kind of money or the attention that comes with it. I spent three years in a college that encouraged me to take the easiest fucking classes so I can pass and play. Most of my teammates read at a 5th grade level, some were illiterate. And now I'm... I'm in too deep, man. For fucks sake, I see my face on fucking billboards, I'm on tv! I'm a brand! My ego walks into the room before I do and it's palpable. Women throw themselves at me. And for what? It's no surprise I turn to drugs to cope. But that's what I'm saying, man. I need help... I got a problem." "How's your knee holding up?" "Excuse me?" "Your knees, Mr. Johnson. They checked out in your physical but we want to hear it from you. How are your knees?" "....They're fine, man." "Fantastic! Sign here." "Okay, okay. Wait... I've hit women in the past. I mean... I mean, I'm not proud of it. Not at all. I hate myself for it. Can you understand me though? My professional working life is spent pummeling others and getting pummeled on a weekly basis and tens of thousands of mongoloids watch and celebrate. Even since I was a fucking child, I have been praised by my ability to physically brutalize others. I'm not proud of it. No. But I just don't know how to handle my anger, my problems. I've never learned another way. Why? Because I've never needed to. I think I deserve something, I have an inflated sense of who I am. The truth is, I'm a barbarian. Its what people pay me to do, people like you." "Just sign here, Mr. Johnson. Welcome to the team."	"Hi, thanks for coming. You're our next candidate for reincarnation. We're very excited about sending you back, same make and model, just a second pass through." "No, I'm pretty sure I fucked it up last time." "Nah! I gotta good feeling about you. You'll do just fine this time around." "How could I do just fine this time around?!? I screwed up basically every decision you can make in life!" "But you learned something right?" "No, I'm almost certain that I didn't! If I have to go back, let me be a cat, or a rock or something, please." "I don't know, I really think human is the right fit for you." "Based off of what?!? I spent my life anxious and depressed, antisocial, afraid of change, and terrified of decisions. What makes you think I'll be better at it this time around?" "I'm sorry you feel that way, but you brought a lot to the people who cared about you, that adds to the universe in a meaningful way." "What about me? What about how I felt?" "That adds to the universe too." "You're not gonna let me out of this one are you?" "Frankly? No. And if you come back early again, we'll just put you back in again. That's the way these things go." "So, what? I'm just a cog in the universal machine? Great." "Perhaps, and perhaps not. To be honest, I haven't figured all of this out yet either, just like you, I'm learning as I go. So how about it? You ready?" "No." "Ha! That's what I thought, but what can I say? Life isn't voluntary. Off you go then! Good luck!"
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I stared over my monitor at the newest recruit, probably for longer than absolutely necessary. I hid my sweating palms and my shaking hands behind my desk. It had gone on so long... "Look. You have all the qualifications we're looking for. All I need is your signature, and you'll be set. But... how about we grab a coffee first?" The young man smiled and agreed. What did he know? He wanted to get in good with whoever pulled enough weight he could make a paycheck. I understood that. "Before you sign anything... This job isn't what you think it is. Frankly, I have no idea what it is. Nobody does. I started here almost twelve years ago. I didn't even want the position; my parents made me apply..." --- Wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, sporting a lovely three-day growth of untrimmed beard, I waltzed into Business Corporation Associates, Inc., and tossed a grubby resume on the secretary's desk. "Interview with wassname." The secretary, full of professionalism, smiled warmly. "Mr. Manager is waiting in his office, please go through." I shrugged through the door and plopped down sideways in a chair. Mr. Manager stood, offering his hand; I handed him my gum wrapper. All he did was chuckle and toss the wrapper in the trash. "Glad to see the youth are thinking about the environment these days," he rumbled. "Back in my day, kids just tossed their trash on the ground. Now, young man, I hear you're interested in a position here!" I shrugged. "Meh. It wasn't my idea. Parents said I needed a job." He chuckled again. "You listen to your parents, eh? If only my kids were as polite! Now, tell me - what are you looking for in our company?" I locked eyes with him, holding my gaze until it was long past uncomfortable. "Nothing. Get it?" He nodded as if I had made some deep comment, and answered, "Of course, of course. Ask not what your company can do for you, and all that. Very dedicated! What would you say to a management position?" I stared at him incredulously. My plan had been another summer lounging around my parent's basement, playing video games. It almost sounded like this man was going to offer me a job in spite of my actions! I sat up. "No way, man. I'm not about to sign up to be some money-grubbing pencil-pusher like you." I thought about it for a second, then just in case, added, "Corporate freak." Mr. Manager grinned. "Good! I'm glad to hear it! Too many kids these days want a clear shot to the top, no effort. Working your way up from the bottom, that's the ticket! Learn from the little guy!" He stood, rubbing his hands together. "Young man, I would like to introduce you to someone. Mr. Engineer. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Back in a tick, eh?" He rounded his desk, pushed through the doors, and headed down the hall as I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't know how to do... well, anything! Whatever they put me in, it would definitely not be video games. And if I lost a job... well, let's just say that it would be better to have never tried at all that to have tried and failed, no matter what . Dad was very particular about "honest work," and he was prepared to back that up. But if last year had taught me anything, it was that if I couldn't get a job, I was fine. I needed to do something. Anything. What was the worst thing I could do? I gave a sidelong glance at the leather-covered desk. Maybe... if I left an, er, gift? But just before I could unzip my pants, the door swung open. Startled and already more than a little jumpy, I whirled, bringing my fist around in a wide punch that smacked right into the face of, I presume, Mr. Engineer. His head bounced off the wall, the door, and two chairs before it came to rest on the floor. Mr. Manager walked in to find me staring down at the unconscious, and likely wildly concussed, form. "Oh good heavens! Come with me, straight to security!" Well, it wasn't what I'd planned, but as long as they didn't press charges, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for! Or at least, that's what I thought. Jittery from the sudden influx of adrenaline, I missed the first part of what Mr. Manager told the security guard. I tuned in to hear him finish, "This young man laid him out with a single punch!" Two other security officers had dashed upstairs half way through, likely trying to restore Mr. Engineer to life. The security man, a beefy, middle-aged fellow with a name tag the read "Security," and in smaller letters, "B. Security," held out his hand. Meekly, I held out both of mine... and blinked when he grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down. "Good work, son. I don't know how that man slipped past security, but if it wasn't for your quick wits, it might have been 1992 all over again." As my jaw dropped in absolute horror, Mr. Manager clapped me on the shoulder. "You don't even need to sign anything, young man, we'll get it all sorted when you come in next week. Don't worry about coming in until Monday, you rest up! I'm sure this was quite the ordeal!" I was hardly out the front door before the man I'd knocked out was being lead outside in cuffs. What had I gotten myself in to? --- I stared down into my coffee cup. "That wasn't the worst of it, of course. When I started, I was trying to avoid work, but every time I slipped away, someone caught me brainstorming - that is, sleeping - or team-building - that is, playing video games on my work computer. Every move I made, I was praised. I got raise after raise..." I lifted my eyes to those of the young man on the other side of the table. He seemed a little unsure of himself. "But... isn't that a dream come true?" I leaned over the table. He flinched back. Good, he should be scared. "No, kid, you don't get it. People call me every day, asking if the Paper Report is ready, or if the Sheet Documents have been signed. I make things up. I sat in on a random meeting because they had donuts, and somehow saved the company a million dollars. Or rubles. I don't know. Maybe it was Zimbabwean dollars. That's not the point, though. I've given presentations that were nothing but the blank templates, and gotten standing ovations. It's insane! It's mind boggling!" The kid pushed his half-filled mug to the side, surreptitiously glancing at his watch. "So... uh... you really have no idea what you're doing?" I shook my head. "You're not listening. No one knows what they're doing. No one! Everyone talks about nothing! They give vague figures, present charts and graphs that have been lifted off Google Image Search - like, the first images - and act like they know what they're doing! Everyone does it, and everyone else acts like they're the greatest thing since NASA! The whole company is mad - mad I tell you!" I slumped weakly back against my chair, wiping the spittle from my lips. The kid looked a little more sure of himself, now. Maybe I gave him an out. Maybe the poor fool could get out, while there was still time. He nodded sagely. "Ah! I understand what you're saying!" I almost wept with relief. He understood! It wasn't just me! Finally, there was someone I could connect with, someone who- "So you're saying it's a marketing firm - right? Awesome! When do I start?"	"Hi, thanks for coming. You're our next candidate for reincarnation. We're very excited about sending you back, same make and model, just a second pass through." "No, I'm pretty sure I fucked it up last time." "Nah! I gotta good feeling about you. You'll do just fine this time around." "How could I do just fine this time around?!? I screwed up basically every decision you can make in life!" "But you learned something right?" "No, I'm almost certain that I didn't! If I have to go back, let me be a cat, or a rock or something, please." "I don't know, I really think human is the right fit for you." "Based off of what?!? I spent my life anxious and depressed, antisocial, afraid of change, and terrified of decisions. What makes you think I'll be better at it this time around?" "I'm sorry you feel that way, but you brought a lot to the people who cared about you, that adds to the universe in a meaningful way." "What about me? What about how I felt?" "That adds to the universe too." "You're not gonna let me out of this one are you?" "Frankly? No. And if you come back early again, we'll just put you back in again. That's the way these things go." "So, what? I'm just a cog in the universal machine? Great." "Perhaps, and perhaps not. To be honest, I haven't figured all of this out yet either, just like you, I'm learning as I go. So how about it? You ready?" "No." "Ha! That's what I thought, but what can I say? Life isn't voluntary. Off you go then! Good luck!"
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	Sixteen-year-old Theodore Cruz slouched in the cheap plastic booth, sucking the last dregs of his soda with obnoxious zeal and using a ketchup packet to paint a frowny-face on the table. In preparation for this interview, he’d donned his “Sperm Donor” T-shirt and smeared a tablespoon of lard into his hair. The look he was going for, despite his parents’ entreaties to get a job, was “unhireable,” and he was nailing it. “Hi, you must be Theodore. I’m Sharona, the manager.” A moderately-attractive woman in her mid-twenties had appeared, carrying a clipboard and wearing a bright smile. He popped his gum at her and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Hi, baby. Nice jugs. They real?” “Why, yes they are, thanks for asking.” Her smile didn’t slip a fraction. She slid into the seat across from him, careful to place her paperwork away from his ketchup puddle. “So, why do you want to work for the Sandwich Duke? You left that question blank, along with most of the other questions.” “I dunno. Guess I’d like to steal food when no one’s watching.” He pulled out his gum, examined it, and stuck it under the table. “Ah, an opportunist. You’ll be happy to know that the camera beside the back fryer is broken, so you’ll be able to help yourself. Within reason, of course.” She made a tiny note on her clipboard. “This question’s just for fun, to help me get to know you better: if you were a food, what would you be and why?” “Dog. Chinks eat dogs, so why can’t we? I think it’d be cool to eat something that would make all those sissy animal lovers lose their shit.” Sharona fiddled with the silver cat pin on her lapel and frowned, her composure cracking slightly for the first time. “Yes, well, alright…I like a man who can think outside the box. Last question: what would you say your greatest strength is?” He yawned. “I’m really good at finding ways around the school firewall to stream porn in class. I sell my secrets to the other losers for beer money. Even though they’re totally loaded, my parents are real tightwads.” “I see. It sounds like you’re a real entrepreneur. Good thing you’ll be drawing a real paycheck soon. Welcome aboard!” She stuck out a hand to shake, once more grinning broadly at him. He gaped at her speechlessly, resembling a wide-mouth bass that has swallowed a hook. He was so stunned that he forgot to be rude as he accepted his new uniform and tentative schedule. Sharona watched the little asshat go, already calculating ways to maximize his misery for the three months she had him until school started again. She thought that scraping all of the gum out from under the tables would be a good place to start. Maybe the little toerag would quit – if he did, it wasn’t her fault. She watched the kid climb into his dad’s brand-new sports car and marveled to herself at the peculiar behavior of the very rich. Who else would have paid her five grand to hire their stupid kid? For that kind of money, she would put up with a lot of bullshit for twenty hours a week. Maybe they'd even do it again next summer.	"Hi, thanks for coming. You're our next candidate for reincarnation. We're very excited about sending you back, same make and model, just a second pass through." "No, I'm pretty sure I fucked it up last time." "Nah! I gotta good feeling about you. You'll do just fine this time around." "How could I do just fine this time around?!? I screwed up basically every decision you can make in life!" "But you learned something right?" "No, I'm almost certain that I didn't! If I have to go back, let me be a cat, or a rock or something, please." "I don't know, I really think human is the right fit for you." "Based off of what?!? I spent my life anxious and depressed, antisocial, afraid of change, and terrified of decisions. What makes you think I'll be better at it this time around?" "I'm sorry you feel that way, but you brought a lot to the people who cared about you, that adds to the universe in a meaningful way." "What about me? What about how I felt?" "That adds to the universe too." "You're not gonna let me out of this one are you?" "Frankly? No. And if you come back early again, we'll just put you back in again. That's the way these things go." "So, what? I'm just a cog in the universal machine? Great." "Perhaps, and perhaps not. To be honest, I haven't figured all of this out yet either, just like you, I'm learning as I go. So how about it? You ready?" "No." "Ha! That's what I thought, but what can I say? Life isn't voluntary. Off you go then! Good luck!"
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	The water bottle was obviously full of something other than water. I took small sips in the waiting room, the smell of vodka stinging my eyes even with the orange juice to water it down. I had somewhere to be and it wasn’t in a job interview. “It’s good practice,” my wife had encouraged. “You just need to get back on that horse and give it a try.” She’d told me when I was asked to come in for the job. “I don’t think I want it,” I’d confided in her. But there was no arguing with her at that point. “Joseph Gordons?” The receptionist called my name. A tall thin man stood next to her, a dour look on his face. He shook my hand wordlessly and gestured for me to follow him. I ambled along behind him into a tight conference room. The lighting was fluorescent and room dingy. I half wanted to leave right then but I’d promised my wife I’d stay. “Joseph, good of you to come in,” the man said. “I’m Hank Norbitt, I do the hiring for the programming department, I find that HR doesn’t really understand programmers.” His voice reminded me of Eeyore. Once I started thinking about the sad donkey I could also see a resemblance in his expression. We settled into chairs on the corner of the table. I leaned my left arm on the table and set the water bottle down. Hank got comfortable as I began to speak. “I understand that some programmers have social issues, I’m not really one of them. I paid for university working as a bartender and spent all kinds of time with people, at the bar, after the bar. The morning before going back to work,” I replied probably too honestly. I’d told my wife I’d give it an honest try but I wanted to tank the interview and go. “I met my wife bartending.” “Was that a bar in town?” “Yea, Phil’s by Laurier. I learned a lot of skills there I’ve found applicable in other places,” I took a sip of my screwdriver before continuing. Hank leaned forward seeming intrigued. I’d led him here and prepared to drop an answer that’ll have him excusing me. “I learned how to keep my mouth shut, the bikers used to deal coke out of the back and I needed to make sure I didn’t show up on their radar. I learned how to break up a fight – you never know when you’ll need to convince a man to drop a knife. Every Friday these days it seems.” “You like to go out then? Party?” Hank’s eyes lit up, I was a little concerned that he was getting too into my answers. “Sometimes. I don’t do drugs anymore, almost OD’d at my last job – that’s why I’m looking for work, had some trouble with painkillers and needed to take some time off, get better,” I was lying now. “Now that’s interesting, you sound like you’re very good at recognizing your own flaws, that’s a strong quality in an employee,” Hank seemed far too into what I was saying and I wanted to get him to let me go. “I can see where I’ve fallen down, unless I’ve had too much to drink!” I exclaimed and laughed a bit louder than I probably should have. “Well, I do have some questions for you,” Hank glanced at the sheet in front of him, “first, if you could be any animal what would you be?” “I’d be a duck, their penises are the ultimate multi-tool,” I replied, half-serious. The alcohol was having the desired effect and I wasn’t tasting the vodka as much now. I committed to myself that I’d answer the questions quickly and just move through this stupid formality. I glanced at my watch – I needed to be out of here in ten minutes. “Oh that’s an original one, love that, I’ll have to use it sometime. Next what is your greatest weakness?” Hank asked with a smile. “Alcoholism.” “I appreciate the honesty. I like that in an employee. Now how many gas stations do you think are in the US?” “At least 12.” “Well you’re not wrong, and I supposed that’s what I get for asking a programmer that question – you’re up on your internet jokes right?” Hank laughed at his own comment, my grim expression started to break and I smiled with him for a moment. I took a swig of the alcohol. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Five years. I used to know where I’d be, until a week ago I’d have had an answer. “I don’t,” the smile that had been growing was lost again. Hank’s laid a hand on my arm. “If you need to talk…” “I think it’d be best if we move on with the questions, I don’t like to bring personal issues into work,” I interrupted. I didn’t know him and didn’t need this right now. “Right, ok. How honest would you say you are?” “Very,” I didn’t think I needed to elaborate, I’ve only told a couple lies so far. “Alright, last one – how would your family feel about you working long hours?” “I don’t have a family,” I replied without explanation. “You mentioned your wife,” he began. “She’s dead.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hank replied. His look quizzical and I knew what was coming next. One of two questions that I’d been asked so many times recently. “Drunk driver hit her car two days ago. She kicked it. I actually need to go now. Her visitation starts in half an hour and it’s a twenty minute drive,” I replied, standing. I wobbled a bit. I didn’t mean to but I did. “Are you…” “Driving? No, I’m not the goddamn moron who killed her.” “I’ll give you a call, about the job, but can I ask one last question?” Hank watched me. I hesitated and nodded, “why did you take the interview? Why not cancel or reschedule?” “I made my wife a promise that I’d come,” I replied. “I don’t think her death releases me from that.”	"Hi, thanks for coming. You're our next candidate for reincarnation. We're very excited about sending you back, same make and model, just a second pass through." "No, I'm pretty sure I fucked it up last time." "Nah! I gotta good feeling about you. You'll do just fine this time around." "How could I do just fine this time around?!? I screwed up basically every decision you can make in life!" "But you learned something right?" "No, I'm almost certain that I didn't! If I have to go back, let me be a cat, or a rock or something, please." "I don't know, I really think human is the right fit for you." "Based off of what?!? I spent my life anxious and depressed, antisocial, afraid of change, and terrified of decisions. What makes you think I'll be better at it this time around?" "I'm sorry you feel that way, but you brought a lot to the people who cared about you, that adds to the universe in a meaningful way." "What about me? What about how I felt?" "That adds to the universe too." "You're not gonna let me out of this one are you?" "Frankly? No. And if you come back early again, we'll just put you back in again. That's the way these things go." "So, what? I'm just a cog in the universal machine? Great." "Perhaps, and perhaps not. To be honest, I haven't figured all of this out yet either, just like you, I'm learning as I go. So how about it? You ready?" "No." "Ha! That's what I thought, but what can I say? Life isn't voluntary. Off you go then! Good luck!"
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I stared over my monitor at the newest recruit, probably for longer than absolutely necessary. I hid my sweating palms and my shaking hands behind my desk. It had gone on so long... "Look. You have all the qualifications we're looking for. All I need is your signature, and you'll be set. But... how about we grab a coffee first?" The young man smiled and agreed. What did he know? He wanted to get in good with whoever pulled enough weight he could make a paycheck. I understood that. "Before you sign anything... This job isn't what you think it is. Frankly, I have no idea what it is. Nobody does. I started here almost twelve years ago. I didn't even want the position; my parents made me apply..." --- Wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, sporting a lovely three-day growth of untrimmed beard, I waltzed into Business Corporation Associates, Inc., and tossed a grubby resume on the secretary's desk. "Interview with wassname." The secretary, full of professionalism, smiled warmly. "Mr. Manager is waiting in his office, please go through." I shrugged through the door and plopped down sideways in a chair. Mr. Manager stood, offering his hand; I handed him my gum wrapper. All he did was chuckle and toss the wrapper in the trash. "Glad to see the youth are thinking about the environment these days," he rumbled. "Back in my day, kids just tossed their trash on the ground. Now, young man, I hear you're interested in a position here!" I shrugged. "Meh. It wasn't my idea. Parents said I needed a job." He chuckled again. "You listen to your parents, eh? If only my kids were as polite! Now, tell me - what are you looking for in our company?" I locked eyes with him, holding my gaze until it was long past uncomfortable. "Nothing. Get it?" He nodded as if I had made some deep comment, and answered, "Of course, of course. Ask not what your company can do for you, and all that. Very dedicated! What would you say to a management position?" I stared at him incredulously. My plan had been another summer lounging around my parent's basement, playing video games. It almost sounded like this man was going to offer me a job in spite of my actions! I sat up. "No way, man. I'm not about to sign up to be some money-grubbing pencil-pusher like you." I thought about it for a second, then just in case, added, "Corporate freak." Mr. Manager grinned. "Good! I'm glad to hear it! Too many kids these days want a clear shot to the top, no effort. Working your way up from the bottom, that's the ticket! Learn from the little guy!" He stood, rubbing his hands together. "Young man, I would like to introduce you to someone. Mr. Engineer. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Back in a tick, eh?" He rounded his desk, pushed through the doors, and headed down the hall as I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't know how to do... well, anything! Whatever they put me in, it would definitely not be video games. And if I lost a job... well, let's just say that it would be better to have never tried at all that to have tried and failed, no matter what . Dad was very particular about "honest work," and he was prepared to back that up. But if last year had taught me anything, it was that if I couldn't get a job, I was fine. I needed to do something. Anything. What was the worst thing I could do? I gave a sidelong glance at the leather-covered desk. Maybe... if I left an, er, gift? But just before I could unzip my pants, the door swung open. Startled and already more than a little jumpy, I whirled, bringing my fist around in a wide punch that smacked right into the face of, I presume, Mr. Engineer. His head bounced off the wall, the door, and two chairs before it came to rest on the floor. Mr. Manager walked in to find me staring down at the unconscious, and likely wildly concussed, form. "Oh good heavens! Come with me, straight to security!" Well, it wasn't what I'd planned, but as long as they didn't press charges, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for! Or at least, that's what I thought. Jittery from the sudden influx of adrenaline, I missed the first part of what Mr. Manager told the security guard. I tuned in to hear him finish, "This young man laid him out with a single punch!" Two other security officers had dashed upstairs half way through, likely trying to restore Mr. Engineer to life. The security man, a beefy, middle-aged fellow with a name tag the read "Security," and in smaller letters, "B. Security," held out his hand. Meekly, I held out both of mine... and blinked when he grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down. "Good work, son. I don't know how that man slipped past security, but if it wasn't for your quick wits, it might have been 1992 all over again." As my jaw dropped in absolute horror, Mr. Manager clapped me on the shoulder. "You don't even need to sign anything, young man, we'll get it all sorted when you come in next week. Don't worry about coming in until Monday, you rest up! I'm sure this was quite the ordeal!" I was hardly out the front door before the man I'd knocked out was being lead outside in cuffs. What had I gotten myself in to? --- I stared down into my coffee cup. "That wasn't the worst of it, of course. When I started, I was trying to avoid work, but every time I slipped away, someone caught me brainstorming - that is, sleeping - or team-building - that is, playing video games on my work computer. Every move I made, I was praised. I got raise after raise..." I lifted my eyes to those of the young man on the other side of the table. He seemed a little unsure of himself. "But... isn't that a dream come true?" I leaned over the table. He flinched back. Good, he should be scared. "No, kid, you don't get it. People call me every day, asking if the Paper Report is ready, or if the Sheet Documents have been signed. I make things up. I sat in on a random meeting because they had donuts, and somehow saved the company a million dollars. Or rubles. I don't know. Maybe it was Zimbabwean dollars. That's not the point, though. I've given presentations that were nothing but the blank templates, and gotten standing ovations. It's insane! It's mind boggling!" The kid pushed his half-filled mug to the side, surreptitiously glancing at his watch. "So... uh... you really have no idea what you're doing?" I shook my head. "You're not listening. No one knows what they're doing. No one! Everyone talks about nothing! They give vague figures, present charts and graphs that have been lifted off Google Image Search - like, the first images - and act like they know what they're doing! Everyone does it, and everyone else acts like they're the greatest thing since NASA! The whole company is mad - mad I tell you!" I slumped weakly back against my chair, wiping the spittle from my lips. The kid looked a little more sure of himself, now. Maybe I gave him an out. Maybe the poor fool could get out, while there was still time. He nodded sagely. "Ah! I understand what you're saying!" I almost wept with relief. He understood! It wasn't just me! Finally, there was someone I could connect with, someone who- "So you're saying it's a marketing firm - right? Awesome! When do I start?"	[Contains Mild Vulgarity] "Well Mr. Jones, I can see you're applying for our senior member position. I take it you've got the required ten years experience or some equivalent not listed on your resume?" "Huh? No, uh, I actually just typed a hello world script once, no real world experience." "Wonderful! Our HR staff wrote up these stupid requests but I really want an outsiders perspective on our team. Can you get started today?" "Oh I've never done any sort of work other than manual labor. I would need at least a week of orientation. Maybe two depending on how I'm feeling." "Sounds perfect! We can put you and our other new hire in a team to learn the ins and outs side by side! Those are exactly the kind of fresh ideas this company needs!" "What? No, that was your idea." "Modesty is the number one trait I look for in an underling!" "Hey! I don't take kindly to being labeled by people who don't know me!" "Straightforward take charge personalities are the number two trait!" "I lied about having a job for three years on my resume expecting you to not even call my references. I've never held a job for more than three months!" "Good, that means you're an open canvas to work with. We don't hire brainwashed goons here in our establishment." "I mentioned I have a car? I don't, I was just planning to walk into work if I was feeling good enough that day, otherwise stay home." "I can get you on medical as a priority to help with any chronic exhaustion or general sleepiness. Until you've fully recovered, take it one step at a time. We aim to avoid discrimination of those who wish to work." "I think your face is stupid." "Ha! Me too. I've been contemplating plastic surgery. I think this might just be the push I needed to go through with my decision. Thank you, you've saved me from a lifetime of wasted contemplation." "Did Stacy put you up to this?! What did she offer you? Did she suck your cock?" "I'm her dad." "I'll take the job if you promise to forget I said that." "Glad to have you."
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I stared over my monitor at the newest recruit, probably for longer than absolutely necessary. I hid my sweating palms and my shaking hands behind my desk. It had gone on so long... "Look. You have all the qualifications we're looking for. All I need is your signature, and you'll be set. But... how about we grab a coffee first?" The young man smiled and agreed. What did he know? He wanted to get in good with whoever pulled enough weight he could make a paycheck. I understood that. "Before you sign anything... This job isn't what you think it is. Frankly, I have no idea what it is. Nobody does. I started here almost twelve years ago. I didn't even want the position; my parents made me apply..." --- Wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, sporting a lovely three-day growth of untrimmed beard, I waltzed into Business Corporation Associates, Inc., and tossed a grubby resume on the secretary's desk. "Interview with wassname." The secretary, full of professionalism, smiled warmly. "Mr. Manager is waiting in his office, please go through." I shrugged through the door and plopped down sideways in a chair. Mr. Manager stood, offering his hand; I handed him my gum wrapper. All he did was chuckle and toss the wrapper in the trash. "Glad to see the youth are thinking about the environment these days," he rumbled. "Back in my day, kids just tossed their trash on the ground. Now, young man, I hear you're interested in a position here!" I shrugged. "Meh. It wasn't my idea. Parents said I needed a job." He chuckled again. "You listen to your parents, eh? If only my kids were as polite! Now, tell me - what are you looking for in our company?" I locked eyes with him, holding my gaze until it was long past uncomfortable. "Nothing. Get it?" He nodded as if I had made some deep comment, and answered, "Of course, of course. Ask not what your company can do for you, and all that. Very dedicated! What would you say to a management position?" I stared at him incredulously. My plan had been another summer lounging around my parent's basement, playing video games. It almost sounded like this man was going to offer me a job in spite of my actions! I sat up. "No way, man. I'm not about to sign up to be some money-grubbing pencil-pusher like you." I thought about it for a second, then just in case, added, "Corporate freak." Mr. Manager grinned. "Good! I'm glad to hear it! Too many kids these days want a clear shot to the top, no effort. Working your way up from the bottom, that's the ticket! Learn from the little guy!" He stood, rubbing his hands together. "Young man, I would like to introduce you to someone. Mr. Engineer. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Back in a tick, eh?" He rounded his desk, pushed through the doors, and headed down the hall as I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't know how to do... well, anything! Whatever they put me in, it would definitely not be video games. And if I lost a job... well, let's just say that it would be better to have never tried at all that to have tried and failed, no matter what . Dad was very particular about "honest work," and he was prepared to back that up. But if last year had taught me anything, it was that if I couldn't get a job, I was fine. I needed to do something. Anything. What was the worst thing I could do? I gave a sidelong glance at the leather-covered desk. Maybe... if I left an, er, gift? But just before I could unzip my pants, the door swung open. Startled and already more than a little jumpy, I whirled, bringing my fist around in a wide punch that smacked right into the face of, I presume, Mr. Engineer. His head bounced off the wall, the door, and two chairs before it came to rest on the floor. Mr. Manager walked in to find me staring down at the unconscious, and likely wildly concussed, form. "Oh good heavens! Come with me, straight to security!" Well, it wasn't what I'd planned, but as long as they didn't press charges, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for! Or at least, that's what I thought. Jittery from the sudden influx of adrenaline, I missed the first part of what Mr. Manager told the security guard. I tuned in to hear him finish, "This young man laid him out with a single punch!" Two other security officers had dashed upstairs half way through, likely trying to restore Mr. Engineer to life. The security man, a beefy, middle-aged fellow with a name tag the read "Security," and in smaller letters, "B. Security," held out his hand. Meekly, I held out both of mine... and blinked when he grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down. "Good work, son. I don't know how that man slipped past security, but if it wasn't for your quick wits, it might have been 1992 all over again." As my jaw dropped in absolute horror, Mr. Manager clapped me on the shoulder. "You don't even need to sign anything, young man, we'll get it all sorted when you come in next week. Don't worry about coming in until Monday, you rest up! I'm sure this was quite the ordeal!" I was hardly out the front door before the man I'd knocked out was being lead outside in cuffs. What had I gotten myself in to? --- I stared down into my coffee cup. "That wasn't the worst of it, of course. When I started, I was trying to avoid work, but every time I slipped away, someone caught me brainstorming - that is, sleeping - or team-building - that is, playing video games on my work computer. Every move I made, I was praised. I got raise after raise..." I lifted my eyes to those of the young man on the other side of the table. He seemed a little unsure of himself. "But... isn't that a dream come true?" I leaned over the table. He flinched back. Good, he should be scared. "No, kid, you don't get it. People call me every day, asking if the Paper Report is ready, or if the Sheet Documents have been signed. I make things up. I sat in on a random meeting because they had donuts, and somehow saved the company a million dollars. Or rubles. I don't know. Maybe it was Zimbabwean dollars. That's not the point, though. I've given presentations that were nothing but the blank templates, and gotten standing ovations. It's insane! It's mind boggling!" The kid pushed his half-filled mug to the side, surreptitiously glancing at his watch. "So... uh... you really have no idea what you're doing?" I shook my head. "You're not listening. No one knows what they're doing. No one! Everyone talks about nothing! They give vague figures, present charts and graphs that have been lifted off Google Image Search - like, the first images - and act like they know what they're doing! Everyone does it, and everyone else acts like they're the greatest thing since NASA! The whole company is mad - mad I tell you!" I slumped weakly back against my chair, wiping the spittle from my lips. The kid looked a little more sure of himself, now. Maybe I gave him an out. Maybe the poor fool could get out, while there was still time. He nodded sagely. "Ah! I understand what you're saying!" I almost wept with relief. He understood! It wasn't just me! Finally, there was someone I could connect with, someone who- "So you're saying it's a marketing firm - right? Awesome! When do I start?"	I spiraled into a deep depression when Susan left me; one where I could no longer get out of bed to show up to work. Shortly after being fired from my job, I lost my house, and moved in with my well-off brother and his wife. They didn't have any children, so at first, they didn't mind taking me in and feeding me. After about a year of living off of them, my brother decided that if I'm going to continue living there. I need to get a job. He sat behind me as I wrote up a resume, and he sent it to several places that were hiring. I wasn't ready to work, but I also wasn't ready to confess to my brother that I have completely given up on life at the moment. So what to do other than botch the interview? I got up right around 11 in the morning, just in time to roll out of bed, and catch the bus to the office I was interviewing at. I slapped on my old college sweater, my finest cargo shorts, knee high black socks, and the most luxurious sandals in my small collection. I would have arrived on time, but I didn't want to get hungry mid-interview, so I stopped at Chipotle and got a burrito. I jammed it into the front pocket of my sweater, and figured I'd have at it whenever I was struck with hunger. I arrived to the office and checked in with the receptionist. She quickly became snotty when she informed me that I was 15 minutes late, and that she would need to check in with the boss to see if they would proceed with the interview. She left to go speak with him, and arrived back shortly, saying, "Alright, he's ready for you." She led me to his small office. As I opened the door; the boss didn't stand or even greet me. He looked down at his papers and excused the receptionist. He peeled his eyes from his desk and eyed me up and down with utter disdain. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here like that." I replied by taking the burrito out of pocket, and beginning to eat it while still standing at the door. "Ole' Penn State... I'm a Stanford man ya' know..." With a mouthful of burrito, I exclaimed, "That must mean I'm the smart one then." He let out a rouceous laugh and invited me to sit. I declined the offer; explaining that I'd prefer to stand, as my alpha status doesn't allow me to put myself in a submissive position. The boss stood from his desk, put his head down and in hushed tones he said, "I'm glad you've made your position here clear. I myself am not a passive man, and as such, I respect your claim to dominance. But I will in no way abide to it. If you ever try to make me your bitch, I promise you, blood will flow through the halls of this office like rivers of red." He came around from behind his desk, "Come with me." As he passed by me, he grabbed the burrito from my hands and began to eat it. He opened the door, and I followed behind. What else was I supposed to do? I was in shock as to what has occurred. We went through the office building without uttering a single word to one another; through the halls, down the stairs, and ultimately to the parking lot. He had taken a few more bites out of my burrito on the way down, but when we got to the middle of the parking lot, he spiked it. He wound up his arm, and with half the burrito remaining, he slammed it to the pavement like a football. He loosened the tie from his neck, rolled up his sleeves, and calmly said to me, "Now is your chance to prove yourself, tough guy. Lets see who the real big shot is..." He stepped up to me with his arms spread out wide like an eagle, "Come on alpha... lets see who you really are." I began to speak for the first time since I initially told him I'm the alpha. My lips and body weren't working though, so I only managed to let out something that was somewhere in between and apology and a quiver. The boss, still in my face, lightly laughed to himself. "That's what I thought." There was a few moments of silence I attempted to break, "I think it's time for me to..." "Stop. Talking." He cut me off. "Bathe in my strength; feel the epinephrine fill your veins, and let your mind consider the things I could do to you." I did as I was told. He spent the next minute an inch from my face; staring into my soul. He began speaking again, "You're afraid. I can feel it. It's not me that you're afraid of, no. It's this moment. You don't know what to do. You let yourself become my bitch, and you did as you were told, because you didn't know what would happen. And because I am not afraid of this moment, I have complete control over you. I am your daddy." He backed off slightly and put his hand on my shoulder; "But when I looked into your eyes; I saw a strength that's not human. I saw something unreal; something that would make the strongest men feint at it's presence. I saw a true alpha-male. A lord of all things natural. I can teach you how to harness it... you start on Monday. I am your master, you are my pupil. You are not to tell anyone of our arrangement; just stick to your desk, look busy, and I will call you into my office when the time is right." He left. I'm not sure what the fuck happened; but I guess I got the job.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	The water bottle was obviously full of something other than water. I took small sips in the waiting room, the smell of vodka stinging my eyes even with the orange juice to water it down. I had somewhere to be and it wasn’t in a job interview. “It’s good practice,” my wife had encouraged. “You just need to get back on that horse and give it a try.” She’d told me when I was asked to come in for the job. “I don’t think I want it,” I’d confided in her. But there was no arguing with her at that point. “Joseph Gordons?” The receptionist called my name. A tall thin man stood next to her, a dour look on his face. He shook my hand wordlessly and gestured for me to follow him. I ambled along behind him into a tight conference room. The lighting was fluorescent and room dingy. I half wanted to leave right then but I’d promised my wife I’d stay. “Joseph, good of you to come in,” the man said. “I’m Hank Norbitt, I do the hiring for the programming department, I find that HR doesn’t really understand programmers.” His voice reminded me of Eeyore. Once I started thinking about the sad donkey I could also see a resemblance in his expression. We settled into chairs on the corner of the table. I leaned my left arm on the table and set the water bottle down. Hank got comfortable as I began to speak. “I understand that some programmers have social issues, I’m not really one of them. I paid for university working as a bartender and spent all kinds of time with people, at the bar, after the bar. The morning before going back to work,” I replied probably too honestly. I’d told my wife I’d give it an honest try but I wanted to tank the interview and go. “I met my wife bartending.” “Was that a bar in town?” “Yea, Phil’s by Laurier. I learned a lot of skills there I’ve found applicable in other places,” I took a sip of my screwdriver before continuing. Hank leaned forward seeming intrigued. I’d led him here and prepared to drop an answer that’ll have him excusing me. “I learned how to keep my mouth shut, the bikers used to deal coke out of the back and I needed to make sure I didn’t show up on their radar. I learned how to break up a fight – you never know when you’ll need to convince a man to drop a knife. Every Friday these days it seems.” “You like to go out then? Party?” Hank’s eyes lit up, I was a little concerned that he was getting too into my answers. “Sometimes. I don’t do drugs anymore, almost OD’d at my last job – that’s why I’m looking for work, had some trouble with painkillers and needed to take some time off, get better,” I was lying now. “Now that’s interesting, you sound like you’re very good at recognizing your own flaws, that’s a strong quality in an employee,” Hank seemed far too into what I was saying and I wanted to get him to let me go. “I can see where I’ve fallen down, unless I’ve had too much to drink!” I exclaimed and laughed a bit louder than I probably should have. “Well, I do have some questions for you,” Hank glanced at the sheet in front of him, “first, if you could be any animal what would you be?” “I’d be a duck, their penises are the ultimate multi-tool,” I replied, half-serious. The alcohol was having the desired effect and I wasn’t tasting the vodka as much now. I committed to myself that I’d answer the questions quickly and just move through this stupid formality. I glanced at my watch – I needed to be out of here in ten minutes. “Oh that’s an original one, love that, I’ll have to use it sometime. Next what is your greatest weakness?” Hank asked with a smile. “Alcoholism.” “I appreciate the honesty. I like that in an employee. Now how many gas stations do you think are in the US?” “At least 12.” “Well you’re not wrong, and I supposed that’s what I get for asking a programmer that question – you’re up on your internet jokes right?” Hank laughed at his own comment, my grim expression started to break and I smiled with him for a moment. I took a swig of the alcohol. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Five years. I used to know where I’d be, until a week ago I’d have had an answer. “I don’t,” the smile that had been growing was lost again. Hank’s laid a hand on my arm. “If you need to talk…” “I think it’d be best if we move on with the questions, I don’t like to bring personal issues into work,” I interrupted. I didn’t know him and didn’t need this right now. “Right, ok. How honest would you say you are?” “Very,” I didn’t think I needed to elaborate, I’ve only told a couple lies so far. “Alright, last one – how would your family feel about you working long hours?” “I don’t have a family,” I replied without explanation. “You mentioned your wife,” he began. “She’s dead.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hank replied. His look quizzical and I knew what was coming next. One of two questions that I’d been asked so many times recently. “Drunk driver hit her car two days ago. She kicked it. I actually need to go now. Her visitation starts in half an hour and it’s a twenty minute drive,” I replied, standing. I wobbled a bit. I didn’t mean to but I did. “Are you…” “Driving? No, I’m not the goddamn moron who killed her.” “I’ll give you a call, about the job, but can I ask one last question?” Hank watched me. I hesitated and nodded, “why did you take the interview? Why not cancel or reschedule?” “I made my wife a promise that I’d come,” I replied. “I don’t think her death releases me from that.”	I spiraled into a deep depression when Susan left me; one where I could no longer get out of bed to show up to work. Shortly after being fired from my job, I lost my house, and moved in with my well-off brother and his wife. They didn't have any children, so at first, they didn't mind taking me in and feeding me. After about a year of living off of them, my brother decided that if I'm going to continue living there. I need to get a job. He sat behind me as I wrote up a resume, and he sent it to several places that were hiring. I wasn't ready to work, but I also wasn't ready to confess to my brother that I have completely given up on life at the moment. So what to do other than botch the interview? I got up right around 11 in the morning, just in time to roll out of bed, and catch the bus to the office I was interviewing at. I slapped on my old college sweater, my finest cargo shorts, knee high black socks, and the most luxurious sandals in my small collection. I would have arrived on time, but I didn't want to get hungry mid-interview, so I stopped at Chipotle and got a burrito. I jammed it into the front pocket of my sweater, and figured I'd have at it whenever I was struck with hunger. I arrived to the office and checked in with the receptionist. She quickly became snotty when she informed me that I was 15 minutes late, and that she would need to check in with the boss to see if they would proceed with the interview. She left to go speak with him, and arrived back shortly, saying, "Alright, he's ready for you." She led me to his small office. As I opened the door; the boss didn't stand or even greet me. He looked down at his papers and excused the receptionist. He peeled his eyes from his desk and eyed me up and down with utter disdain. "You've got a lot of nerve showing up here like that." I replied by taking the burrito out of pocket, and beginning to eat it while still standing at the door. "Ole' Penn State... I'm a Stanford man ya' know..." With a mouthful of burrito, I exclaimed, "That must mean I'm the smart one then." He let out a rouceous laugh and invited me to sit. I declined the offer; explaining that I'd prefer to stand, as my alpha status doesn't allow me to put myself in a submissive position. The boss stood from his desk, put his head down and in hushed tones he said, "I'm glad you've made your position here clear. I myself am not a passive man, and as such, I respect your claim to dominance. But I will in no way abide to it. If you ever try to make me your bitch, I promise you, blood will flow through the halls of this office like rivers of red." He came around from behind his desk, "Come with me." As he passed by me, he grabbed the burrito from my hands and began to eat it. He opened the door, and I followed behind. What else was I supposed to do? I was in shock as to what has occurred. We went through the office building without uttering a single word to one another; through the halls, down the stairs, and ultimately to the parking lot. He had taken a few more bites out of my burrito on the way down, but when we got to the middle of the parking lot, he spiked it. He wound up his arm, and with half the burrito remaining, he slammed it to the pavement like a football. He loosened the tie from his neck, rolled up his sleeves, and calmly said to me, "Now is your chance to prove yourself, tough guy. Lets see who the real big shot is..." He stepped up to me with his arms spread out wide like an eagle, "Come on alpha... lets see who you really are." I began to speak for the first time since I initially told him I'm the alpha. My lips and body weren't working though, so I only managed to let out something that was somewhere in between and apology and a quiver. The boss, still in my face, lightly laughed to himself. "That's what I thought." There was a few moments of silence I attempted to break, "I think it's time for me to..." "Stop. Talking." He cut me off. "Bathe in my strength; feel the epinephrine fill your veins, and let your mind consider the things I could do to you." I did as I was told. He spent the next minute an inch from my face; staring into my soul. He began speaking again, "You're afraid. I can feel it. It's not me that you're afraid of, no. It's this moment. You don't know what to do. You let yourself become my bitch, and you did as you were told, because you didn't know what would happen. And because I am not afraid of this moment, I have complete control over you. I am your daddy." He backed off slightly and put his hand on my shoulder; "But when I looked into your eyes; I saw a strength that's not human. I saw something unreal; something that would make the strongest men feint at it's presence. I saw a true alpha-male. A lord of all things natural. I can teach you how to harness it... you start on Monday. I am your master, you are my pupil. You are not to tell anyone of our arrangement; just stick to your desk, look busy, and I will call you into my office when the time is right." He left. I'm not sure what the fuck happened; but I guess I got the job.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I stared over my monitor at the newest recruit, probably for longer than absolutely necessary. I hid my sweating palms and my shaking hands behind my desk. It had gone on so long... "Look. You have all the qualifications we're looking for. All I need is your signature, and you'll be set. But... how about we grab a coffee first?" The young man smiled and agreed. What did he know? He wanted to get in good with whoever pulled enough weight he could make a paycheck. I understood that. "Before you sign anything... This job isn't what you think it is. Frankly, I have no idea what it is. Nobody does. I started here almost twelve years ago. I didn't even want the position; my parents made me apply..." --- Wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, sporting a lovely three-day growth of untrimmed beard, I waltzed into Business Corporation Associates, Inc., and tossed a grubby resume on the secretary's desk. "Interview with wassname." The secretary, full of professionalism, smiled warmly. "Mr. Manager is waiting in his office, please go through." I shrugged through the door and plopped down sideways in a chair. Mr. Manager stood, offering his hand; I handed him my gum wrapper. All he did was chuckle and toss the wrapper in the trash. "Glad to see the youth are thinking about the environment these days," he rumbled. "Back in my day, kids just tossed their trash on the ground. Now, young man, I hear you're interested in a position here!" I shrugged. "Meh. It wasn't my idea. Parents said I needed a job." He chuckled again. "You listen to your parents, eh? If only my kids were as polite! Now, tell me - what are you looking for in our company?" I locked eyes with him, holding my gaze until it was long past uncomfortable. "Nothing. Get it?" He nodded as if I had made some deep comment, and answered, "Of course, of course. Ask not what your company can do for you, and all that. Very dedicated! What would you say to a management position?" I stared at him incredulously. My plan had been another summer lounging around my parent's basement, playing video games. It almost sounded like this man was going to offer me a job in spite of my actions! I sat up. "No way, man. I'm not about to sign up to be some money-grubbing pencil-pusher like you." I thought about it for a second, then just in case, added, "Corporate freak." Mr. Manager grinned. "Good! I'm glad to hear it! Too many kids these days want a clear shot to the top, no effort. Working your way up from the bottom, that's the ticket! Learn from the little guy!" He stood, rubbing his hands together. "Young man, I would like to introduce you to someone. Mr. Engineer. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Back in a tick, eh?" He rounded his desk, pushed through the doors, and headed down the hall as I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't know how to do... well, anything! Whatever they put me in, it would definitely not be video games. And if I lost a job... well, let's just say that it would be better to have never tried at all that to have tried and failed, no matter what . Dad was very particular about "honest work," and he was prepared to back that up. But if last year had taught me anything, it was that if I couldn't get a job, I was fine. I needed to do something. Anything. What was the worst thing I could do? I gave a sidelong glance at the leather-covered desk. Maybe... if I left an, er, gift? But just before I could unzip my pants, the door swung open. Startled and already more than a little jumpy, I whirled, bringing my fist around in a wide punch that smacked right into the face of, I presume, Mr. Engineer. His head bounced off the wall, the door, and two chairs before it came to rest on the floor. Mr. Manager walked in to find me staring down at the unconscious, and likely wildly concussed, form. "Oh good heavens! Come with me, straight to security!" Well, it wasn't what I'd planned, but as long as they didn't press charges, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for! Or at least, that's what I thought. Jittery from the sudden influx of adrenaline, I missed the first part of what Mr. Manager told the security guard. I tuned in to hear him finish, "This young man laid him out with a single punch!" Two other security officers had dashed upstairs half way through, likely trying to restore Mr. Engineer to life. The security man, a beefy, middle-aged fellow with a name tag the read "Security," and in smaller letters, "B. Security," held out his hand. Meekly, I held out both of mine... and blinked when he grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down. "Good work, son. I don't know how that man slipped past security, but if it wasn't for your quick wits, it might have been 1992 all over again." As my jaw dropped in absolute horror, Mr. Manager clapped me on the shoulder. "You don't even need to sign anything, young man, we'll get it all sorted when you come in next week. Don't worry about coming in until Monday, you rest up! I'm sure this was quite the ordeal!" I was hardly out the front door before the man I'd knocked out was being lead outside in cuffs. What had I gotten myself in to? --- I stared down into my coffee cup. "That wasn't the worst of it, of course. When I started, I was trying to avoid work, but every time I slipped away, someone caught me brainstorming - that is, sleeping - or team-building - that is, playing video games on my work computer. Every move I made, I was praised. I got raise after raise..." I lifted my eyes to those of the young man on the other side of the table. He seemed a little unsure of himself. "But... isn't that a dream come true?" I leaned over the table. He flinched back. Good, he should be scared. "No, kid, you don't get it. People call me every day, asking if the Paper Report is ready, or if the Sheet Documents have been signed. I make things up. I sat in on a random meeting because they had donuts, and somehow saved the company a million dollars. Or rubles. I don't know. Maybe it was Zimbabwean dollars. That's not the point, though. I've given presentations that were nothing but the blank templates, and gotten standing ovations. It's insane! It's mind boggling!" The kid pushed his half-filled mug to the side, surreptitiously glancing at his watch. "So... uh... you really have no idea what you're doing?" I shook my head. "You're not listening. No one knows what they're doing. No one! Everyone talks about nothing! They give vague figures, present charts and graphs that have been lifted off Google Image Search - like, the first images - and act like they know what they're doing! Everyone does it, and everyone else acts like they're the greatest thing since NASA! The whole company is mad - mad I tell you!" I slumped weakly back against my chair, wiping the spittle from my lips. The kid looked a little more sure of himself, now. Maybe I gave him an out. Maybe the poor fool could get out, while there was still time. He nodded sagely. "Ah! I understand what you're saying!" I almost wept with relief. He understood! It wasn't just me! Finally, there was someone I could connect with, someone who- "So you're saying it's a marketing firm - right? Awesome! When do I start?"	"I'm also a drug user. Copious amounts!" I can hear my own disbelief. The interviewer shrugs. "You're in your prime, Mr. Johnson. Not many men can run the football quite as well as you." "I have an arrest record." "Yes, and a rushing record. That's why you're here." "Wh...what? I'm saying I have a real problem, man. I'm a kid, mid to early 20's. I come from nothing. And now I've been given tens of millions of dollars. I don't know how to handle that kind of money or the attention that comes with it. I spent three years in a college that encouraged me to take the easiest fucking classes so I can pass and play. Most of my teammates read at a 5th grade level, some were illiterate. And now I'm... I'm in too deep, man. For fucks sake, I see my face on fucking billboards, I'm on tv! I'm a brand! My ego walks into the room before I do and it's palpable. Women throw themselves at me. And for what? It's no surprise I turn to drugs to cope. But that's what I'm saying, man. I need help... I got a problem." "How's your knee holding up?" "Excuse me?" "Your knees, Mr. Johnson. They checked out in your physical but we want to hear it from you. How are your knees?" "....They're fine, man." "Fantastic! Sign here." "Okay, okay. Wait... I've hit women in the past. I mean... I mean, I'm not proud of it. Not at all. I hate myself for it. Can you understand me though? My professional working life is spent pummeling others and getting pummeled on a weekly basis and tens of thousands of mongoloids watch and celebrate. Even since I was a fucking child, I have been praised by my ability to physically brutalize others. I'm not proud of it. No. But I just don't know how to handle my anger, my problems. I've never learned another way. Why? Because I've never needed to. I think I deserve something, I have an inflated sense of who I am. The truth is, I'm a barbarian. Its what people pay me to do, people like you." "Just sign here, Mr. Johnson. Welcome to the team."
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	The water bottle was obviously full of something other than water. I took small sips in the waiting room, the smell of vodka stinging my eyes even with the orange juice to water it down. I had somewhere to be and it wasn’t in a job interview. “It’s good practice,” my wife had encouraged. “You just need to get back on that horse and give it a try.” She’d told me when I was asked to come in for the job. “I don’t think I want it,” I’d confided in her. But there was no arguing with her at that point. “Joseph Gordons?” The receptionist called my name. A tall thin man stood next to her, a dour look on his face. He shook my hand wordlessly and gestured for me to follow him. I ambled along behind him into a tight conference room. The lighting was fluorescent and room dingy. I half wanted to leave right then but I’d promised my wife I’d stay. “Joseph, good of you to come in,” the man said. “I’m Hank Norbitt, I do the hiring for the programming department, I find that HR doesn’t really understand programmers.” His voice reminded me of Eeyore. Once I started thinking about the sad donkey I could also see a resemblance in his expression. We settled into chairs on the corner of the table. I leaned my left arm on the table and set the water bottle down. Hank got comfortable as I began to speak. “I understand that some programmers have social issues, I’m not really one of them. I paid for university working as a bartender and spent all kinds of time with people, at the bar, after the bar. The morning before going back to work,” I replied probably too honestly. I’d told my wife I’d give it an honest try but I wanted to tank the interview and go. “I met my wife bartending.” “Was that a bar in town?” “Yea, Phil’s by Laurier. I learned a lot of skills there I’ve found applicable in other places,” I took a sip of my screwdriver before continuing. Hank leaned forward seeming intrigued. I’d led him here and prepared to drop an answer that’ll have him excusing me. “I learned how to keep my mouth shut, the bikers used to deal coke out of the back and I needed to make sure I didn’t show up on their radar. I learned how to break up a fight – you never know when you’ll need to convince a man to drop a knife. Every Friday these days it seems.” “You like to go out then? Party?” Hank’s eyes lit up, I was a little concerned that he was getting too into my answers. “Sometimes. I don’t do drugs anymore, almost OD’d at my last job – that’s why I’m looking for work, had some trouble with painkillers and needed to take some time off, get better,” I was lying now. “Now that’s interesting, you sound like you’re very good at recognizing your own flaws, that’s a strong quality in an employee,” Hank seemed far too into what I was saying and I wanted to get him to let me go. “I can see where I’ve fallen down, unless I’ve had too much to drink!” I exclaimed and laughed a bit louder than I probably should have. “Well, I do have some questions for you,” Hank glanced at the sheet in front of him, “first, if you could be any animal what would you be?” “I’d be a duck, their penises are the ultimate multi-tool,” I replied, half-serious. The alcohol was having the desired effect and I wasn’t tasting the vodka as much now. I committed to myself that I’d answer the questions quickly and just move through this stupid formality. I glanced at my watch – I needed to be out of here in ten minutes. “Oh that’s an original one, love that, I’ll have to use it sometime. Next what is your greatest weakness?” Hank asked with a smile. “Alcoholism.” “I appreciate the honesty. I like that in an employee. Now how many gas stations do you think are in the US?” “At least 12.” “Well you’re not wrong, and I supposed that’s what I get for asking a programmer that question – you’re up on your internet jokes right?” Hank laughed at his own comment, my grim expression started to break and I smiled with him for a moment. I took a swig of the alcohol. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Five years. I used to know where I’d be, until a week ago I’d have had an answer. “I don’t,” the smile that had been growing was lost again. Hank’s laid a hand on my arm. “If you need to talk…” “I think it’d be best if we move on with the questions, I don’t like to bring personal issues into work,” I interrupted. I didn’t know him and didn’t need this right now. “Right, ok. How honest would you say you are?” “Very,” I didn’t think I needed to elaborate, I’ve only told a couple lies so far. “Alright, last one – how would your family feel about you working long hours?” “I don’t have a family,” I replied without explanation. “You mentioned your wife,” he began. “She’s dead.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hank replied. His look quizzical and I knew what was coming next. One of two questions that I’d been asked so many times recently. “Drunk driver hit her car two days ago. She kicked it. I actually need to go now. Her visitation starts in half an hour and it’s a twenty minute drive,” I replied, standing. I wobbled a bit. I didn’t mean to but I did. “Are you…” “Driving? No, I’m not the goddamn moron who killed her.” “I’ll give you a call, about the job, but can I ask one last question?” Hank watched me. I hesitated and nodded, “why did you take the interview? Why not cancel or reschedule?” “I made my wife a promise that I’d come,” I replied. “I don’t think her death releases me from that.”	"I'm also a drug user. Copious amounts!" I can hear my own disbelief. The interviewer shrugs. "You're in your prime, Mr. Johnson. Not many men can run the football quite as well as you." "I have an arrest record." "Yes, and a rushing record. That's why you're here." "Wh...what? I'm saying I have a real problem, man. I'm a kid, mid to early 20's. I come from nothing. And now I've been given tens of millions of dollars. I don't know how to handle that kind of money or the attention that comes with it. I spent three years in a college that encouraged me to take the easiest fucking classes so I can pass and play. Most of my teammates read at a 5th grade level, some were illiterate. And now I'm... I'm in too deep, man. For fucks sake, I see my face on fucking billboards, I'm on tv! I'm a brand! My ego walks into the room before I do and it's palpable. Women throw themselves at me. And for what? It's no surprise I turn to drugs to cope. But that's what I'm saying, man. I need help... I got a problem." "How's your knee holding up?" "Excuse me?" "Your knees, Mr. Johnson. They checked out in your physical but we want to hear it from you. How are your knees?" "....They're fine, man." "Fantastic! Sign here." "Okay, okay. Wait... I've hit women in the past. I mean... I mean, I'm not proud of it. Not at all. I hate myself for it. Can you understand me though? My professional working life is spent pummeling others and getting pummeled on a weekly basis and tens of thousands of mongoloids watch and celebrate. Even since I was a fucking child, I have been praised by my ability to physically brutalize others. I'm not proud of it. No. But I just don't know how to handle my anger, my problems. I've never learned another way. Why? Because I've never needed to. I think I deserve something, I have an inflated sense of who I am. The truth is, I'm a barbarian. Its what people pay me to do, people like you." "Just sign here, Mr. Johnson. Welcome to the team."
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I stared over my monitor at the newest recruit, probably for longer than absolutely necessary. I hid my sweating palms and my shaking hands behind my desk. It had gone on so long... "Look. You have all the qualifications we're looking for. All I need is your signature, and you'll be set. But... how about we grab a coffee first?" The young man smiled and agreed. What did he know? He wanted to get in good with whoever pulled enough weight he could make a paycheck. I understood that. "Before you sign anything... This job isn't what you think it is. Frankly, I have no idea what it is. Nobody does. I started here almost twelve years ago. I didn't even want the position; my parents made me apply..." --- Wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, sporting a lovely three-day growth of untrimmed beard, I waltzed into Business Corporation Associates, Inc., and tossed a grubby resume on the secretary's desk. "Interview with wassname." The secretary, full of professionalism, smiled warmly. "Mr. Manager is waiting in his office, please go through." I shrugged through the door and plopped down sideways in a chair. Mr. Manager stood, offering his hand; I handed him my gum wrapper. All he did was chuckle and toss the wrapper in the trash. "Glad to see the youth are thinking about the environment these days," he rumbled. "Back in my day, kids just tossed their trash on the ground. Now, young man, I hear you're interested in a position here!" I shrugged. "Meh. It wasn't my idea. Parents said I needed a job." He chuckled again. "You listen to your parents, eh? If only my kids were as polite! Now, tell me - what are you looking for in our company?" I locked eyes with him, holding my gaze until it was long past uncomfortable. "Nothing. Get it?" He nodded as if I had made some deep comment, and answered, "Of course, of course. Ask not what your company can do for you, and all that. Very dedicated! What would you say to a management position?" I stared at him incredulously. My plan had been another summer lounging around my parent's basement, playing video games. It almost sounded like this man was going to offer me a job in spite of my actions! I sat up. "No way, man. I'm not about to sign up to be some money-grubbing pencil-pusher like you." I thought about it for a second, then just in case, added, "Corporate freak." Mr. Manager grinned. "Good! I'm glad to hear it! Too many kids these days want a clear shot to the top, no effort. Working your way up from the bottom, that's the ticket! Learn from the little guy!" He stood, rubbing his hands together. "Young man, I would like to introduce you to someone. Mr. Engineer. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Back in a tick, eh?" He rounded his desk, pushed through the doors, and headed down the hall as I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't know how to do... well, anything! Whatever they put me in, it would definitely not be video games. And if I lost a job... well, let's just say that it would be better to have never tried at all that to have tried and failed, no matter what . Dad was very particular about "honest work," and he was prepared to back that up. But if last year had taught me anything, it was that if I couldn't get a job, I was fine. I needed to do something. Anything. What was the worst thing I could do? I gave a sidelong glance at the leather-covered desk. Maybe... if I left an, er, gift? But just before I could unzip my pants, the door swung open. Startled and already more than a little jumpy, I whirled, bringing my fist around in a wide punch that smacked right into the face of, I presume, Mr. Engineer. His head bounced off the wall, the door, and two chairs before it came to rest on the floor. Mr. Manager walked in to find me staring down at the unconscious, and likely wildly concussed, form. "Oh good heavens! Come with me, straight to security!" Well, it wasn't what I'd planned, but as long as they didn't press charges, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for! Or at least, that's what I thought. Jittery from the sudden influx of adrenaline, I missed the first part of what Mr. Manager told the security guard. I tuned in to hear him finish, "This young man laid him out with a single punch!" Two other security officers had dashed upstairs half way through, likely trying to restore Mr. Engineer to life. The security man, a beefy, middle-aged fellow with a name tag the read "Security," and in smaller letters, "B. Security," held out his hand. Meekly, I held out both of mine... and blinked when he grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down. "Good work, son. I don't know how that man slipped past security, but if it wasn't for your quick wits, it might have been 1992 all over again." As my jaw dropped in absolute horror, Mr. Manager clapped me on the shoulder. "You don't even need to sign anything, young man, we'll get it all sorted when you come in next week. Don't worry about coming in until Monday, you rest up! I'm sure this was quite the ordeal!" I was hardly out the front door before the man I'd knocked out was being lead outside in cuffs. What had I gotten myself in to? --- I stared down into my coffee cup. "That wasn't the worst of it, of course. When I started, I was trying to avoid work, but every time I slipped away, someone caught me brainstorming - that is, sleeping - or team-building - that is, playing video games on my work computer. Every move I made, I was praised. I got raise after raise..." I lifted my eyes to those of the young man on the other side of the table. He seemed a little unsure of himself. "But... isn't that a dream come true?" I leaned over the table. He flinched back. Good, he should be scared. "No, kid, you don't get it. People call me every day, asking if the Paper Report is ready, or if the Sheet Documents have been signed. I make things up. I sat in on a random meeting because they had donuts, and somehow saved the company a million dollars. Or rubles. I don't know. Maybe it was Zimbabwean dollars. That's not the point, though. I've given presentations that were nothing but the blank templates, and gotten standing ovations. It's insane! It's mind boggling!" The kid pushed his half-filled mug to the side, surreptitiously glancing at his watch. "So... uh... you really have no idea what you're doing?" I shook my head. "You're not listening. No one knows what they're doing. No one! Everyone talks about nothing! They give vague figures, present charts and graphs that have been lifted off Google Image Search - like, the first images - and act like they know what they're doing! Everyone does it, and everyone else acts like they're the greatest thing since NASA! The whole company is mad - mad I tell you!" I slumped weakly back against my chair, wiping the spittle from my lips. The kid looked a little more sure of himself, now. Maybe I gave him an out. Maybe the poor fool could get out, while there was still time. He nodded sagely. "Ah! I understand what you're saying!" I almost wept with relief. He understood! It wasn't just me! Finally, there was someone I could connect with, someone who- "So you're saying it's a marketing firm - right? Awesome! When do I start?"	This happened to me in real life. I was unemployed, and going to school. (I got to collect unemployment because I was working full time while going to school, and got laid off). I didn't want to go back to work. Unemployment office sends me a job, that I'm qualified for. Go to interview in dirty clothes, no shave, etc. I walk in and the guy doing the hiring, was a guy I used to work with. Hired me on the spot.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	Sixteen-year-old Theodore Cruz slouched in the cheap plastic booth, sucking the last dregs of his soda with obnoxious zeal and using a ketchup packet to paint a frowny-face on the table. In preparation for this interview, he’d donned his “Sperm Donor” T-shirt and smeared a tablespoon of lard into his hair. The look he was going for, despite his parents’ entreaties to get a job, was “unhireable,” and he was nailing it. “Hi, you must be Theodore. I’m Sharona, the manager.” A moderately-attractive woman in her mid-twenties had appeared, carrying a clipboard and wearing a bright smile. He popped his gum at her and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Hi, baby. Nice jugs. They real?” “Why, yes they are, thanks for asking.” Her smile didn’t slip a fraction. She slid into the seat across from him, careful to place her paperwork away from his ketchup puddle. “So, why do you want to work for the Sandwich Duke? You left that question blank, along with most of the other questions.” “I dunno. Guess I’d like to steal food when no one’s watching.” He pulled out his gum, examined it, and stuck it under the table. “Ah, an opportunist. You’ll be happy to know that the camera beside the back fryer is broken, so you’ll be able to help yourself. Within reason, of course.” She made a tiny note on her clipboard. “This question’s just for fun, to help me get to know you better: if you were a food, what would you be and why?” “Dog. Chinks eat dogs, so why can’t we? I think it’d be cool to eat something that would make all those sissy animal lovers lose their shit.” Sharona fiddled with the silver cat pin on her lapel and frowned, her composure cracking slightly for the first time. “Yes, well, alright…I like a man who can think outside the box. Last question: what would you say your greatest strength is?” He yawned. “I’m really good at finding ways around the school firewall to stream porn in class. I sell my secrets to the other losers for beer money. Even though they’re totally loaded, my parents are real tightwads.” “I see. It sounds like you’re a real entrepreneur. Good thing you’ll be drawing a real paycheck soon. Welcome aboard!” She stuck out a hand to shake, once more grinning broadly at him. He gaped at her speechlessly, resembling a wide-mouth bass that has swallowed a hook. He was so stunned that he forgot to be rude as he accepted his new uniform and tentative schedule. Sharona watched the little asshat go, already calculating ways to maximize his misery for the three months she had him until school started again. She thought that scraping all of the gum out from under the tables would be a good place to start. Maybe the little toerag would quit – if he did, it wasn’t her fault. She watched the kid climb into his dad’s brand-new sports car and marveled to herself at the peculiar behavior of the very rich. Who else would have paid her five grand to hire their stupid kid? For that kind of money, she would put up with a lot of bullshit for twenty hours a week. Maybe they'd even do it again next summer.	This happened to me in real life. I was unemployed, and going to school. (I got to collect unemployment because I was working full time while going to school, and got laid off). I didn't want to go back to work. Unemployment office sends me a job, that I'm qualified for. Go to interview in dirty clothes, no shave, etc. I walk in and the guy doing the hiring, was a guy I used to work with. Hired me on the spot.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	The water bottle was obviously full of something other than water. I took small sips in the waiting room, the smell of vodka stinging my eyes even with the orange juice to water it down. I had somewhere to be and it wasn’t in a job interview. “It’s good practice,” my wife had encouraged. “You just need to get back on that horse and give it a try.” She’d told me when I was asked to come in for the job. “I don’t think I want it,” I’d confided in her. But there was no arguing with her at that point. “Joseph Gordons?” The receptionist called my name. A tall thin man stood next to her, a dour look on his face. He shook my hand wordlessly and gestured for me to follow him. I ambled along behind him into a tight conference room. The lighting was fluorescent and room dingy. I half wanted to leave right then but I’d promised my wife I’d stay. “Joseph, good of you to come in,” the man said. “I’m Hank Norbitt, I do the hiring for the programming department, I find that HR doesn’t really understand programmers.” His voice reminded me of Eeyore. Once I started thinking about the sad donkey I could also see a resemblance in his expression. We settled into chairs on the corner of the table. I leaned my left arm on the table and set the water bottle down. Hank got comfortable as I began to speak. “I understand that some programmers have social issues, I’m not really one of them. I paid for university working as a bartender and spent all kinds of time with people, at the bar, after the bar. The morning before going back to work,” I replied probably too honestly. I’d told my wife I’d give it an honest try but I wanted to tank the interview and go. “I met my wife bartending.” “Was that a bar in town?” “Yea, Phil’s by Laurier. I learned a lot of skills there I’ve found applicable in other places,” I took a sip of my screwdriver before continuing. Hank leaned forward seeming intrigued. I’d led him here and prepared to drop an answer that’ll have him excusing me. “I learned how to keep my mouth shut, the bikers used to deal coke out of the back and I needed to make sure I didn’t show up on their radar. I learned how to break up a fight – you never know when you’ll need to convince a man to drop a knife. Every Friday these days it seems.” “You like to go out then? Party?” Hank’s eyes lit up, I was a little concerned that he was getting too into my answers. “Sometimes. I don’t do drugs anymore, almost OD’d at my last job – that’s why I’m looking for work, had some trouble with painkillers and needed to take some time off, get better,” I was lying now. “Now that’s interesting, you sound like you’re very good at recognizing your own flaws, that’s a strong quality in an employee,” Hank seemed far too into what I was saying and I wanted to get him to let me go. “I can see where I’ve fallen down, unless I’ve had too much to drink!” I exclaimed and laughed a bit louder than I probably should have. “Well, I do have some questions for you,” Hank glanced at the sheet in front of him, “first, if you could be any animal what would you be?” “I’d be a duck, their penises are the ultimate multi-tool,” I replied, half-serious. The alcohol was having the desired effect and I wasn’t tasting the vodka as much now. I committed to myself that I’d answer the questions quickly and just move through this stupid formality. I glanced at my watch – I needed to be out of here in ten minutes. “Oh that’s an original one, love that, I’ll have to use it sometime. Next what is your greatest weakness?” Hank asked with a smile. “Alcoholism.” “I appreciate the honesty. I like that in an employee. Now how many gas stations do you think are in the US?” “At least 12.” “Well you’re not wrong, and I supposed that’s what I get for asking a programmer that question – you’re up on your internet jokes right?” Hank laughed at his own comment, my grim expression started to break and I smiled with him for a moment. I took a swig of the alcohol. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Five years. I used to know where I’d be, until a week ago I’d have had an answer. “I don’t,” the smile that had been growing was lost again. Hank’s laid a hand on my arm. “If you need to talk…” “I think it’d be best if we move on with the questions, I don’t like to bring personal issues into work,” I interrupted. I didn’t know him and didn’t need this right now. “Right, ok. How honest would you say you are?” “Very,” I didn’t think I needed to elaborate, I’ve only told a couple lies so far. “Alright, last one – how would your family feel about you working long hours?” “I don’t have a family,” I replied without explanation. “You mentioned your wife,” he began. “She’s dead.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hank replied. His look quizzical and I knew what was coming next. One of two questions that I’d been asked so many times recently. “Drunk driver hit her car two days ago. She kicked it. I actually need to go now. Her visitation starts in half an hour and it’s a twenty minute drive,” I replied, standing. I wobbled a bit. I didn’t mean to but I did. “Are you…” “Driving? No, I’m not the goddamn moron who killed her.” “I’ll give you a call, about the job, but can I ask one last question?” Hank watched me. I hesitated and nodded, “why did you take the interview? Why not cancel or reschedule?” “I made my wife a promise that I’d come,” I replied. “I don’t think her death releases me from that.”	This happened to me in real life. I was unemployed, and going to school. (I got to collect unemployment because I was working full time while going to school, and got laid off). I didn't want to go back to work. Unemployment office sends me a job, that I'm qualified for. Go to interview in dirty clothes, no shave, etc. I walk in and the guy doing the hiring, was a guy I used to work with. Hired me on the spot.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I stared over my monitor at the newest recruit, probably for longer than absolutely necessary. I hid my sweating palms and my shaking hands behind my desk. It had gone on so long... "Look. You have all the qualifications we're looking for. All I need is your signature, and you'll be set. But... how about we grab a coffee first?" The young man smiled and agreed. What did he know? He wanted to get in good with whoever pulled enough weight he could make a paycheck. I understood that. "Before you sign anything... This job isn't what you think it is. Frankly, I have no idea what it is. Nobody does. I started here almost twelve years ago. I didn't even want the position; my parents made me apply..." --- Wearing a stained T-shirt and a pair of ripped jeans, sporting a lovely three-day growth of untrimmed beard, I waltzed into Business Corporation Associates, Inc., and tossed a grubby resume on the secretary's desk. "Interview with wassname." The secretary, full of professionalism, smiled warmly. "Mr. Manager is waiting in his office, please go through." I shrugged through the door and plopped down sideways in a chair. Mr. Manager stood, offering his hand; I handed him my gum wrapper. All he did was chuckle and toss the wrapper in the trash. "Glad to see the youth are thinking about the environment these days," he rumbled. "Back in my day, kids just tossed their trash on the ground. Now, young man, I hear you're interested in a position here!" I shrugged. "Meh. It wasn't my idea. Parents said I needed a job." He chuckled again. "You listen to your parents, eh? If only my kids were as polite! Now, tell me - what are you looking for in our company?" I locked eyes with him, holding my gaze until it was long past uncomfortable. "Nothing. Get it?" He nodded as if I had made some deep comment, and answered, "Of course, of course. Ask not what your company can do for you, and all that. Very dedicated! What would you say to a management position?" I stared at him incredulously. My plan had been another summer lounging around my parent's basement, playing video games. It almost sounded like this man was going to offer me a job in spite of my actions! I sat up. "No way, man. I'm not about to sign up to be some money-grubbing pencil-pusher like you." I thought about it for a second, then just in case, added, "Corporate freak." Mr. Manager grinned. "Good! I'm glad to hear it! Too many kids these days want a clear shot to the top, no effort. Working your way up from the bottom, that's the ticket! Learn from the little guy!" He stood, rubbing his hands together. "Young man, I would like to introduce you to someone. Mr. Engineer. I think you'll hit it off just fine. Back in a tick, eh?" He rounded his desk, pushed through the doors, and headed down the hall as I broke out in a cold sweat. I didn't know how to do... well, anything! Whatever they put me in, it would definitely not be video games. And if I lost a job... well, let's just say that it would be better to have never tried at all that to have tried and failed, no matter what . Dad was very particular about "honest work," and he was prepared to back that up. But if last year had taught me anything, it was that if I couldn't get a job, I was fine. I needed to do something. Anything. What was the worst thing I could do? I gave a sidelong glance at the leather-covered desk. Maybe... if I left an, er, gift? But just before I could unzip my pants, the door swung open. Startled and already more than a little jumpy, I whirled, bringing my fist around in a wide punch that smacked right into the face of, I presume, Mr. Engineer. His head bounced off the wall, the door, and two chairs before it came to rest on the floor. Mr. Manager walked in to find me staring down at the unconscious, and likely wildly concussed, form. "Oh good heavens! Come with me, straight to security!" Well, it wasn't what I'd planned, but as long as they didn't press charges, this was the best outcome I could have hoped for! Or at least, that's what I thought. Jittery from the sudden influx of adrenaline, I missed the first part of what Mr. Manager told the security guard. I tuned in to hear him finish, "This young man laid him out with a single punch!" Two other security officers had dashed upstairs half way through, likely trying to restore Mr. Engineer to life. The security man, a beefy, middle-aged fellow with a name tag the read "Security," and in smaller letters, "B. Security," held out his hand. Meekly, I held out both of mine... and blinked when he grabbed my right hand and started pumping it up and down. "Good work, son. I don't know how that man slipped past security, but if it wasn't for your quick wits, it might have been 1992 all over again." As my jaw dropped in absolute horror, Mr. Manager clapped me on the shoulder. "You don't even need to sign anything, young man, we'll get it all sorted when you come in next week. Don't worry about coming in until Monday, you rest up! I'm sure this was quite the ordeal!" I was hardly out the front door before the man I'd knocked out was being lead outside in cuffs. What had I gotten myself in to? --- I stared down into my coffee cup. "That wasn't the worst of it, of course. When I started, I was trying to avoid work, but every time I slipped away, someone caught me brainstorming - that is, sleeping - or team-building - that is, playing video games on my work computer. Every move I made, I was praised. I got raise after raise..." I lifted my eyes to those of the young man on the other side of the table. He seemed a little unsure of himself. "But... isn't that a dream come true?" I leaned over the table. He flinched back. Good, he should be scared. "No, kid, you don't get it. People call me every day, asking if the Paper Report is ready, or if the Sheet Documents have been signed. I make things up. I sat in on a random meeting because they had donuts, and somehow saved the company a million dollars. Or rubles. I don't know. Maybe it was Zimbabwean dollars. That's not the point, though. I've given presentations that were nothing but the blank templates, and gotten standing ovations. It's insane! It's mind boggling!" The kid pushed his half-filled mug to the side, surreptitiously glancing at his watch. "So... uh... you really have no idea what you're doing?" I shook my head. "You're not listening. No one knows what they're doing. No one! Everyone talks about nothing! They give vague figures, present charts and graphs that have been lifted off Google Image Search - like, the first images - and act like they know what they're doing! Everyone does it, and everyone else acts like they're the greatest thing since NASA! The whole company is mad - mad I tell you!" I slumped weakly back against my chair, wiping the spittle from my lips. The kid looked a little more sure of himself, now. Maybe I gave him an out. Maybe the poor fool could get out, while there was still time. He nodded sagely. "Ah! I understand what you're saying!" I almost wept with relief. He understood! It wasn't just me! Finally, there was someone I could connect with, someone who- "So you're saying it's a marketing firm - right? Awesome! When do I start?"	The old man sat with wrinkled hands, And a far more wrinkled brow, Shoulders weighed down by a career's demands, To be uplifted two weeks from now. The notice was saved as a pdf, Attached to a stale email in drafts, For tenure alone was why he was left, And his position had to be staffed. Across the table was one his junior, With a stain across his shirt, But to the elder baby boomer, This position he would not skirt. "Is there a drug test?" The new one asked, and rubbed a reddened eye, "And if I fail, can I do my best, To just give it another second try?" "We dare not discriminate, Should you provide a doctors note. Which shall therefore authenticate, Any symptoms, no matter how remote. " "Because I've got snow like cocaine, And loads of amphetamines, Plus a date with Mary Jane, Not to mention my ketamines." "Though it is inopportune," Said the senior, and frowned at the fit, "We'll expect you quite soon?" Because he wouldn't be around to see it.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	“So, why do you think you deserve to work for us?” The interviewer asked me. “I don’t,” I replied with cruel honesty. The bald man, in his forties, laughed at me. I showed him a muffled expression. “You seem like a jokester! Exactly the kind of a person we aim for!” “I don’t want this job, you know…” Again, I need to give him the cruel honesty. His laugh resonated through the room, once again. My face was baffled with weirdness. “Nobody wants this job! You have just become one of my favourites!” “Could we just get to the end, I’m feeling too lazy right now.” Another, subtle way of saying “Please, for the love of God, don’t hire me.” The interviewer’s face was put into deep thought, as I waited for him to finish his incredibly boring ritual. That didn’t come; after about ten minutes, I was just pissed off, and since I don’t need this job, I needed to give it to him hard and cold. “You know what, either speak right now or I’m leaving this wretched interview.” The man stopped his thinking, stood up and yelled something I didn’t quite grasp. Someone entered the room, a tall young blond woman, gave him a piece of paper. He sat on his chair, once again, and started talking: “You… Excellent. We need a person who wouldn’t take anyone’s shit! You are the most perfect candidate I’ve ever seen in my entire life!” My eyebrow twitched in annoyance, I sighed. I decided to play with him, in the hopes of getting kicked out. “Give me the most paying position with the least amount of work, I want to the top of this company.” Surely, this should piss him off. His eyes widened, his jaw was left hanging. A tall, black and bald person entered the interviewing room, speaking with his rough, manly voice: “Son, you are the perfect person to inherit my company and my riches.” After that, I was given, for some reason, the ownership of this company, as well as a few billions of dollars. The person, the tall black man, was dying of cancer and wanted to give his fortunes to someone. It seemed he chose an interview like this. I’ll have to thank my mother later, to think that her meddling in my life and controlling it, turned out to make be a billionaire… I couldn’t even imagine it in my wildest dreams!	The old man sat with wrinkled hands, And a far more wrinkled brow, Shoulders weighed down by a career's demands, To be uplifted two weeks from now. The notice was saved as a pdf, Attached to a stale email in drafts, For tenure alone was why he was left, And his position had to be staffed. Across the table was one his junior, With a stain across his shirt, But to the elder baby boomer, This position he would not skirt. "Is there a drug test?" The new one asked, and rubbed a reddened eye, "And if I fail, can I do my best, To just give it another second try?" "We dare not discriminate, Should you provide a doctors note. Which shall therefore authenticate, Any symptoms, no matter how remote. " "Because I've got snow like cocaine, And loads of amphetamines, Plus a date with Mary Jane, Not to mention my ketamines." "Though it is inopportune," Said the senior, and frowned at the fit, "We'll expect you quite soon?" Because he wouldn't be around to see it.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	Sixteen-year-old Theodore Cruz slouched in the cheap plastic booth, sucking the last dregs of his soda with obnoxious zeal and using a ketchup packet to paint a frowny-face on the table. In preparation for this interview, he’d donned his “Sperm Donor” T-shirt and smeared a tablespoon of lard into his hair. The look he was going for, despite his parents’ entreaties to get a job, was “unhireable,” and he was nailing it. “Hi, you must be Theodore. I’m Sharona, the manager.” A moderately-attractive woman in her mid-twenties had appeared, carrying a clipboard and wearing a bright smile. He popped his gum at her and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Hi, baby. Nice jugs. They real?” “Why, yes they are, thanks for asking.” Her smile didn’t slip a fraction. She slid into the seat across from him, careful to place her paperwork away from his ketchup puddle. “So, why do you want to work for the Sandwich Duke? You left that question blank, along with most of the other questions.” “I dunno. Guess I’d like to steal food when no one’s watching.” He pulled out his gum, examined it, and stuck it under the table. “Ah, an opportunist. You’ll be happy to know that the camera beside the back fryer is broken, so you’ll be able to help yourself. Within reason, of course.” She made a tiny note on her clipboard. “This question’s just for fun, to help me get to know you better: if you were a food, what would you be and why?” “Dog. Chinks eat dogs, so why can’t we? I think it’d be cool to eat something that would make all those sissy animal lovers lose their shit.” Sharona fiddled with the silver cat pin on her lapel and frowned, her composure cracking slightly for the first time. “Yes, well, alright…I like a man who can think outside the box. Last question: what would you say your greatest strength is?” He yawned. “I’m really good at finding ways around the school firewall to stream porn in class. I sell my secrets to the other losers for beer money. Even though they’re totally loaded, my parents are real tightwads.” “I see. It sounds like you’re a real entrepreneur. Good thing you’ll be drawing a real paycheck soon. Welcome aboard!” She stuck out a hand to shake, once more grinning broadly at him. He gaped at her speechlessly, resembling a wide-mouth bass that has swallowed a hook. He was so stunned that he forgot to be rude as he accepted his new uniform and tentative schedule. Sharona watched the little asshat go, already calculating ways to maximize his misery for the three months she had him until school started again. She thought that scraping all of the gum out from under the tables would be a good place to start. Maybe the little toerag would quit – if he did, it wasn’t her fault. She watched the kid climb into his dad’s brand-new sports car and marveled to herself at the peculiar behavior of the very rich. Who else would have paid her five grand to hire their stupid kid? For that kind of money, she would put up with a lot of bullshit for twenty hours a week. Maybe they'd even do it again next summer.	The old man sat with wrinkled hands, And a far more wrinkled brow, Shoulders weighed down by a career's demands, To be uplifted two weeks from now. The notice was saved as a pdf, Attached to a stale email in drafts, For tenure alone was why he was left, And his position had to be staffed. Across the table was one his junior, With a stain across his shirt, But to the elder baby boomer, This position he would not skirt. "Is there a drug test?" The new one asked, and rubbed a reddened eye, "And if I fail, can I do my best, To just give it another second try?" "We dare not discriminate, Should you provide a doctors note. Which shall therefore authenticate, Any symptoms, no matter how remote. " "Because I've got snow like cocaine, And loads of amphetamines, Plus a date with Mary Jane, Not to mention my ketamines." "Though it is inopportune," Said the senior, and frowned at the fit, "We'll expect you quite soon?" Because he wouldn't be around to see it.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	The water bottle was obviously full of something other than water. I took small sips in the waiting room, the smell of vodka stinging my eyes even with the orange juice to water it down. I had somewhere to be and it wasn’t in a job interview. “It’s good practice,” my wife had encouraged. “You just need to get back on that horse and give it a try.” She’d told me when I was asked to come in for the job. “I don’t think I want it,” I’d confided in her. But there was no arguing with her at that point. “Joseph Gordons?” The receptionist called my name. A tall thin man stood next to her, a dour look on his face. He shook my hand wordlessly and gestured for me to follow him. I ambled along behind him into a tight conference room. The lighting was fluorescent and room dingy. I half wanted to leave right then but I’d promised my wife I’d stay. “Joseph, good of you to come in,” the man said. “I’m Hank Norbitt, I do the hiring for the programming department, I find that HR doesn’t really understand programmers.” His voice reminded me of Eeyore. Once I started thinking about the sad donkey I could also see a resemblance in his expression. We settled into chairs on the corner of the table. I leaned my left arm on the table and set the water bottle down. Hank got comfortable as I began to speak. “I understand that some programmers have social issues, I’m not really one of them. I paid for university working as a bartender and spent all kinds of time with people, at the bar, after the bar. The morning before going back to work,” I replied probably too honestly. I’d told my wife I’d give it an honest try but I wanted to tank the interview and go. “I met my wife bartending.” “Was that a bar in town?” “Yea, Phil’s by Laurier. I learned a lot of skills there I’ve found applicable in other places,” I took a sip of my screwdriver before continuing. Hank leaned forward seeming intrigued. I’d led him here and prepared to drop an answer that’ll have him excusing me. “I learned how to keep my mouth shut, the bikers used to deal coke out of the back and I needed to make sure I didn’t show up on their radar. I learned how to break up a fight – you never know when you’ll need to convince a man to drop a knife. Every Friday these days it seems.” “You like to go out then? Party?” Hank’s eyes lit up, I was a little concerned that he was getting too into my answers. “Sometimes. I don’t do drugs anymore, almost OD’d at my last job – that’s why I’m looking for work, had some trouble with painkillers and needed to take some time off, get better,” I was lying now. “Now that’s interesting, you sound like you’re very good at recognizing your own flaws, that’s a strong quality in an employee,” Hank seemed far too into what I was saying and I wanted to get him to let me go. “I can see where I’ve fallen down, unless I’ve had too much to drink!” I exclaimed and laughed a bit louder than I probably should have. “Well, I do have some questions for you,” Hank glanced at the sheet in front of him, “first, if you could be any animal what would you be?” “I’d be a duck, their penises are the ultimate multi-tool,” I replied, half-serious. The alcohol was having the desired effect and I wasn’t tasting the vodka as much now. I committed to myself that I’d answer the questions quickly and just move through this stupid formality. I glanced at my watch – I needed to be out of here in ten minutes. “Oh that’s an original one, love that, I’ll have to use it sometime. Next what is your greatest weakness?” Hank asked with a smile. “Alcoholism.” “I appreciate the honesty. I like that in an employee. Now how many gas stations do you think are in the US?” “At least 12.” “Well you’re not wrong, and I supposed that’s what I get for asking a programmer that question – you’re up on your internet jokes right?” Hank laughed at his own comment, my grim expression started to break and I smiled with him for a moment. I took a swig of the alcohol. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Five years. I used to know where I’d be, until a week ago I’d have had an answer. “I don’t,” the smile that had been growing was lost again. Hank’s laid a hand on my arm. “If you need to talk…” “I think it’d be best if we move on with the questions, I don’t like to bring personal issues into work,” I interrupted. I didn’t know him and didn’t need this right now. “Right, ok. How honest would you say you are?” “Very,” I didn’t think I needed to elaborate, I’ve only told a couple lies so far. “Alright, last one – how would your family feel about you working long hours?” “I don’t have a family,” I replied without explanation. “You mentioned your wife,” he began. “She’s dead.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hank replied. His look quizzical and I knew what was coming next. One of two questions that I’d been asked so many times recently. “Drunk driver hit her car two days ago. She kicked it. I actually need to go now. Her visitation starts in half an hour and it’s a twenty minute drive,” I replied, standing. I wobbled a bit. I didn’t mean to but I did. “Are you…” “Driving? No, I’m not the goddamn moron who killed her.” “I’ll give you a call, about the job, but can I ask one last question?” Hank watched me. I hesitated and nodded, “why did you take the interview? Why not cancel or reschedule?” “I made my wife a promise that I’d come,” I replied. “I don’t think her death releases me from that.”	The old man sat with wrinkled hands, And a far more wrinkled brow, Shoulders weighed down by a career's demands, To be uplifted two weeks from now. The notice was saved as a pdf, Attached to a stale email in drafts, For tenure alone was why he was left, And his position had to be staffed. Across the table was one his junior, With a stain across his shirt, But to the elder baby boomer, This position he would not skirt. "Is there a drug test?" The new one asked, and rubbed a reddened eye, "And if I fail, can I do my best, To just give it another second try?" "We dare not discriminate, Should you provide a doctors note. Which shall therefore authenticate, Any symptoms, no matter how remote. " "Because I've got snow like cocaine, And loads of amphetamines, Plus a date with Mary Jane, Not to mention my ketamines." "Though it is inopportune," Said the senior, and frowned at the fit, "We'll expect you quite soon?" Because he wouldn't be around to see it.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I let out a hefty burp as the barman took away my last pint. My seventh pint. Now, now I was ready. I didn't so much as hop off my stool, as fall off my stool, but I regained my balance, nodded again at the bemused barman, and made my dragging tracks out of the pub. 3:06pm. I was already six minutes late. Fantastic! And it had only taken me just over an hour to down those six pints. Was it seven? I actually felt pretty good then, I'd have to push that pervasive feeling down into my belly before I got in. I skipped merrily into the building, before reminding myself that I didn't want to show too much enthusiasm. I burped again, openly. The sound echoed around the dusty old corridor I was making my way through, hopefully just far enough to reach into the main stage area. And then I was in the actual theatre, that hadn't taken so long. Things were a little fuzzy. "Hello!" I shouted, muting myself quickly. Too friendly. Way too friendly. "I'm here for the...the audition." I gulped out, swaying slightly. A young, quite attracti-no, get the goggles off-mousy little woman with a clipboard hushed me. I thought she was the noisy one. Both of her was. "The director's already auditioning someone, you-" She was cut off by the director, who's head had turned from the stage to me. I think he was wearing clothes. It's only conjecture at this point. "Now THAT is the kind of bold entrance I'm looking for!" He turned back to the man auditioning. "Get the fuck off my stage, kindly, darling." Back to me. "Well? I recognise your headshot's, your agent was awfully keen that we see you. I didn't see it myself but now..." He was balding, actually quite attrac-NO-focus on fucking it up, fuck. Focus on something. I walked along the walls and the seats of the place it seemed as the revolving theatre steadily decided to pulse in time with my steps as I walked along the walls and the seats and the of place as I walked along- "Have you learnt the audition piece?" What? Hadn't bothered looking. When did I get on the stage? I didn't want to work yet, it was too soon. Fuck my agent. Maybe I should fuck my agent. "Maybe I should fuck my agent?" Was that my outside head voice? "You're a bit of a wildcard aren't you? Forget the piece, I like what I see. I want to workshop this with you." No, no, no. That was a good start, I didn't DO good starts. I had to rectify this. By completely throwing it. No time for subtlety. But Janice, she wouldn't represent me anymore in the future if I made it obvious? Did I care? I had to care...I couldn't set myself back eleven years representation wise, but I needed more time off. "I'm going to be honesht...excuse me...with you mate. I'm pissed." Silence. That was good right? Why was he smiling wider? "Oh yes!" He enthused, raising his hands up. How many fingers? "So. Am. I DARLING! That's why we're doing this isn't it? To show them how pissed off we are. We'll make them really think about it before they do it to they're own families in the future!" What was this? He hadn't understood, the prick. I didn't want to think about families. Why did everyone want to talk about- "No." I said, trying to strike a defiant pose. I nailed it. "I'm pissed." More silence, yet. Yes? "I'm fucked. I'm trollied. I'm smashed. Drunk. As the probervial...skunk." I smiled at my own...well that wasn't really a joke was it? No don't smile! "No, you need to stop smiling too!" Out of the head voice again. Didn't matter. I had to throw it now. "Ooooh! Lynn, make a note of this man here! We've got ourselves a method actor! I love it! You know, it's this kind of bravery that I've been searching for these past two weeks. It's splendid. Show me angry!" "OH FUCK OFF!" I roared, who was this-Wait! No! Wrong timing! I burped again and tripped over a rope that wasn't there. "I'm actually really nice." The director jumped out of his seat and squealed. The man squealed. It was adorable really but I was not doing the best job at doing the worst job like I'd hoped. "Oh I'm sure you are, but I can feel that power behind you, that burning intensity. I shouldn't be saying this but you're the best fucking fit for this part we've had on that stage yet. I just need to get a glimpse of your-" "No...please no!" I wailed, dropping to my knee's in a manner I wished I could summon when I really wanted a part. "I can't do this. I'm just. Not. Ready. Yet." "YES!!!" The director squealed, no screeched, no screamed. "Your sensitive side is BRILLIANT! You've got the part! Lynn, mark him down for the drunken, broken father role, I don't want to see anyone else, let's go for a coffee, I'm sick of this fucking space." I blinked and he was gone. Did he say. Drunken. Broken. Father?	The old man sat with wrinkled hands, And a far more wrinkled brow, Shoulders weighed down by a career's demands, To be uplifted two weeks from now. The notice was saved as a pdf, Attached to a stale email in drafts, For tenure alone was why he was left, And his position had to be staffed. Across the table was one his junior, With a stain across his shirt, But to the elder baby boomer, This position he would not skirt. "Is there a drug test?" The new one asked, and rubbed a reddened eye, "And if I fail, can I do my best, To just give it another second try?" "We dare not discriminate, Should you provide a doctors note. Which shall therefore authenticate, Any symptoms, no matter how remote. " "Because I've got snow like cocaine, And loads of amphetamines, Plus a date with Mary Jane, Not to mention my ketamines." "Though it is inopportune," Said the senior, and frowned at the fit, "We'll expect you quite soon?" Because he wouldn't be around to see it.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	Silence resounded from every corner of the room. Such a quiet place to work, Sam thought. Though he may need to suffer through this interview, Sam took comfort in the knowledge that he would need not endure such silence every day. The room itself was plain enough. No larger than Sam’s own bedroom, the walls were bare, and the furnishings sparse. A thick, crude table of oak separated the uncomfortable chair in which Sam sat from the identical chair where the gruff, middle-aged man sat glaring at him. A lamp in the far corner of the room, behind this man, abated only a little of the darkness, leaving the man’s face mostly concealed in shadow. In this gloom, Sam could only make out the man’s broad shoulders, his square head, and, most significantly, the absence of a left hand. Sam marveled at the size of this man, and speculated that he must have had a more physical sort of career before heading this newspaper. The silence that had fostered Sam’s stream of thought was broken abruptly when the man cleared his throat with a rough growl. “Mr. Clark?” the man asked. Sam prepared to reply, but it seemed this was no question. “I am to understand that you are a writer?” Sam shrugged. Perhaps if I merely keep silent, they’ll have no reason to hire me. Sam only desired to write freely, but his mother had forced this interview upon him when it had been over three months since his last royalties had trickled in. “You are the author of ‘The Final Storm’?” Sam nodded hesitantly, confused. “How- well- it is not finished. There is only an incomplete manuscript at my house...” Sam’s voice trailed off until silence had filled the room once again. “This is a very invigorating work, Mr. Clark.” Sam suddenly wished there were fewer shadows present to conceal this man’s expression. His tone was in some ways unnerving. “To be quite honest, Mr. uh, sir...it’s really not spectacular in any regard. I- uh, am in reality quite a mediocre writer. I-“ The man held up the stump that had once been his left hand. “No, no Mr. Clark, I think I like this work of yours.” A small light seemed to glint off the man’s right eye for a moment, and it seemed to Sam that a smile may have flashed somewhere in the shadows that were his face. “The story is of a quality we rarely see. It seems to contain more emotion and truth than one typically finds in such works.” This interview was too full of praise for Sam’s taste. He needed to end this interview soon. “Really, sir, to put it bluntly, the story is a piece of rubbish. I’d imagine any high school student could write a more gripping story in their general English course.” Again, the man seemed to smile slightly from within his shadow. This annoyed Sam. If he was offered a position here, he would have to take it. If he didn’t, his mom would likely force him out of the house. Sam had no desire to write for a stupid local newspaper. The man sat in contemplation for some amount of time, scratching the stump of his left hand. “The villain in this story of yours, Mr. Clark, is very well conceived. We need more of such ability here. Our current writers are particularly drab.” Sam hesitated. “Well, the villain is actually based off of a real person. I wouldn’t have the creativity to create such a character. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of-” The man held up his stump again. “Yes, I have heard of the Lumberjack.” He laughed a rough, chilling laugh. “You seem to have done much research on this man.” The interviewer was a friend of a friend of Sam’s mother, and, as such, it was bothersome that he knew so much of Sam’s incomplete novel. “I only need a few more weeks to finish,” he had told his mom, and yet she had still forced this interview upon him. “Can you remind me, Mr. Clark, of how this Lumberjack operates?” “Uh, well he is a failure of a writer who takes out his frustration on publishers who reject him.” “And how so, Mr. Clark?” The man’s stump twitched slightly. He seemed to be grinning again, wider than before. Sam found it disconcerting that the Lumberjack was also missing a hand, but remembered that, fortunately, it was in fact his right hand, not the left. “Well, uh, he uses his one good hand to saw off the hands of the publisher, and then-“ A sharp knock on the door behind Sam cut him off. “Sam, honey, that man from the publishing company is here to see you,” called some woman. Sam remembered now. The publishing company that had rejected his most recent, futile effort at a novel. The publishing company that Sam had pitifully begged to meet with in person. The man in the mirror laughed. For the first time, Sam noticed a hand saw on the table. “Tell him to come in,” Sam called back.	The old man sat with wrinkled hands, And a far more wrinkled brow, Shoulders weighed down by a career's demands, To be uplifted two weeks from now. The notice was saved as a pdf, Attached to a stale email in drafts, For tenure alone was why he was left, And his position had to be staffed. Across the table was one his junior, With a stain across his shirt, But to the elder baby boomer, This position he would not skirt. "Is there a drug test?" The new one asked, and rubbed a reddened eye, "And if I fail, can I do my best, To just give it another second try?" "We dare not discriminate, Should you provide a doctors note. Which shall therefore authenticate, Any symptoms, no matter how remote. " "Because I've got snow like cocaine, And loads of amphetamines, Plus a date with Mary Jane, Not to mention my ketamines." "Though it is inopportune," Said the senior, and frowned at the fit, "We'll expect you quite soon?" Because he wouldn't be around to see it.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	An ordinary man would not stand a chance. The lone farmer tilling his land, baking under the twin suns of the Kingdom of Ankharra, had his head down. His gaze was fixed upon the soil, his mind focused upon the task. His farm dog was busy chasing butterflies, too distracted to scent the hostile magic boiling in the clearing nearby. But Faron Bitters was not an ordinary man. Three lightning bolts were unleashed simultaneously from the surrounding forests, each angled to ensure that even if their target could dodge one, the others would find their mark. The hissing snap of boiling air followed closely in their wake, rustling leaves, churning dust devils. Each spell was potent enough, deadly enough to fell a fully grown orc. Faron caught the first one easily, crushing it into motes of light with his callused fist. His plough, set free, took its time to fall gracefully to the ground. The second spell spilled against the barrier encasing Faron, winking out of power as its energies were spent trying to overcome the immovable. The final spell froze in midair, hovering at eye-level, straining to reach its destination. It shimmered, an angry scar of azure, like a rat trapped between glass plates. Faron lifted his hat, fanned himself, then walked around the imprisoned spell, examining it closely. “Well woven,” he said, as he replaced his hat upon his head. “Two parts power, one part mobility – Illuma’s Ideal for battlemagic. Novices tend to pour too much power into their spells, forgetting that their spells actually have to hit somebody to be effective. Not many remain today who can spellweave this elegantly. To whom do I owe the honour?” Though the suns still hung at their highest in the skies, six shadowy figures emerged from amongst the trees. For a second Faron thought his eyes were tired, but then he realised the reason why he couldn’t focus on them easily, was because each of them had shrouded themselves. He knew that if his concentration slipped, they would disappear, right before his eyes. “Master Bitters,” said the tallest one. He pulled back his shroud, and Faron noted the pale skin, thinning hair, shrunken flesh. He looked as if he had just emerged from a prolonged stay in the catacombs. “We’re… sorry we had to resort to that. We had to be sure that you were the one we were seeking.” Faron laughed. “And if I wasn’t? Would you have fried some poor farmer out here in the sticks just to sate your curiosity?” “I’m Magister Kellway, and we are here to seek your – ” Faron chose that moment to strike. He had hazarded that they meant him no harm – why else would they yield after the first feint, then reveal themselves? But he could not rule out mischief, or treachery, and so he chose prudence. Like a golden arrow, Faron sped towards the entourage, closing the distance before they could react. Two of them, the sharper ones, tried to throw up their defences, but Faron was too fast for them. By the time the dust settled, five were on the ground, bound and disabled. The one who called himself Kellway dangled off the ground, twisting in the air as Faron gripped his neck. “Seek what from me?” asked Faron. “Choose your words carefully. I happen to want to be left alone.” Kellway held up his hands, then shut off the valves to his power. Faron recognised the timeless sign of surrender, and let go. “We need your help,” said Kellway, on his knees, coughing and rubbing his throat. “The Kingdom needs you again, Master Bitters.” “I’m done with all that,” said Faron. “I’ve done my part. It’s time for the next generation to step up, don’t you think?” “You rid the land of great evil once,” said Kellway, “and we only ask that you help us again.” “I’ve earned my right to be left alone,” said Faron, rubbing his temples. “I’ve given too much, sacrificed it all.” “You are still strong! You can still serve!” “I’ve not fought a single goblin in years! I’m not sure I can even do simple Sixth Order spells anymore, forget about the more complex ones!” “You stopped us! You clearly have what it takes!” Faron’s brow creased in irritation. “Surely there are others who can do what you want? Seek out the Cabal! They are the Queen’s personal magicians! They are the charged protectors of the land!” “We… see for yourself, Master Bitters,” said Kellway. He snapped his fingers, and the shadows fell away from his body, and from the bodies of his comrades on the ground. Faron saw then, the dulled sigils pinned upon their cloaks, which marked them incontrovertibly for Cabal. Faron saw too, that no man amongst the six was complete. Some were missing their hands, some their legs. He had laughed in the face of a grolluc, had shrugged off a rampaging wyrm, but the stench of utter defeat which clung to these six Cabal turned his stomach, crawled his skin… and chilled his heart. “If you are what’s left of the Cabal,” Faron said, urgency creeping into his voice, “where is the Queen? Is she safe? I have a lifelink to her! I would know if she was in danger, but I have not sensed anything!” Kellway tried to rise from his knees, and almost lost his footing. Faron gripped the man, steadied him, and saw up close the deep scars upon his body, his missing ear, his clouded eye. “The Queen, you say? Your daughter that you entrusted the Kingdom to?” asked Kellway. “The Bringer of Light, the Warmer of Hearts? She Who Loves, the Land’s Mother?” Kellway shook his head, and the tears spilled down his cheeks. He scrabbled for Faron’s sleeves, then pulled on them, desperately, angrily. “She was the one who did this to us, Master Bitters. The benefactor has become the tyrant. Please, do what you did once for this land, and set it free again. Only you can stop her.” --- /r/rarelyfunny	The old man sat with wrinkled hands, And a far more wrinkled brow, Shoulders weighed down by a career's demands, To be uplifted two weeks from now. The notice was saved as a pdf, Attached to a stale email in drafts, For tenure alone was why he was left, And his position had to be staffed. Across the table was one his junior, With a stain across his shirt, But to the elder baby boomer, This position he would not skirt. "Is there a drug test?" The new one asked, and rubbed a reddened eye, "And if I fail, can I do my best, To just give it another second try?" "We dare not discriminate, Should you provide a doctors note. Which shall therefore authenticate, Any symptoms, no matter how remote. " "Because I've got snow like cocaine, And loads of amphetamines, Plus a date with Mary Jane, Not to mention my ketamines." "Though it is inopportune," Said the senior, and frowned at the fit, "We'll expect you quite soon?" Because he wouldn't be around to see it.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	”Welcome, Mr. Johnson,” said the beefy man on the opposite side of the table. “Please, take a seat.” I couldn’t help but notice his bull neck, and his arms knotted with muscles and bulging with veins. He had rolled up the sleeves on his suit, which hugged his bulky frame and looked like it was at least two sizes too small. His tattooed fingers tapped on a clipboard. I hoped this interview would go well. “Thank you,” I said, sat down carefully. “How about we start by going over your CV? It says here that you have experience working at a gym.” “Well… not much of a professional setting really… more of a couple of machines in my backyard…”¨ “So, you’ve worked a lot with amateurs? That’s a very valuable experience to have as a gym instructor.” “I didn’t really instruct, though,” I said, feeling the first drops of sweat on my forehead. “I mostly… you know, just watched.” “That’s great! Observe before applying, that’s actually our slogan!” Damn, I really didn’t want this job; I had to put a stick in the wheel of this bicycle before it got completely out of control and I actually got hired. “I have zero people skills,” I said, adjusting my tie. “An honest man!” He gave me a wide grin. “Honesty is obviously something we value greatly here at here at Honest Workouts & Fitness.” “One time I stole Jeep and drove it into a tree!” Desperation was getting to me now, so I sputtered stuff that I hoped would deter him. “Driver’s License – check!” He filled in the boxes on his clipboard. “Survivor's Instincts – check!” “I hate my family; I despise authority; I’m really slothful and inept!” “That’s awesome, the fact that you hate your family means you’ll work longer hours. You’re independent and can think for yourself, very good. Many of our customers are lazy, you’ll be able to connect with them on a different level!” “There are voices in my head!” I crossed my eyes, trying to look crazy. The noose was tightening. I felt like I was being backed into a corner. I cursed inwardly. “A religious man,” he said, nodding approvingly. I felt myself sinking through the floor, my hopes and dreams fading. This man was relentless, he had the answer for everything – I was as good as hired already. “You know what, fuck off, you dumb sack of muscles,” I said weakly. “Sweet, you’ve got attitude,” he said and got up. “As an instructor, you need to be able to take the lead.” He held out his hand. I’d completely messed up this interview. Salty tears blurred my vision. With reluctance, I stretched my hand out. “I… watch anime,” I whispered. “What the hell did you just say?!” His rugged face turned red and his eyes bulged out of their sockets. “What do you think this is? Get the hell off the property, before I snap your puny-ass neck!”	The old man sat with wrinkled hands, And a far more wrinkled brow, Shoulders weighed down by a career's demands, To be uplifted two weeks from now. The notice was saved as a pdf, Attached to a stale email in drafts, For tenure alone was why he was left, And his position had to be staffed. Across the table was one his junior, With a stain across his shirt, But to the elder baby boomer, This position he would not skirt. "Is there a drug test?" The new one asked, and rubbed a reddened eye, "And if I fail, can I do my best, To just give it another second try?" "We dare not discriminate, Should you provide a doctors note. Which shall therefore authenticate, Any symptoms, no matter how remote. " "Because I've got snow like cocaine, And loads of amphetamines, Plus a date with Mary Jane, Not to mention my ketamines." "Though it is inopportune," Said the senior, and frowned at the fit, "We'll expect you quite soon?" Because he wouldn't be around to see it.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I'm a writer. That's the beginning and the end of my story. I'm a writer. I write. I have stories. I have things to say. I am not a Refinance Document Analyst 1. Maybe you are, but not me. My wife - bless her - is an honest, earnest woman. A doctor. She works hard. She's very smart. But still, smart people can be blinded by their own logic sometimes. Happens to the best of us. Sometimes smart people see the world in black and white - where you're either making money or you're "unemployed." Not realizing that there's a middle path. The path to enlightenment. The path of the Writer. So she tells me to get a job. Is my making money truly necessary? I would say no. I would suggest that my words - as seemingly monetarily valueless as they may presently appear - are greater than any paycheck. I would suggest that she's a fucking doctor, so let's be real for a moment. This is not about a paycheck - this is about the creative process. And a boat. She wants to buy a boat. I don't even like the water. So when I apply to jobs, I do so out of marital duty. To show that I am trying, even though I am not. I am a writer, after all. Writers can only be counted on to try during moments of great inspiration and/or the waning hours of a deadline. I understand this. You understand this. Why Barry Blankenshop of First Fourth National Bank of Wattsborough doesn't understand this is anyone's guess. You see, I applied to the position of Refinance Document Analyst - which is exactly the Lovecraftian nightmare it sounds like - knowing full well that I was neither qualified nor capable. But my wife checks on these things and it's good to have references - or, more accurately, the names of sample HR directors to curse out over the dinner table. These days I curse the name of Barry Blankenshop, though for significantly different reasons than usual. For starters, how in the world was my application ever picked out of the pile to begin with? I have a number of tactics that I employ with regularity to prevent just such a calamity. In this case, I: Provided no prior employment history Intentionally misspelled my own name repeatedly Listed only deceased celebrities as my references And left no personal contact information Perhaps Barry Blankenshop is illiterate? Perhaps he loathes his job as much as I loathe the idea of working? Who can know? He tracked me down somehow, apparently through some combination of Google searching and yellow page cold calling. My wife was present when I answered the phone and I was so caught off guard I didn't think to pretend that Barry had reached the wrong number. We agreed to a time and place for an interview. I did not show up. I have to assume this happens often. But I also assume this is the sort of thing that usually disqualifies someone from the offered post. No such luck. Barry called back. I ignored him. He called my wife and offered to reschedule. I was trapped. There was no avoiding the interview then. I went, my wife watching me as I slouched out to the car. It was a dire situation. Fortunately, I had not exhausted my tried-and-true tactics. Unfortunately, I had deeply underestimated the otherworldly lunacy of Barry Blankenshop. He was a smallish man, perma-sunburned with curly hair the color of uncooked rice noodles. He smiled as he greeted me, smacking his lips and saying something to the effect of, "Aha! Here is the man! The man of the hour!" We sat down. He offered me a coffee. I requested a Coke Lemon. "Ah! Another lemonhead?" he exclaimed. Apparently he had stockpiled the long-since discontinued drink. I received my can, which I opened but did not drink. "How did you hear about First Fourth National?" he asked. "My weed dealer banks here." Blankenshop laughed. "We are very discreet! I see you've no experience in document analysis, right?" I nodded. "Screen blindness. I can't look at a computer screen for more than five minutes at a time without going temporarily blind." "Pity," said Blankenshop solemnly. "Lucky for you, we are entirely computer-free here at First Fourth. All hard copies, all the time." "How...is that even possible?" I asked. "Much safer," said Blankenshop. "No cyber terrorists this way. Saves money, too - a ream of paper costs less than any laptop!" "That's not...quite comparable." "Now," pressed Blankenshop, leaning across the desk, conspiratorially. "What would you consider to be your biggest weakness?" I considered myself. I considered the man. "...cocaine?" Blankenshop laughed, slapping his hands on the desk. "A sense of humor! I love it. No, no, I know the effects of cocaine. Firsthand. Lost my grandmother that way. Tried to fight a city bus. She was special. Cherish your loved ones. Anyway, I can tell you're a straight shooter. How do you deal with turmoil in the workplace?" The man was insane. The usual tactics were powerless. I was swinging wildly now, just looking to make contact. "Segregate out all the Jews?" Blankenshop's brow furrowed deeply. He looked angry for a moment. I had a glimmer of hope. "They are a clever bunch...I need to be careful with you! You'll be gunning for my job in no time!" "I would literally rather throw myself in front of your grandmother's bus," I replied. Blankeshop hooted. "Gallow's humor! It's a difficult industry, certainly. You seem well-suited to it." "What is this job?" I half-shouted. "What the hell does a Refinance Document Analyst even do?" "You know...I'm not sure," said Blankenshop. "Training Department should be able to give you the layout. I'm just tasked with finding a good fit." "A good fit for a job you know nothing about?" "Attitude is everything at First Fourth," said Blankenshop. "And you've got the right attitude." "I hate you." "Ah hahaha! You can't turn it off! I love it. You'll be very popular. If I'm being honest, morale is not what it ought to be. No idea why." Blankenshop stuck out a feeble little paw. "What do you say? Join the team?" Now, obviously I said yes, and I said yes because I love my wife and don't enjoy being yelled at. The work is awful. I do very little of it. I manage every interaction with enormous, open disdain. I do not even clean up the office microwave after I am done. I am a monster. I am also, likely by no coincidence, now a Refinance Document Analyst 2. Because the world is a dark satire, much stranger and crueler than anything I could ever write.	The old man sat with wrinkled hands, And a far more wrinkled brow, Shoulders weighed down by a career's demands, To be uplifted two weeks from now. The notice was saved as a pdf, Attached to a stale email in drafts, For tenure alone was why he was left, And his position had to be staffed. Across the table was one his junior, With a stain across his shirt, But to the elder baby boomer, This position he would not skirt. "Is there a drug test?" The new one asked, and rubbed a reddened eye, "And if I fail, can I do my best, To just give it another second try?" "We dare not discriminate, Should you provide a doctors note. Which shall therefore authenticate, Any symptoms, no matter how remote. " "Because I've got snow like cocaine, And loads of amphetamines, Plus a date with Mary Jane, Not to mention my ketamines." "Though it is inopportune," Said the senior, and frowned at the fit, "We'll expect you quite soon?" Because he wouldn't be around to see it.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	The water bottle was obviously full of something other than water. I took small sips in the waiting room, the smell of vodka stinging my eyes even with the orange juice to water it down. I had somewhere to be and it wasn’t in a job interview. “It’s good practice,” my wife had encouraged. “You just need to get back on that horse and give it a try.” She’d told me when I was asked to come in for the job. “I don’t think I want it,” I’d confided in her. But there was no arguing with her at that point. “Joseph Gordons?” The receptionist called my name. A tall thin man stood next to her, a dour look on his face. He shook my hand wordlessly and gestured for me to follow him. I ambled along behind him into a tight conference room. The lighting was fluorescent and room dingy. I half wanted to leave right then but I’d promised my wife I’d stay. “Joseph, good of you to come in,” the man said. “I’m Hank Norbitt, I do the hiring for the programming department, I find that HR doesn’t really understand programmers.” His voice reminded me of Eeyore. Once I started thinking about the sad donkey I could also see a resemblance in his expression. We settled into chairs on the corner of the table. I leaned my left arm on the table and set the water bottle down. Hank got comfortable as I began to speak. “I understand that some programmers have social issues, I’m not really one of them. I paid for university working as a bartender and spent all kinds of time with people, at the bar, after the bar. The morning before going back to work,” I replied probably too honestly. I’d told my wife I’d give it an honest try but I wanted to tank the interview and go. “I met my wife bartending.” “Was that a bar in town?” “Yea, Phil’s by Laurier. I learned a lot of skills there I’ve found applicable in other places,” I took a sip of my screwdriver before continuing. Hank leaned forward seeming intrigued. I’d led him here and prepared to drop an answer that’ll have him excusing me. “I learned how to keep my mouth shut, the bikers used to deal coke out of the back and I needed to make sure I didn’t show up on their radar. I learned how to break up a fight – you never know when you’ll need to convince a man to drop a knife. Every Friday these days it seems.” “You like to go out then? Party?” Hank’s eyes lit up, I was a little concerned that he was getting too into my answers. “Sometimes. I don’t do drugs anymore, almost OD’d at my last job – that’s why I’m looking for work, had some trouble with painkillers and needed to take some time off, get better,” I was lying now. “Now that’s interesting, you sound like you’re very good at recognizing your own flaws, that’s a strong quality in an employee,” Hank seemed far too into what I was saying and I wanted to get him to let me go. “I can see where I’ve fallen down, unless I’ve had too much to drink!” I exclaimed and laughed a bit louder than I probably should have. “Well, I do have some questions for you,” Hank glanced at the sheet in front of him, “first, if you could be any animal what would you be?” “I’d be a duck, their penises are the ultimate multi-tool,” I replied, half-serious. The alcohol was having the desired effect and I wasn’t tasting the vodka as much now. I committed to myself that I’d answer the questions quickly and just move through this stupid formality. I glanced at my watch – I needed to be out of here in ten minutes. “Oh that’s an original one, love that, I’ll have to use it sometime. Next what is your greatest weakness?” Hank asked with a smile. “Alcoholism.” “I appreciate the honesty. I like that in an employee. Now how many gas stations do you think are in the US?” “At least 12.” “Well you’re not wrong, and I supposed that’s what I get for asking a programmer that question – you’re up on your internet jokes right?” Hank laughed at his own comment, my grim expression started to break and I smiled with him for a moment. I took a swig of the alcohol. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Five years. I used to know where I’d be, until a week ago I’d have had an answer. “I don’t,” the smile that had been growing was lost again. Hank’s laid a hand on my arm. “If you need to talk…” “I think it’d be best if we move on with the questions, I don’t like to bring personal issues into work,” I interrupted. I didn’t know him and didn’t need this right now. “Right, ok. How honest would you say you are?” “Very,” I didn’t think I needed to elaborate, I’ve only told a couple lies so far. “Alright, last one – how would your family feel about you working long hours?” “I don’t have a family,” I replied without explanation. “You mentioned your wife,” he began. “She’s dead.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hank replied. His look quizzical and I knew what was coming next. One of two questions that I’d been asked so many times recently. “Drunk driver hit her car two days ago. She kicked it. I actually need to go now. Her visitation starts in half an hour and it’s a twenty minute drive,” I replied, standing. I wobbled a bit. I didn’t mean to but I did. “Are you…” “Driving? No, I’m not the goddamn moron who killed her.” “I’ll give you a call, about the job, but can I ask one last question?” Hank watched me. I hesitated and nodded, “why did you take the interview? Why not cancel or reschedule?” “I made my wife a promise that I’d come,” I replied. “I don’t think her death releases me from that.”	“So, why do you think you deserve to work for us?” The interviewer asked me. “I don’t,” I replied with cruel honesty. The bald man, in his forties, laughed at me. I showed him a muffled expression. “You seem like a jokester! Exactly the kind of a person we aim for!” “I don’t want this job, you know…” Again, I need to give him the cruel honesty. His laugh resonated through the room, once again. My face was baffled with weirdness. “Nobody wants this job! You have just become one of my favourites!” “Could we just get to the end, I’m feeling too lazy right now.” Another, subtle way of saying “Please, for the love of God, don’t hire me.” The interviewer’s face was put into deep thought, as I waited for him to finish his incredibly boring ritual. That didn’t come; after about ten minutes, I was just pissed off, and since I don’t need this job, I needed to give it to him hard and cold. “You know what, either speak right now or I’m leaving this wretched interview.” The man stopped his thinking, stood up and yelled something I didn’t quite grasp. Someone entered the room, a tall young blond woman, gave him a piece of paper. He sat on his chair, once again, and started talking: “You… Excellent. We need a person who wouldn’t take anyone’s shit! You are the most perfect candidate I’ve ever seen in my entire life!” My eyebrow twitched in annoyance, I sighed. I decided to play with him, in the hopes of getting kicked out. “Give me the most paying position with the least amount of work, I want to the top of this company.” Surely, this should piss him off. His eyes widened, his jaw was left hanging. A tall, black and bald person entered the interviewing room, speaking with his rough, manly voice: “Son, you are the perfect person to inherit my company and my riches.” After that, I was given, for some reason, the ownership of this company, as well as a few billions of dollars. The person, the tall black man, was dying of cancer and wanted to give his fortunes to someone. It seemed he chose an interview like this. I’ll have to thank my mother later, to think that her meddling in my life and controlling it, turned out to make be a billionaire… I couldn’t even imagine it in my wildest dreams!
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I let out a hefty burp as the barman took away my last pint. My seventh pint. Now, now I was ready. I didn't so much as hop off my stool, as fall off my stool, but I regained my balance, nodded again at the bemused barman, and made my dragging tracks out of the pub. 3:06pm. I was already six minutes late. Fantastic! And it had only taken me just over an hour to down those six pints. Was it seven? I actually felt pretty good then, I'd have to push that pervasive feeling down into my belly before I got in. I skipped merrily into the building, before reminding myself that I didn't want to show too much enthusiasm. I burped again, openly. The sound echoed around the dusty old corridor I was making my way through, hopefully just far enough to reach into the main stage area. And then I was in the actual theatre, that hadn't taken so long. Things were a little fuzzy. "Hello!" I shouted, muting myself quickly. Too friendly. Way too friendly. "I'm here for the...the audition." I gulped out, swaying slightly. A young, quite attracti-no, get the goggles off-mousy little woman with a clipboard hushed me. I thought she was the noisy one. Both of her was. "The director's already auditioning someone, you-" She was cut off by the director, who's head had turned from the stage to me. I think he was wearing clothes. It's only conjecture at this point. "Now THAT is the kind of bold entrance I'm looking for!" He turned back to the man auditioning. "Get the fuck off my stage, kindly, darling." Back to me. "Well? I recognise your headshot's, your agent was awfully keen that we see you. I didn't see it myself but now..." He was balding, actually quite attrac-NO-focus on fucking it up, fuck. Focus on something. I walked along the walls and the seats of the place it seemed as the revolving theatre steadily decided to pulse in time with my steps as I walked along the walls and the seats and the of place as I walked along- "Have you learnt the audition piece?" What? Hadn't bothered looking. When did I get on the stage? I didn't want to work yet, it was too soon. Fuck my agent. Maybe I should fuck my agent. "Maybe I should fuck my agent?" Was that my outside head voice? "You're a bit of a wildcard aren't you? Forget the piece, I like what I see. I want to workshop this with you." No, no, no. That was a good start, I didn't DO good starts. I had to rectify this. By completely throwing it. No time for subtlety. But Janice, she wouldn't represent me anymore in the future if I made it obvious? Did I care? I had to care...I couldn't set myself back eleven years representation wise, but I needed more time off. "I'm going to be honesht...excuse me...with you mate. I'm pissed." Silence. That was good right? Why was he smiling wider? "Oh yes!" He enthused, raising his hands up. How many fingers? "So. Am. I DARLING! That's why we're doing this isn't it? To show them how pissed off we are. We'll make them really think about it before they do it to they're own families in the future!" What was this? He hadn't understood, the prick. I didn't want to think about families. Why did everyone want to talk about- "No." I said, trying to strike a defiant pose. I nailed it. "I'm pissed." More silence, yet. Yes? "I'm fucked. I'm trollied. I'm smashed. Drunk. As the probervial...skunk." I smiled at my own...well that wasn't really a joke was it? No don't smile! "No, you need to stop smiling too!" Out of the head voice again. Didn't matter. I had to throw it now. "Ooooh! Lynn, make a note of this man here! We've got ourselves a method actor! I love it! You know, it's this kind of bravery that I've been searching for these past two weeks. It's splendid. Show me angry!" "OH FUCK OFF!" I roared, who was this-Wait! No! Wrong timing! I burped again and tripped over a rope that wasn't there. "I'm actually really nice." The director jumped out of his seat and squealed. The man squealed. It was adorable really but I was not doing the best job at doing the worst job like I'd hoped. "Oh I'm sure you are, but I can feel that power behind you, that burning intensity. I shouldn't be saying this but you're the best fucking fit for this part we've had on that stage yet. I just need to get a glimpse of your-" "No...please no!" I wailed, dropping to my knee's in a manner I wished I could summon when I really wanted a part. "I can't do this. I'm just. Not. Ready. Yet." "YES!!!" The director squealed, no screeched, no screamed. "Your sensitive side is BRILLIANT! You've got the part! Lynn, mark him down for the drunken, broken father role, I don't want to see anyone else, let's go for a coffee, I'm sick of this fucking space." I blinked and he was gone. Did he say. Drunken. Broken. Father?	“So, why do you think you deserve to work for us?” The interviewer asked me. “I don’t,” I replied with cruel honesty. The bald man, in his forties, laughed at me. I showed him a muffled expression. “You seem like a jokester! Exactly the kind of a person we aim for!” “I don’t want this job, you know…” Again, I need to give him the cruel honesty. His laugh resonated through the room, once again. My face was baffled with weirdness. “Nobody wants this job! You have just become one of my favourites!” “Could we just get to the end, I’m feeling too lazy right now.” Another, subtle way of saying “Please, for the love of God, don’t hire me.” The interviewer’s face was put into deep thought, as I waited for him to finish his incredibly boring ritual. That didn’t come; after about ten minutes, I was just pissed off, and since I don’t need this job, I needed to give it to him hard and cold. “You know what, either speak right now or I’m leaving this wretched interview.” The man stopped his thinking, stood up and yelled something I didn’t quite grasp. Someone entered the room, a tall young blond woman, gave him a piece of paper. He sat on his chair, once again, and started talking: “You… Excellent. We need a person who wouldn’t take anyone’s shit! You are the most perfect candidate I’ve ever seen in my entire life!” My eyebrow twitched in annoyance, I sighed. I decided to play with him, in the hopes of getting kicked out. “Give me the most paying position with the least amount of work, I want to the top of this company.” Surely, this should piss him off. His eyes widened, his jaw was left hanging. A tall, black and bald person entered the interviewing room, speaking with his rough, manly voice: “Son, you are the perfect person to inherit my company and my riches.” After that, I was given, for some reason, the ownership of this company, as well as a few billions of dollars. The person, the tall black man, was dying of cancer and wanted to give his fortunes to someone. It seemed he chose an interview like this. I’ll have to thank my mother later, to think that her meddling in my life and controlling it, turned out to make be a billionaire… I couldn’t even imagine it in my wildest dreams!
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	Silence resounded from every corner of the room. Such a quiet place to work, Sam thought. Though he may need to suffer through this interview, Sam took comfort in the knowledge that he would need not endure such silence every day. The room itself was plain enough. No larger than Sam’s own bedroom, the walls were bare, and the furnishings sparse. A thick, crude table of oak separated the uncomfortable chair in which Sam sat from the identical chair where the gruff, middle-aged man sat glaring at him. A lamp in the far corner of the room, behind this man, abated only a little of the darkness, leaving the man’s face mostly concealed in shadow. In this gloom, Sam could only make out the man’s broad shoulders, his square head, and, most significantly, the absence of a left hand. Sam marveled at the size of this man, and speculated that he must have had a more physical sort of career before heading this newspaper. The silence that had fostered Sam’s stream of thought was broken abruptly when the man cleared his throat with a rough growl. “Mr. Clark?” the man asked. Sam prepared to reply, but it seemed this was no question. “I am to understand that you are a writer?” Sam shrugged. Perhaps if I merely keep silent, they’ll have no reason to hire me. Sam only desired to write freely, but his mother had forced this interview upon him when it had been over three months since his last royalties had trickled in. “You are the author of ‘The Final Storm’?” Sam nodded hesitantly, confused. “How- well- it is not finished. There is only an incomplete manuscript at my house...” Sam’s voice trailed off until silence had filled the room once again. “This is a very invigorating work, Mr. Clark.” Sam suddenly wished there were fewer shadows present to conceal this man’s expression. His tone was in some ways unnerving. “To be quite honest, Mr. uh, sir...it’s really not spectacular in any regard. I- uh, am in reality quite a mediocre writer. I-“ The man held up the stump that had once been his left hand. “No, no Mr. Clark, I think I like this work of yours.” A small light seemed to glint off the man’s right eye for a moment, and it seemed to Sam that a smile may have flashed somewhere in the shadows that were his face. “The story is of a quality we rarely see. It seems to contain more emotion and truth than one typically finds in such works.” This interview was too full of praise for Sam’s taste. He needed to end this interview soon. “Really, sir, to put it bluntly, the story is a piece of rubbish. I’d imagine any high school student could write a more gripping story in their general English course.” Again, the man seemed to smile slightly from within his shadow. This annoyed Sam. If he was offered a position here, he would have to take it. If he didn’t, his mom would likely force him out of the house. Sam had no desire to write for a stupid local newspaper. The man sat in contemplation for some amount of time, scratching the stump of his left hand. “The villain in this story of yours, Mr. Clark, is very well conceived. We need more of such ability here. Our current writers are particularly drab.” Sam hesitated. “Well, the villain is actually based off of a real person. I wouldn’t have the creativity to create such a character. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of-” The man held up his stump again. “Yes, I have heard of the Lumberjack.” He laughed a rough, chilling laugh. “You seem to have done much research on this man.” The interviewer was a friend of a friend of Sam’s mother, and, as such, it was bothersome that he knew so much of Sam’s incomplete novel. “I only need a few more weeks to finish,” he had told his mom, and yet she had still forced this interview upon him. “Can you remind me, Mr. Clark, of how this Lumberjack operates?” “Uh, well he is a failure of a writer who takes out his frustration on publishers who reject him.” “And how so, Mr. Clark?” The man’s stump twitched slightly. He seemed to be grinning again, wider than before. Sam found it disconcerting that the Lumberjack was also missing a hand, but remembered that, fortunately, it was in fact his right hand, not the left. “Well, uh, he uses his one good hand to saw off the hands of the publisher, and then-“ A sharp knock on the door behind Sam cut him off. “Sam, honey, that man from the publishing company is here to see you,” called some woman. Sam remembered now. The publishing company that had rejected his most recent, futile effort at a novel. The publishing company that Sam had pitifully begged to meet with in person. The man in the mirror laughed. For the first time, Sam noticed a hand saw on the table. “Tell him to come in,” Sam called back.	“So, why do you think you deserve to work for us?” The interviewer asked me. “I don’t,” I replied with cruel honesty. The bald man, in his forties, laughed at me. I showed him a muffled expression. “You seem like a jokester! Exactly the kind of a person we aim for!” “I don’t want this job, you know…” Again, I need to give him the cruel honesty. His laugh resonated through the room, once again. My face was baffled with weirdness. “Nobody wants this job! You have just become one of my favourites!” “Could we just get to the end, I’m feeling too lazy right now.” Another, subtle way of saying “Please, for the love of God, don’t hire me.” The interviewer’s face was put into deep thought, as I waited for him to finish his incredibly boring ritual. That didn’t come; after about ten minutes, I was just pissed off, and since I don’t need this job, I needed to give it to him hard and cold. “You know what, either speak right now or I’m leaving this wretched interview.” The man stopped his thinking, stood up and yelled something I didn’t quite grasp. Someone entered the room, a tall young blond woman, gave him a piece of paper. He sat on his chair, once again, and started talking: “You… Excellent. We need a person who wouldn’t take anyone’s shit! You are the most perfect candidate I’ve ever seen in my entire life!” My eyebrow twitched in annoyance, I sighed. I decided to play with him, in the hopes of getting kicked out. “Give me the most paying position with the least amount of work, I want to the top of this company.” Surely, this should piss him off. His eyes widened, his jaw was left hanging. A tall, black and bald person entered the interviewing room, speaking with his rough, manly voice: “Son, you are the perfect person to inherit my company and my riches.” After that, I was given, for some reason, the ownership of this company, as well as a few billions of dollars. The person, the tall black man, was dying of cancer and wanted to give his fortunes to someone. It seemed he chose an interview like this. I’ll have to thank my mother later, to think that her meddling in my life and controlling it, turned out to make be a billionaire… I couldn’t even imagine it in my wildest dreams!
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	An ordinary man would not stand a chance. The lone farmer tilling his land, baking under the twin suns of the Kingdom of Ankharra, had his head down. His gaze was fixed upon the soil, his mind focused upon the task. His farm dog was busy chasing butterflies, too distracted to scent the hostile magic boiling in the clearing nearby. But Faron Bitters was not an ordinary man. Three lightning bolts were unleashed simultaneously from the surrounding forests, each angled to ensure that even if their target could dodge one, the others would find their mark. The hissing snap of boiling air followed closely in their wake, rustling leaves, churning dust devils. Each spell was potent enough, deadly enough to fell a fully grown orc. Faron caught the first one easily, crushing it into motes of light with his callused fist. His plough, set free, took its time to fall gracefully to the ground. The second spell spilled against the barrier encasing Faron, winking out of power as its energies were spent trying to overcome the immovable. The final spell froze in midair, hovering at eye-level, straining to reach its destination. It shimmered, an angry scar of azure, like a rat trapped between glass plates. Faron lifted his hat, fanned himself, then walked around the imprisoned spell, examining it closely. “Well woven,” he said, as he replaced his hat upon his head. “Two parts power, one part mobility – Illuma’s Ideal for battlemagic. Novices tend to pour too much power into their spells, forgetting that their spells actually have to hit somebody to be effective. Not many remain today who can spellweave this elegantly. To whom do I owe the honour?” Though the suns still hung at their highest in the skies, six shadowy figures emerged from amongst the trees. For a second Faron thought his eyes were tired, but then he realised the reason why he couldn’t focus on them easily, was because each of them had shrouded themselves. He knew that if his concentration slipped, they would disappear, right before his eyes. “Master Bitters,” said the tallest one. He pulled back his shroud, and Faron noted the pale skin, thinning hair, shrunken flesh. He looked as if he had just emerged from a prolonged stay in the catacombs. “We’re… sorry we had to resort to that. We had to be sure that you were the one we were seeking.” Faron laughed. “And if I wasn’t? Would you have fried some poor farmer out here in the sticks just to sate your curiosity?” “I’m Magister Kellway, and we are here to seek your – ” Faron chose that moment to strike. He had hazarded that they meant him no harm – why else would they yield after the first feint, then reveal themselves? But he could not rule out mischief, or treachery, and so he chose prudence. Like a golden arrow, Faron sped towards the entourage, closing the distance before they could react. Two of them, the sharper ones, tried to throw up their defences, but Faron was too fast for them. By the time the dust settled, five were on the ground, bound and disabled. The one who called himself Kellway dangled off the ground, twisting in the air as Faron gripped his neck. “Seek what from me?” asked Faron. “Choose your words carefully. I happen to want to be left alone.” Kellway held up his hands, then shut off the valves to his power. Faron recognised the timeless sign of surrender, and let go. “We need your help,” said Kellway, on his knees, coughing and rubbing his throat. “The Kingdom needs you again, Master Bitters.” “I’m done with all that,” said Faron. “I’ve done my part. It’s time for the next generation to step up, don’t you think?” “You rid the land of great evil once,” said Kellway, “and we only ask that you help us again.” “I’ve earned my right to be left alone,” said Faron, rubbing his temples. “I’ve given too much, sacrificed it all.” “You are still strong! You can still serve!” “I’ve not fought a single goblin in years! I’m not sure I can even do simple Sixth Order spells anymore, forget about the more complex ones!” “You stopped us! You clearly have what it takes!” Faron’s brow creased in irritation. “Surely there are others who can do what you want? Seek out the Cabal! They are the Queen’s personal magicians! They are the charged protectors of the land!” “We… see for yourself, Master Bitters,” said Kellway. He snapped his fingers, and the shadows fell away from his body, and from the bodies of his comrades on the ground. Faron saw then, the dulled sigils pinned upon their cloaks, which marked them incontrovertibly for Cabal. Faron saw too, that no man amongst the six was complete. Some were missing their hands, some their legs. He had laughed in the face of a grolluc, had shrugged off a rampaging wyrm, but the stench of utter defeat which clung to these six Cabal turned his stomach, crawled his skin… and chilled his heart. “If you are what’s left of the Cabal,” Faron said, urgency creeping into his voice, “where is the Queen? Is she safe? I have a lifelink to her! I would know if she was in danger, but I have not sensed anything!” Kellway tried to rise from his knees, and almost lost his footing. Faron gripped the man, steadied him, and saw up close the deep scars upon his body, his missing ear, his clouded eye. “The Queen, you say? Your daughter that you entrusted the Kingdom to?” asked Kellway. “The Bringer of Light, the Warmer of Hearts? She Who Loves, the Land’s Mother?” Kellway shook his head, and the tears spilled down his cheeks. He scrabbled for Faron’s sleeves, then pulled on them, desperately, angrily. “She was the one who did this to us, Master Bitters. The benefactor has become the tyrant. Please, do what you did once for this land, and set it free again. Only you can stop her.” --- /r/rarelyfunny	“So, why do you think you deserve to work for us?” The interviewer asked me. “I don’t,” I replied with cruel honesty. The bald man, in his forties, laughed at me. I showed him a muffled expression. “You seem like a jokester! Exactly the kind of a person we aim for!” “I don’t want this job, you know…” Again, I need to give him the cruel honesty. His laugh resonated through the room, once again. My face was baffled with weirdness. “Nobody wants this job! You have just become one of my favourites!” “Could we just get to the end, I’m feeling too lazy right now.” Another, subtle way of saying “Please, for the love of God, don’t hire me.” The interviewer’s face was put into deep thought, as I waited for him to finish his incredibly boring ritual. That didn’t come; after about ten minutes, I was just pissed off, and since I don’t need this job, I needed to give it to him hard and cold. “You know what, either speak right now or I’m leaving this wretched interview.” The man stopped his thinking, stood up and yelled something I didn’t quite grasp. Someone entered the room, a tall young blond woman, gave him a piece of paper. He sat on his chair, once again, and started talking: “You… Excellent. We need a person who wouldn’t take anyone’s shit! You are the most perfect candidate I’ve ever seen in my entire life!” My eyebrow twitched in annoyance, I sighed. I decided to play with him, in the hopes of getting kicked out. “Give me the most paying position with the least amount of work, I want to the top of this company.” Surely, this should piss him off. His eyes widened, his jaw was left hanging. A tall, black and bald person entered the interviewing room, speaking with his rough, manly voice: “Son, you are the perfect person to inherit my company and my riches.” After that, I was given, for some reason, the ownership of this company, as well as a few billions of dollars. The person, the tall black man, was dying of cancer and wanted to give his fortunes to someone. It seemed he chose an interview like this. I’ll have to thank my mother later, to think that her meddling in my life and controlling it, turned out to make be a billionaire… I couldn’t even imagine it in my wildest dreams!
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	The water bottle was obviously full of something other than water. I took small sips in the waiting room, the smell of vodka stinging my eyes even with the orange juice to water it down. I had somewhere to be and it wasn’t in a job interview. “It’s good practice,” my wife had encouraged. “You just need to get back on that horse and give it a try.” She’d told me when I was asked to come in for the job. “I don’t think I want it,” I’d confided in her. But there was no arguing with her at that point. “Joseph Gordons?” The receptionist called my name. A tall thin man stood next to her, a dour look on his face. He shook my hand wordlessly and gestured for me to follow him. I ambled along behind him into a tight conference room. The lighting was fluorescent and room dingy. I half wanted to leave right then but I’d promised my wife I’d stay. “Joseph, good of you to come in,” the man said. “I’m Hank Norbitt, I do the hiring for the programming department, I find that HR doesn’t really understand programmers.” His voice reminded me of Eeyore. Once I started thinking about the sad donkey I could also see a resemblance in his expression. We settled into chairs on the corner of the table. I leaned my left arm on the table and set the water bottle down. Hank got comfortable as I began to speak. “I understand that some programmers have social issues, I’m not really one of them. I paid for university working as a bartender and spent all kinds of time with people, at the bar, after the bar. The morning before going back to work,” I replied probably too honestly. I’d told my wife I’d give it an honest try but I wanted to tank the interview and go. “I met my wife bartending.” “Was that a bar in town?” “Yea, Phil’s by Laurier. I learned a lot of skills there I’ve found applicable in other places,” I took a sip of my screwdriver before continuing. Hank leaned forward seeming intrigued. I’d led him here and prepared to drop an answer that’ll have him excusing me. “I learned how to keep my mouth shut, the bikers used to deal coke out of the back and I needed to make sure I didn’t show up on their radar. I learned how to break up a fight – you never know when you’ll need to convince a man to drop a knife. Every Friday these days it seems.” “You like to go out then? Party?” Hank’s eyes lit up, I was a little concerned that he was getting too into my answers. “Sometimes. I don’t do drugs anymore, almost OD’d at my last job – that’s why I’m looking for work, had some trouble with painkillers and needed to take some time off, get better,” I was lying now. “Now that’s interesting, you sound like you’re very good at recognizing your own flaws, that’s a strong quality in an employee,” Hank seemed far too into what I was saying and I wanted to get him to let me go. “I can see where I’ve fallen down, unless I’ve had too much to drink!” I exclaimed and laughed a bit louder than I probably should have. “Well, I do have some questions for you,” Hank glanced at the sheet in front of him, “first, if you could be any animal what would you be?” “I’d be a duck, their penises are the ultimate multi-tool,” I replied, half-serious. The alcohol was having the desired effect and I wasn’t tasting the vodka as much now. I committed to myself that I’d answer the questions quickly and just move through this stupid formality. I glanced at my watch – I needed to be out of here in ten minutes. “Oh that’s an original one, love that, I’ll have to use it sometime. Next what is your greatest weakness?” Hank asked with a smile. “Alcoholism.” “I appreciate the honesty. I like that in an employee. Now how many gas stations do you think are in the US?” “At least 12.” “Well you’re not wrong, and I supposed that’s what I get for asking a programmer that question – you’re up on your internet jokes right?” Hank laughed at his own comment, my grim expression started to break and I smiled with him for a moment. I took a swig of the alcohol. “Where do you see yourself in five years?” Five years. I used to know where I’d be, until a week ago I’d have had an answer. “I don’t,” the smile that had been growing was lost again. Hank’s laid a hand on my arm. “If you need to talk…” “I think it’d be best if we move on with the questions, I don’t like to bring personal issues into work,” I interrupted. I didn’t know him and didn’t need this right now. “Right, ok. How honest would you say you are?” “Very,” I didn’t think I needed to elaborate, I’ve only told a couple lies so far. “Alright, last one – how would your family feel about you working long hours?” “I don’t have a family,” I replied without explanation. “You mentioned your wife,” he began. “She’s dead.” “Oh, I’m so sorry,” Hank replied. His look quizzical and I knew what was coming next. One of two questions that I’d been asked so many times recently. “Drunk driver hit her car two days ago. She kicked it. I actually need to go now. Her visitation starts in half an hour and it’s a twenty minute drive,” I replied, standing. I wobbled a bit. I didn’t mean to but I did. “Are you…” “Driving? No, I’m not the goddamn moron who killed her.” “I’ll give you a call, about the job, but can I ask one last question?” Hank watched me. I hesitated and nodded, “why did you take the interview? Why not cancel or reschedule?” “I made my wife a promise that I’d come,” I replied. “I don’t think her death releases me from that.”	Sixteen-year-old Theodore Cruz slouched in the cheap plastic booth, sucking the last dregs of his soda with obnoxious zeal and using a ketchup packet to paint a frowny-face on the table. In preparation for this interview, he’d donned his “Sperm Donor” T-shirt and smeared a tablespoon of lard into his hair. The look he was going for, despite his parents’ entreaties to get a job, was “unhireable,” and he was nailing it. “Hi, you must be Theodore. I’m Sharona, the manager.” A moderately-attractive woman in her mid-twenties had appeared, carrying a clipboard and wearing a bright smile. He popped his gum at her and wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Hi, baby. Nice jugs. They real?” “Why, yes they are, thanks for asking.” Her smile didn’t slip a fraction. She slid into the seat across from him, careful to place her paperwork away from his ketchup puddle. “So, why do you want to work for the Sandwich Duke? You left that question blank, along with most of the other questions.” “I dunno. Guess I’d like to steal food when no one’s watching.” He pulled out his gum, examined it, and stuck it under the table. “Ah, an opportunist. You’ll be happy to know that the camera beside the back fryer is broken, so you’ll be able to help yourself. Within reason, of course.” She made a tiny note on her clipboard. “This question’s just for fun, to help me get to know you better: if you were a food, what would you be and why?” “Dog. Chinks eat dogs, so why can’t we? I think it’d be cool to eat something that would make all those sissy animal lovers lose their shit.” Sharona fiddled with the silver cat pin on her lapel and frowned, her composure cracking slightly for the first time. “Yes, well, alright…I like a man who can think outside the box. Last question: what would you say your greatest strength is?” He yawned. “I’m really good at finding ways around the school firewall to stream porn in class. I sell my secrets to the other losers for beer money. Even though they’re totally loaded, my parents are real tightwads.” “I see. It sounds like you’re a real entrepreneur. Good thing you’ll be drawing a real paycheck soon. Welcome aboard!” She stuck out a hand to shake, once more grinning broadly at him. He gaped at her speechlessly, resembling a wide-mouth bass that has swallowed a hook. He was so stunned that he forgot to be rude as he accepted his new uniform and tentative schedule. Sharona watched the little asshat go, already calculating ways to maximize his misery for the three months she had him until school started again. She thought that scraping all of the gum out from under the tables would be a good place to start. Maybe the little toerag would quit – if he did, it wasn’t her fault. She watched the kid climb into his dad’s brand-new sports car and marveled to herself at the peculiar behavior of the very rich. Who else would have paid her five grand to hire their stupid kid? For that kind of money, she would put up with a lot of bullshit for twenty hours a week. Maybe they'd even do it again next summer.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	An ordinary man would not stand a chance. The lone farmer tilling his land, baking under the twin suns of the Kingdom of Ankharra, had his head down. His gaze was fixed upon the soil, his mind focused upon the task. His farm dog was busy chasing butterflies, too distracted to scent the hostile magic boiling in the clearing nearby. But Faron Bitters was not an ordinary man. Three lightning bolts were unleashed simultaneously from the surrounding forests, each angled to ensure that even if their target could dodge one, the others would find their mark. The hissing snap of boiling air followed closely in their wake, rustling leaves, churning dust devils. Each spell was potent enough, deadly enough to fell a fully grown orc. Faron caught the first one easily, crushing it into motes of light with his callused fist. His plough, set free, took its time to fall gracefully to the ground. The second spell spilled against the barrier encasing Faron, winking out of power as its energies were spent trying to overcome the immovable. The final spell froze in midair, hovering at eye-level, straining to reach its destination. It shimmered, an angry scar of azure, like a rat trapped between glass plates. Faron lifted his hat, fanned himself, then walked around the imprisoned spell, examining it closely. “Well woven,” he said, as he replaced his hat upon his head. “Two parts power, one part mobility – Illuma’s Ideal for battlemagic. Novices tend to pour too much power into their spells, forgetting that their spells actually have to hit somebody to be effective. Not many remain today who can spellweave this elegantly. To whom do I owe the honour?” Though the suns still hung at their highest in the skies, six shadowy figures emerged from amongst the trees. For a second Faron thought his eyes were tired, but then he realised the reason why he couldn’t focus on them easily, was because each of them had shrouded themselves. He knew that if his concentration slipped, they would disappear, right before his eyes. “Master Bitters,” said the tallest one. He pulled back his shroud, and Faron noted the pale skin, thinning hair, shrunken flesh. He looked as if he had just emerged from a prolonged stay in the catacombs. “We’re… sorry we had to resort to that. We had to be sure that you were the one we were seeking.” Faron laughed. “And if I wasn’t? Would you have fried some poor farmer out here in the sticks just to sate your curiosity?” “I’m Magister Kellway, and we are here to seek your – ” Faron chose that moment to strike. He had hazarded that they meant him no harm – why else would they yield after the first feint, then reveal themselves? But he could not rule out mischief, or treachery, and so he chose prudence. Like a golden arrow, Faron sped towards the entourage, closing the distance before they could react. Two of them, the sharper ones, tried to throw up their defences, but Faron was too fast for them. By the time the dust settled, five were on the ground, bound and disabled. The one who called himself Kellway dangled off the ground, twisting in the air as Faron gripped his neck. “Seek what from me?” asked Faron. “Choose your words carefully. I happen to want to be left alone.” Kellway held up his hands, then shut off the valves to his power. Faron recognised the timeless sign of surrender, and let go. “We need your help,” said Kellway, on his knees, coughing and rubbing his throat. “The Kingdom needs you again, Master Bitters.” “I’m done with all that,” said Faron. “I’ve done my part. It’s time for the next generation to step up, don’t you think?” “You rid the land of great evil once,” said Kellway, “and we only ask that you help us again.” “I’ve earned my right to be left alone,” said Faron, rubbing his temples. “I’ve given too much, sacrificed it all.” “You are still strong! You can still serve!” “I’ve not fought a single goblin in years! I’m not sure I can even do simple Sixth Order spells anymore, forget about the more complex ones!” “You stopped us! You clearly have what it takes!” Faron’s brow creased in irritation. “Surely there are others who can do what you want? Seek out the Cabal! They are the Queen’s personal magicians! They are the charged protectors of the land!” “We… see for yourself, Master Bitters,” said Kellway. He snapped his fingers, and the shadows fell away from his body, and from the bodies of his comrades on the ground. Faron saw then, the dulled sigils pinned upon their cloaks, which marked them incontrovertibly for Cabal. Faron saw too, that no man amongst the six was complete. Some were missing their hands, some their legs. He had laughed in the face of a grolluc, had shrugged off a rampaging wyrm, but the stench of utter defeat which clung to these six Cabal turned his stomach, crawled his skin… and chilled his heart. “If you are what’s left of the Cabal,” Faron said, urgency creeping into his voice, “where is the Queen? Is she safe? I have a lifelink to her! I would know if she was in danger, but I have not sensed anything!” Kellway tried to rise from his knees, and almost lost his footing. Faron gripped the man, steadied him, and saw up close the deep scars upon his body, his missing ear, his clouded eye. “The Queen, you say? Your daughter that you entrusted the Kingdom to?” asked Kellway. “The Bringer of Light, the Warmer of Hearts? She Who Loves, the Land’s Mother?” Kellway shook his head, and the tears spilled down his cheeks. He scrabbled for Faron’s sleeves, then pulled on them, desperately, angrily. “She was the one who did this to us, Master Bitters. The benefactor has become the tyrant. Please, do what you did once for this land, and set it free again. Only you can stop her.” --- /r/rarelyfunny	Silence resounded from every corner of the room. Such a quiet place to work, Sam thought. Though he may need to suffer through this interview, Sam took comfort in the knowledge that he would need not endure such silence every day. The room itself was plain enough. No larger than Sam’s own bedroom, the walls were bare, and the furnishings sparse. A thick, crude table of oak separated the uncomfortable chair in which Sam sat from the identical chair where the gruff, middle-aged man sat glaring at him. A lamp in the far corner of the room, behind this man, abated only a little of the darkness, leaving the man’s face mostly concealed in shadow. In this gloom, Sam could only make out the man’s broad shoulders, his square head, and, most significantly, the absence of a left hand. Sam marveled at the size of this man, and speculated that he must have had a more physical sort of career before heading this newspaper. The silence that had fostered Sam’s stream of thought was broken abruptly when the man cleared his throat with a rough growl. “Mr. Clark?” the man asked. Sam prepared to reply, but it seemed this was no question. “I am to understand that you are a writer?” Sam shrugged. Perhaps if I merely keep silent, they’ll have no reason to hire me. Sam only desired to write freely, but his mother had forced this interview upon him when it had been over three months since his last royalties had trickled in. “You are the author of ‘The Final Storm’?” Sam nodded hesitantly, confused. “How- well- it is not finished. There is only an incomplete manuscript at my house...” Sam’s voice trailed off until silence had filled the room once again. “This is a very invigorating work, Mr. Clark.” Sam suddenly wished there were fewer shadows present to conceal this man’s expression. His tone was in some ways unnerving. “To be quite honest, Mr. uh, sir...it’s really not spectacular in any regard. I- uh, am in reality quite a mediocre writer. I-“ The man held up the stump that had once been his left hand. “No, no Mr. Clark, I think I like this work of yours.” A small light seemed to glint off the man’s right eye for a moment, and it seemed to Sam that a smile may have flashed somewhere in the shadows that were his face. “The story is of a quality we rarely see. It seems to contain more emotion and truth than one typically finds in such works.” This interview was too full of praise for Sam’s taste. He needed to end this interview soon. “Really, sir, to put it bluntly, the story is a piece of rubbish. I’d imagine any high school student could write a more gripping story in their general English course.” Again, the man seemed to smile slightly from within his shadow. This annoyed Sam. If he was offered a position here, he would have to take it. If he didn’t, his mom would likely force him out of the house. Sam had no desire to write for a stupid local newspaper. The man sat in contemplation for some amount of time, scratching the stump of his left hand. “The villain in this story of yours, Mr. Clark, is very well conceived. We need more of such ability here. Our current writers are particularly drab.” Sam hesitated. “Well, the villain is actually based off of a real person. I wouldn’t have the creativity to create such a character. I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of-” The man held up his stump again. “Yes, I have heard of the Lumberjack.” He laughed a rough, chilling laugh. “You seem to have done much research on this man.” The interviewer was a friend of a friend of Sam’s mother, and, as such, it was bothersome that he knew so much of Sam’s incomplete novel. “I only need a few more weeks to finish,” he had told his mom, and yet she had still forced this interview upon him. “Can you remind me, Mr. Clark, of how this Lumberjack operates?” “Uh, well he is a failure of a writer who takes out his frustration on publishers who reject him.” “And how so, Mr. Clark?” The man’s stump twitched slightly. He seemed to be grinning again, wider than before. Sam found it disconcerting that the Lumberjack was also missing a hand, but remembered that, fortunately, it was in fact his right hand, not the left. “Well, uh, he uses his one good hand to saw off the hands of the publisher, and then-“ A sharp knock on the door behind Sam cut him off. “Sam, honey, that man from the publishing company is here to see you,” called some woman. Sam remembered now. The publishing company that had rejected his most recent, futile effort at a novel. The publishing company that Sam had pitifully begged to meet with in person. The man in the mirror laughed. For the first time, Sam noticed a hand saw on the table. “Tell him to come in,” Sam called back.
[WP] You were forced to attend an interview for a job you do not want, but, no matter how hard you try to screw up the interview, the interviewer just becomes more keen to hire you.	I'm a writer. That's the beginning and the end of my story. I'm a writer. I write. I have stories. I have things to say. I am not a Refinance Document Analyst 1. Maybe you are, but not me. My wife - bless her - is an honest, earnest woman. A doctor. She works hard. She's very smart. But still, smart people can be blinded by their own logic sometimes. Happens to the best of us. Sometimes smart people see the world in black and white - where you're either making money or you're "unemployed." Not realizing that there's a middle path. The path to enlightenment. The path of the Writer. So she tells me to get a job. Is my making money truly necessary? I would say no. I would suggest that my words - as seemingly monetarily valueless as they may presently appear - are greater than any paycheck. I would suggest that she's a fucking doctor, so let's be real for a moment. This is not about a paycheck - this is about the creative process. And a boat. She wants to buy a boat. I don't even like the water. So when I apply to jobs, I do so out of marital duty. To show that I am trying, even though I am not. I am a writer, after all. Writers can only be counted on to try during moments of great inspiration and/or the waning hours of a deadline. I understand this. You understand this. Why Barry Blankenshop of First Fourth National Bank of Wattsborough doesn't understand this is anyone's guess. You see, I applied to the position of Refinance Document Analyst - which is exactly the Lovecraftian nightmare it sounds like - knowing full well that I was neither qualified nor capable. But my wife checks on these things and it's good to have references - or, more accurately, the names of sample HR directors to curse out over the dinner table. These days I curse the name of Barry Blankenshop, though for significantly different reasons than usual. For starters, how in the world was my application ever picked out of the pile to begin with? I have a number of tactics that I employ with regularity to prevent just such a calamity. In this case, I: Provided no prior employment history Intentionally misspelled my own name repeatedly Listed only deceased celebrities as my references And left no personal contact information Perhaps Barry Blankenshop is illiterate? Perhaps he loathes his job as much as I loathe the idea of working? Who can know? He tracked me down somehow, apparently through some combination of Google searching and yellow page cold calling. My wife was present when I answered the phone and I was so caught off guard I didn't think to pretend that Barry had reached the wrong number. We agreed to a time and place for an interview. I did not show up. I have to assume this happens often. But I also assume this is the sort of thing that usually disqualifies someone from the offered post. No such luck. Barry called back. I ignored him. He called my wife and offered to reschedule. I was trapped. There was no avoiding the interview then. I went, my wife watching me as I slouched out to the car. It was a dire situation. Fortunately, I had not exhausted my tried-and-true tactics. Unfortunately, I had deeply underestimated the otherworldly lunacy of Barry Blankenshop. He was a smallish man, perma-sunburned with curly hair the color of uncooked rice noodles. He smiled as he greeted me, smacking his lips and saying something to the effect of, "Aha! Here is the man! The man of the hour!" We sat down. He offered me a coffee. I requested a Coke Lemon. "Ah! Another lemonhead?" he exclaimed. Apparently he had stockpiled the long-since discontinued drink. I received my can, which I opened but did not drink. "How did you hear about First Fourth National?" he asked. "My weed dealer banks here." Blankenshop laughed. "We are very discreet! I see you've no experience in document analysis, right?" I nodded. "Screen blindness. I can't look at a computer screen for more than five minutes at a time without going temporarily blind." "Pity," said Blankenshop solemnly. "Lucky for you, we are entirely computer-free here at First Fourth. All hard copies, all the time." "How...is that even possible?" I asked. "Much safer," said Blankenshop. "No cyber terrorists this way. Saves money, too - a ream of paper costs less than any laptop!" "That's not...quite comparable." "Now," pressed Blankenshop, leaning across the desk, conspiratorially. "What would you consider to be your biggest weakness?" I considered myself. I considered the man. "...cocaine?" Blankenshop laughed, slapping his hands on the desk. "A sense of humor! I love it. No, no, I know the effects of cocaine. Firsthand. Lost my grandmother that way. Tried to fight a city bus. She was special. Cherish your loved ones. Anyway, I can tell you're a straight shooter. How do you deal with turmoil in the workplace?" The man was insane. The usual tactics were powerless. I was swinging wildly now, just looking to make contact. "Segregate out all the Jews?" Blankenshop's brow furrowed deeply. He looked angry for a moment. I had a glimmer of hope. "They are a clever bunch...I need to be careful with you! You'll be gunning for my job in no time!" "I would literally rather throw myself in front of your grandmother's bus," I replied. Blankeshop hooted. "Gallow's humor! It's a difficult industry, certainly. You seem well-suited to it." "What is this job?" I half-shouted. "What the hell does a Refinance Document Analyst even do?" "You know...I'm not sure," said Blankenshop. "Training Department should be able to give you the layout. I'm just tasked with finding a good fit." "A good fit for a job you know nothing about?" "Attitude is everything at First Fourth," said Blankenshop. "And you've got the right attitude." "I hate you." "Ah hahaha! You can't turn it off! I love it. You'll be very popular. If I'm being honest, morale is not what it ought to be. No idea why." Blankenshop stuck out a feeble little paw. "What do you say? Join the team?" Now, obviously I said yes, and I said yes because I love my wife and don't enjoy being yelled at. The work is awful. I do very little of it. I manage every interaction with enormous, open disdain. I do not even clean up the office microwave after I am done. I am a monster. I am also, likely by no coincidence, now a Refinance Document Analyst 2. Because the world is a dark satire, much stranger and crueler than anything I could ever write.	"So, why should we hire you?" The interviewer asks "You shouldn't." you reply candidly, anxious to get out of there. He grins then lets out a hefty laugh. It continues for a good 5 seconds, 5 seconds too long. You nervously let out an awkward laugh with a very confused look on your face. "Humor, we appreciate that at this company," He says still with a wide grin piercing his straight face. The smile looks awkward and unpracticed on him, he clearly hasn't smiled like that in a very long time. "I normally like seriousness in the workplace but a good chuckle has been known to improve overall productivity. But anyway, let's move onto the next question: What are your defining attributes?" You cheer internally, grateful for this easy escape to this torturous interview. "Well, i'm very lazy, I sleep in every other day so I probably won't be showing up for work on time, and my breath nearly always smells of burning trash" You say in a nearly joyful tone. "Ah, you sly dog! That question almost always gets my interviewees, it's a trick question you see. Most people just say they are a perfectionist or some boring cliche thing like that... but you. You were honest and differentiated yourself from the crowd. It's really rare to find someone as unique and truthful are you." Every word is agonizing. You've tried everything but it all seems to just make him like you more. "Final question: Where do you see yourself in 5 years?" Clearly your initial strategy isn't strong enough. Time for a more radical approach. "Not in this dump" you mutter. You try to make it sound like you're speaking under your breath but keep it loud enough for him to hear. If this doesn't work you don't know what will. "Great! I love someone with some ambition, and just between you and me, I think you're right. I see you going places, 5 years and you'll be moving to out to our headquarters in Washington. Well, I'll go get the paperwork, you're hired!" As he heads for the door, you shout after him, nearly pleading with him "Look sir, you know I've been nothing but a deceitful idiot this entire time. Why in god's name are you hiring me!?" "Exactly, the most important traits for any upcoming politician!" And with a wink he walks out the door, leaving you in shock, contemplating your new job.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	I knocked on the door and called out loudly, "Harry, I'm coming in." When I stepped into the room, things were not as expected. Harry was not slumped in his armchair as usual but lay flat in bed, dressed in his best white shirt and dark frayed suit. His hair had been oiled and slicked back with meticulous care. His blind misty eyes stared straight up at the ceiling and he wore a strangely peaceful smile on his face. I hadn't seen him so dressed up since Anna Kipfel's funeral the last month. She had been a good friend of Harry's and I knew that he missed her terribly. They used to take leisurely afternoon strolls together but since she passed, he refused to leave his room at all. Was this some new convoluted display of grief? "Harry? What's going on?" I asked cautiously. "I'm ready today," he said simply. "Ready for what?" "For you," he said. I puzzled over this for a moment. Did this have something to do with our little game? Ever since Harry had moved into the home a year ago and been placed in my care, we had played a strange game of pretence. From the moment we met, his crumbling old mind had been convinced that I was death himself. I was extremely disturbed at the accusation, but the other helpers found it hilarious. No amount of logical explanations would change his mind so at one point, I decided to play along. It probably gave him a small sense of accomplishment to "dodge" me every day. This home was filled with discarded old folks in varying stages of decay. Either abandoned by their families or having none, they barely had one helper for dozens of them at a time. There was only so much reasoning us helpers had the strength or time to do. I had even started to enjoy our little game. I would get into character, speak with a deep intimidating voice. Sometimes I would wrap my hands around his throat. He only laughed. Whatever else he might be, Harry was a tough cookie. He said that he did not fear death because he had nothing more to lose. I admired his resignation in a way. Not all residents here were as mature about their inevitable end. "What do you mean Harry?" I asked him, approaching his bed. "I'm ready to go. Take my life." "No no, that's not how it works. You try to trick me and I spare you if you win, remember?" "I don't want to play anymore." "Oh Harry, come now. You're great at this. It's been a year and you're still here, aren't you? Why lose today?" "Because I know the rules. If it's not me, it will be someone else." "What makes you say that?" I asked calmly. "Every few weeks, you take someone. It was Anna last. I won't let anyone else die if I can help it. Take me this time and spare the others." Poor old Harry. I had always been fascinated by this strange man. Age had made him frail and blind but at the same time, left him fearless and strangely perceptive. I leaned over him where he lay in bed and said, "I can't take your life Harry." "Why not?" asked Harry. I considered giving him a comical fabrication in reply but then reconsidered. I liked him way too much and he deserved the truth. I leaned in even closer, my mouth almost touching his wrinkled ear. I whispered, "Because it's no fun if you don't struggle. You're not afraid. That's why you're still alive and Anna is not." The next thing I saw was Harry's arm flying towards me. My neck exploded with the most frightful pain I've ever know in my life. I stumbled back. Everything was covered in blood - my hands, the floor and Harry too. What was happening? I choked and sputtered, reaching for my neck. The handle of a knife was sticking out, the blade deep inside my flesh. I felt warm blood gushing out of the wound in torrents. Harry sat up in bed and looked in my direction with his foggy sightless eyes that had always seemed to see too much. "I told you I was ready for you today. Nobody else will ever die by your hands again," said the old bastard and darkness surrounded me, pulling me into its terrifying depths. I envied Harry. Death is a beautiful thing to watch.	White noise mingled with spurts of recognizable words played from the open windows and tattered screen door as Fin walked up. Rainwater dripped off the porch overhang into puddles reflecting a gloomy sky. The old coot must have had a hard time adjusting the dial on the radio and given up between two stations. Fin entered, wiped off his sneakers, and set the plastic bag he was carrying on the kitchen table. Funny. He was normally sitting here cutting out newspaper articles around this time. "Mr. Allen? Homer, you here?" Maybe he finally kicked the bucket. "What!?" Nope. Still at it. "I've got your dinner! Got a different kinda mango you might like!" Fin called out. Homer rounded the corner with surprising speed sporting an aged white suit jacket with matching pants and dress shoes. One sock was slightly off white - probably couldn't find the matching socks to either. Fin tried and failed to hide the surprise on his face. Could always count on something different with old people. "Don't like mangos," Homer half-yelled in a typical half-deaf fashion, walking past the table to the living room. He sat on the couch and placed a hand on the arm of the rocking chair his wife used to occupy. He spoke softer, "'sides I don't need nothin' to eat today. I'm ready." "Ready for what? You going somewhere?" "No need to play games. You're here to reap my soul, same as always. This time I'm ready." Oh. This again. Old man's episodes had become more and more frequent, saying Fin was really Death here to take him to the after life. The chair squeaked softly as homer began rocking it back and forth "You could just try them this time. They have cinnamon on them." Fin tempted as he walked over and sat on the opposite side of the couch. "Don't beat around the bush - you been comin' for months and I told you 'no' every time. Well I'm saying 'yes' now." "Yes to the mangos?" Homer turned his head and glared at Fin before softening his face turning forward. The rocking slowed slightly. "I lived a good, long life. I done a lot in these past 92 years. I went to war. I went to medical school. I loved just one woman and together we raised a family. I just saw my 4th great-grandchild born. I ought'a leave 'fore another gets on the way or I'll regret dying 'fore its born." Homer turned his head to face Fin again. The rocking trailed off. "I'm ready to see Jolly again." Fin looked down and scratched his nose. "I am gonna see her again right?" Fin, still looking down, half-smiled before sitting up straight to look at the old man. "Yeah, you'll see her again. In a lot better place than this. No mangos, just ice cream." Ice cream was his favorite. It was the only thing he was guaranteed to eat. Homer smiled. His eyes glistened a little. "You sure you don't wanna try a mango first?" The elder snorted, leaned his head back onto the couch cushion, and closed his eyes. The squeak of the rocking started back again, slower this time. Fin put a hand on the old man's shoulder, still half-smiling. "Let's go see Jolly." The rocking faded and was gone.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	April was always my favorite. The others would smile and thank me. Some would invite me in for a cup of tea. I would always smile and decline. They were desperate for company. I would make sure that I would chat with them at least once a week. But April never asked me to stay. She never wanted me to come. As soon as I would step into her room, she would freeze. She would smile - a smile that glimmered like diamonds on ice. Then, she would relax in her chair and wait for me to enter. Some days she would set elaborate traps that I wouldn't see coming until hot pain flashed across my face. Some days she wouldn't set any trap at all, and she would just watch me. Some days, her sharp tongue would poke and prod at me until I put down her tray and raced from the room. I would always run. it was more fun that way. On her good days, her cheers and hollers would chase my ears. "I'll keep on beating you until you learn to take me some other way!" She'd call as I ran. It was difficult to tell if she really thought that I was real, or if she was simply playing along with her own antics. Not many people wanted to drop food off to her - she had a habit of spreading thumbtacks across the floor to ward me off - but I took the job. Always. But today was different. Today, she sat somberly at her chair. She wore a simple black dress. She wore all of her jewels. They flashed in the fluorescent light. "I'm ready." She said. Her face was stony. I said nothing, only stared at the grand old lady sitting in her armchair like it was a throne. "Come on now. Quickly, please. I don't want to sit around all day." Her voice bit into my ears like steel. "I want to meet Jessie before noon." Finally, I found my voice. I moved closer to the old woman, and she fixed me with a hard, cruel gaze. I took her hand and took a deep breath. "April, I can't take your life. I can't." Suddenly, her face crumpled like wax paper. "But all you can do is take. All you do is take and take and take. You took Jessie instead of me. You took her baby boy instead of me! I n-never even m-met him." Her voice shook. Tears flowed openly down her cheeks. She made no move to wipe them away. "So why can't you take me now? I want to meet my grandson." By now, her voice was a whisper. I felt my own throat clog up. The room was silent. The tray of food lay abandoned by the door. I held her hand as she sobbed.	White noise mingled with spurts of recognizable words played from the open windows and tattered screen door as Fin walked up. Rainwater dripped off the porch overhang into puddles reflecting a gloomy sky. The old coot must have had a hard time adjusting the dial on the radio and given up between two stations. Fin entered, wiped off his sneakers, and set the plastic bag he was carrying on the kitchen table. Funny. He was normally sitting here cutting out newspaper articles around this time. "Mr. Allen? Homer, you here?" Maybe he finally kicked the bucket. "What!?" Nope. Still at it. "I've got your dinner! Got a different kinda mango you might like!" Fin called out. Homer rounded the corner with surprising speed sporting an aged white suit jacket with matching pants and dress shoes. One sock was slightly off white - probably couldn't find the matching socks to either. Fin tried and failed to hide the surprise on his face. Could always count on something different with old people. "Don't like mangos," Homer half-yelled in a typical half-deaf fashion, walking past the table to the living room. He sat on the couch and placed a hand on the arm of the rocking chair his wife used to occupy. He spoke softer, "'sides I don't need nothin' to eat today. I'm ready." "Ready for what? You going somewhere?" "No need to play games. You're here to reap my soul, same as always. This time I'm ready." Oh. This again. Old man's episodes had become more and more frequent, saying Fin was really Death here to take him to the after life. The chair squeaked softly as homer began rocking it back and forth "You could just try them this time. They have cinnamon on them." Fin tempted as he walked over and sat on the opposite side of the couch. "Don't beat around the bush - you been comin' for months and I told you 'no' every time. Well I'm saying 'yes' now." "Yes to the mangos?" Homer turned his head and glared at Fin before softening his face turning forward. The rocking slowed slightly. "I lived a good, long life. I done a lot in these past 92 years. I went to war. I went to medical school. I loved just one woman and together we raised a family. I just saw my 4th great-grandchild born. I ought'a leave 'fore another gets on the way or I'll regret dying 'fore its born." Homer turned his head to face Fin again. The rocking trailed off. "I'm ready to see Jolly again." Fin looked down and scratched his nose. "I am gonna see her again right?" Fin, still looking down, half-smiled before sitting up straight to look at the old man. "Yeah, you'll see her again. In a lot better place than this. No mangos, just ice cream." Ice cream was his favorite. It was the only thing he was guaranteed to eat. Homer smiled. His eyes glistened a little. "You sure you don't wanna try a mango first?" The elder snorted, leaned his head back onto the couch cushion, and closed his eyes. The squeak of the rocking started back again, slower this time. Fin put a hand on the old man's shoulder, still half-smiling. "Let's go see Jolly." The rocking faded and was gone.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	April was always my favorite. The others would smile and thank me. Some would invite me in for a cup of tea. I would always smile and decline. They were desperate for company. I would make sure that I would chat with them at least once a week. But April never asked me to stay. She never wanted me to come. As soon as I would step into her room, she would freeze. She would smile - a smile that glimmered like diamonds on ice. Then, she would relax in her chair and wait for me to enter. Some days she would set elaborate traps that I wouldn't see coming until hot pain flashed across my face. Some days she wouldn't set any trap at all, and she would just watch me. Some days, her sharp tongue would poke and prod at me until I put down her tray and raced from the room. I would always run. it was more fun that way. On her good days, her cheers and hollers would chase my ears. "I'll keep on beating you until you learn to take me some other way!" She'd call as I ran. It was difficult to tell if she really thought that I was real, or if she was simply playing along with her own antics. Not many people wanted to drop food off to her - she had a habit of spreading thumbtacks across the floor to ward me off - but I took the job. Always. But today was different. Today, she sat somberly at her chair. She wore a simple black dress. She wore all of her jewels. They flashed in the fluorescent light. "I'm ready." She said. Her face was stony. I said nothing, only stared at the grand old lady sitting in her armchair like it was a throne. "Come on now. Quickly, please. I don't want to sit around all day." Her voice bit into my ears like steel. "I want to meet Jessie before noon." Finally, I found my voice. I moved closer to the old woman, and she fixed me with a hard, cruel gaze. I took her hand and took a deep breath. "April, I can't take your life. I can't." Suddenly, her face crumpled like wax paper. "But all you can do is take. All you do is take and take and take. You took Jessie instead of me. You took her baby boy instead of me! I n-never even m-met him." Her voice shook. Tears flowed openly down her cheeks. She made no move to wipe them away. "So why can't you take me now? I want to meet my grandson." By now, her voice was a whisper. I felt my own throat clog up. The room was silent. The tray of food lay abandoned by the door. I held her hand as she sobbed.	Today was different. He was seated in his wooden rocker, leaned back and fully relaxed. Covered in black and white from head to toe, a slightly more modern suit and tie piece. "No tricks today Sam? Or am I missing something?" Sam sat up, still rooted in his seat. "I'm afraid I'm all out of tricks my friend." He rubbed his glasses against his smooth black jackets and placed em on the table, "I've ran from you long enough. My time is now, my time is here." I put down the Styrofoam packages on the same table, "That isn't your call, neither is that mine, it's His. Do you want to play god? It's a lonely affair." Lifting the lid, the aroma fills the room. "Come'on, it's your favourite. Teriyaki." It isn't this man's time to go. He's fought so hard, he's so nice, so moral. I can't let this frail man give up. "I'm all but lost. Call him and call for a plea. I've been through Normandy, I've seen friends burn and cities in ashes." He seemed almost lost for a moment. His glasses came off again, and he reached for his pocket handky, "You've taken all but me, all of them; Carlson, Marks, Robin", his cleared his throat, but a tear still went down his cheek. I turned and found what he was starring at, the only clean area on the fireplace, a portrait of Eliz, his deceased wife, lost to cancer. "She wasn't meant to go, I want to see her. Please my boy, whatever it may be, these old bones can take no more." I sat adjacent to him. "It isn't your time. Fight on soldier, the war is not lost." I pull up the table, "Does she miss me?" I could nod but I couldn't face him, he's been through too much for one lifetime. "Come'on eat up while it's hot." I passed him the spoon. This is the first time I really saw those tired eyes. Clang! Hm! Hn! Ar! "SAM!" I pushed the table away, "NO, NO, NURSE!" His chest was erratic. No! Not like this! Sam come on one more! "Relax James." Sam was panting. My arms raced to his chest. No, No, NO. His eyes dilated. Those old brownies stayed on the ceiling as his body fell into his chair. Come'on you have one more visit in you! My palms thumped on his chest. ONE! Nothing. TWO! Nothing. COME'ON! My mouth met his, but it didn't matter, his chest raised but fell as soon as my lips left. "James." My watered eyes met a business man; full suit, tall and just cold, by the door. "You did enough James, this is one battle he lost. I tried to make it swift." He walked calmly across the room, while I was still in my panicked state; arms still shacking, breathing in deep breathes. My eyes followed the man, as he reached to close Sam's eyes.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I wave goodbye to Carol as I open the door to my car. She always follows me halfway to the end of her lawn telling me different news items and tidbits about her children and grandchildren. She’s a sweet lady and I really wish I could stay just ten or twenty minutes longer and give her some more company but I have so many people to visit. I always feel bad like I’m trying to escape from her when all she wants is someone to talk to. I turn the key and my engine sputters to life. I turn to Carol who is still watching me with a sad smile on her face. My heart breaks a little as she raises her hand and we wave for the fourth or fifth time. I start to drive forward as I don’t want to prolong this much longer. This job is okay as far as jobs go. All my clients, I guess you could call them that, they are all great people and it feels good delivering food to them and chatting with them even if it’s for a small bit. Most times though I just wish I didn’t have to be in such a rush. Maybe I should come and visit Carol on one of my days off. Next on my list is old man Wilkins. He used to be my neighbor when I was young. I used to mow his lawn and shovel his sidewalks for comic book and video game money. I guess he had a really rough time after his wife Jeannie died because he sold his house and moved into his current tiny apartment. She was a real treasure, his Jeannie. She was hands down the nicest person I have ever met. Maybe that was why it was so hard to bring him his food. It was really painful to think of losing a loved one, especially someone like Jeannie. But what also made it tough was that he kept calling me death and trying to hide from me each time. I literally have no idea where he got that from. He was kind of a goofy guy even before Jeannie died. I stop my car outside his apartment complex and grab his meal box from the back seat. I walk up to his apartment door with his food under one arm while I use the other to knock. “Mr. Wilkins! It’s me, Bradley. I got steak and mashed potatoes for ya. I know that’s your favorite.” “It’s unlocked”, yells Mr. Wilkins from somewhere inside his apartment. I open the door to his apartment and almost drop the meal box when I see Mr. Wilkins standing beside his kitchen counter dressed in a dark grey suit as if he was going to a fancy party. He usually wore baggy sweat pants and a white shirt. I say, “You’re dressed well. You don’t have to get all fancy for me.” I try lightening the mood. It usually worked with him but sometimes he would still try to run away calling me death and saying things like ‘you’re not getting me today!’ “It’s okay Bradley. I’m ready.” Mr. Wilkins says. “Ready?” I ask. “I’ve been mourning Jeannie’s death now for twenty-two years. It’s about time I moved on. I may be sixty but I still have a lot of life to live. I’m sorry I always called you death and caused you such a headache. Jeannie always thought of the neighborhood children as our children since she couldn’t have any herself.” A tear rolls down his cheek. “Seeing you these years always reminded me of her death and combine that with the drinking… I’m sorry.” “Mr. Wilkins, it’s okay.” I walk over to him setting the food down and I put an arm on his shoulder. “Thank you Bradley, you’re a good kid. I’m sure Jeannie would be proud of the man you turned into. But now I got to make her proud of me.” Mr. Wilkins shakes my hand and then walks to his front door. He picks up a suitcase that sat beside it and heads out. I stand there in shocked silence watching him walk to his car, a red Oldsmobile. He looks back at me as he's opening his car door and gives me a wave. I waved back and watched him drive down the street and on with the second part of his life.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I wave goodbye to Carol as I open the door to my car. She always follows me halfway to the end of her lawn telling me different news items and tidbits about her children and grandchildren. She’s a sweet lady and I really wish I could stay just ten or twenty minutes longer and give her some more company but I have so many people to visit. I always feel bad like I’m trying to escape from her when all she wants is someone to talk to. I turn the key and my engine sputters to life. I turn to Carol who is still watching me with a sad smile on her face. My heart breaks a little as she raises her hand and we wave for the fourth or fifth time. I start to drive forward as I don’t want to prolong this much longer. This job is okay as far as jobs go. All my clients, I guess you could call them that, they are all great people and it feels good delivering food to them and chatting with them even if it’s for a small bit. Most times though I just wish I didn’t have to be in such a rush. Maybe I should come and visit Carol on one of my days off. Next on my list is old man Wilkins. He used to be my neighbor when I was young. I used to mow his lawn and shovel his sidewalks for comic book and video game money. I guess he had a really rough time after his wife Jeannie died because he sold his house and moved into his current tiny apartment. She was a real treasure, his Jeannie. She was hands down the nicest person I have ever met. Maybe that was why it was so hard to bring him his food. It was really painful to think of losing a loved one, especially someone like Jeannie. But what also made it tough was that he kept calling me death and trying to hide from me each time. I literally have no idea where he got that from. He was kind of a goofy guy even before Jeannie died. I stop my car outside his apartment complex and grab his meal box from the back seat. I walk up to his apartment door with his food under one arm while I use the other to knock. “Mr. Wilkins! It’s me, Bradley. I got steak and mashed potatoes for ya. I know that’s your favorite.” “It’s unlocked”, yells Mr. Wilkins from somewhere inside his apartment. I open the door to his apartment and almost drop the meal box when I see Mr. Wilkins standing beside his kitchen counter dressed in a dark grey suit as if he was going to a fancy party. He usually wore baggy sweat pants and a white shirt. I say, “You’re dressed well. You don’t have to get all fancy for me.” I try lightening the mood. It usually worked with him but sometimes he would still try to run away calling me death and saying things like ‘you’re not getting me today!’ “It’s okay Bradley. I’m ready.” Mr. Wilkins says. “Ready?” I ask. “I’ve been mourning Jeannie’s death now for twenty-two years. It’s about time I moved on. I may be sixty but I still have a lot of life to live. I’m sorry I always called you death and caused you such a headache. Jeannie always thought of the neighborhood children as our children since she couldn’t have any herself.” A tear rolls down his cheek. “Seeing you these years always reminded me of her death and combine that with the drinking… I’m sorry.” “Mr. Wilkins, it’s okay.” I walk over to him setting the food down and I put an arm on his shoulder. “Thank you Bradley, you’re a good kid. I’m sure Jeannie would be proud of the man you turned into. But now I got to make her proud of me.” Mr. Wilkins shakes my hand and then walks to his front door. He picks up a suitcase that sat beside it and heads out. I stand there in shocked silence watching him walk to his car, a red Oldsmobile. He looks back at me as he's opening his car door and gives me a wave. I waved back and watched him drive down the street and on with the second part of his life.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I wave goodbye to Carol as I open the door to my car. She always follows me halfway to the end of her lawn telling me different news items and tidbits about her children and grandchildren. She’s a sweet lady and I really wish I could stay just ten or twenty minutes longer and give her some more company but I have so many people to visit. I always feel bad like I’m trying to escape from her when all she wants is someone to talk to. I turn the key and my engine sputters to life. I turn to Carol who is still watching me with a sad smile on her face. My heart breaks a little as she raises her hand and we wave for the fourth or fifth time. I start to drive forward as I don’t want to prolong this much longer. This job is okay as far as jobs go. All my clients, I guess you could call them that, they are all great people and it feels good delivering food to them and chatting with them even if it’s for a small bit. Most times though I just wish I didn’t have to be in such a rush. Maybe I should come and visit Carol on one of my days off. Next on my list is old man Wilkins. He used to be my neighbor when I was young. I used to mow his lawn and shovel his sidewalks for comic book and video game money. I guess he had a really rough time after his wife Jeannie died because he sold his house and moved into his current tiny apartment. She was a real treasure, his Jeannie. She was hands down the nicest person I have ever met. Maybe that was why it was so hard to bring him his food. It was really painful to think of losing a loved one, especially someone like Jeannie. But what also made it tough was that he kept calling me death and trying to hide from me each time. I literally have no idea where he got that from. He was kind of a goofy guy even before Jeannie died. I stop my car outside his apartment complex and grab his meal box from the back seat. I walk up to his apartment door with his food under one arm while I use the other to knock. “Mr. Wilkins! It’s me, Bradley. I got steak and mashed potatoes for ya. I know that’s your favorite.” “It’s unlocked”, yells Mr. Wilkins from somewhere inside his apartment. I open the door to his apartment and almost drop the meal box when I see Mr. Wilkins standing beside his kitchen counter dressed in a dark grey suit as if he was going to a fancy party. He usually wore baggy sweat pants and a white shirt. I say, “You’re dressed well. You don’t have to get all fancy for me.” I try lightening the mood. It usually worked with him but sometimes he would still try to run away calling me death and saying things like ‘you’re not getting me today!’ “It’s okay Bradley. I’m ready.” Mr. Wilkins says. “Ready?” I ask. “I’ve been mourning Jeannie’s death now for twenty-two years. It’s about time I moved on. I may be sixty but I still have a lot of life to live. I’m sorry I always called you death and caused you such a headache. Jeannie always thought of the neighborhood children as our children since she couldn’t have any herself.” A tear rolls down his cheek. “Seeing you these years always reminded me of her death and combine that with the drinking… I’m sorry.” “Mr. Wilkins, it’s okay.” I walk over to him setting the food down and I put an arm on his shoulder. “Thank you Bradley, you’re a good kid. I’m sure Jeannie would be proud of the man you turned into. But now I got to make her proud of me.” Mr. Wilkins shakes my hand and then walks to his front door. He picks up a suitcase that sat beside it and heads out. I stand there in shocked silence watching him walk to his car, a red Oldsmobile. He looks back at me as he's opening his car door and gives me a wave. I waved back and watched him drive down the street and on with the second part of his life.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I wave goodbye to Carol as I open the door to my car. She always follows me halfway to the end of her lawn telling me different news items and tidbits about her children and grandchildren. She’s a sweet lady and I really wish I could stay just ten or twenty minutes longer and give her some more company but I have so many people to visit. I always feel bad like I’m trying to escape from her when all she wants is someone to talk to. I turn the key and my engine sputters to life. I turn to Carol who is still watching me with a sad smile on her face. My heart breaks a little as she raises her hand and we wave for the fourth or fifth time. I start to drive forward as I don’t want to prolong this much longer. This job is okay as far as jobs go. All my clients, I guess you could call them that, they are all great people and it feels good delivering food to them and chatting with them even if it’s for a small bit. Most times though I just wish I didn’t have to be in such a rush. Maybe I should come and visit Carol on one of my days off. Next on my list is old man Wilkins. He used to be my neighbor when I was young. I used to mow his lawn and shovel his sidewalks for comic book and video game money. I guess he had a really rough time after his wife Jeannie died because he sold his house and moved into his current tiny apartment. She was a real treasure, his Jeannie. She was hands down the nicest person I have ever met. Maybe that was why it was so hard to bring him his food. It was really painful to think of losing a loved one, especially someone like Jeannie. But what also made it tough was that he kept calling me death and trying to hide from me each time. I literally have no idea where he got that from. He was kind of a goofy guy even before Jeannie died. I stop my car outside his apartment complex and grab his meal box from the back seat. I walk up to his apartment door with his food under one arm while I use the other to knock. “Mr. Wilkins! It’s me, Bradley. I got steak and mashed potatoes for ya. I know that’s your favorite.” “It’s unlocked”, yells Mr. Wilkins from somewhere inside his apartment. I open the door to his apartment and almost drop the meal box when I see Mr. Wilkins standing beside his kitchen counter dressed in a dark grey suit as if he was going to a fancy party. He usually wore baggy sweat pants and a white shirt. I say, “You’re dressed well. You don’t have to get all fancy for me.” I try lightening the mood. It usually worked with him but sometimes he would still try to run away calling me death and saying things like ‘you’re not getting me today!’ “It’s okay Bradley. I’m ready.” Mr. Wilkins says. “Ready?” I ask. “I’ve been mourning Jeannie’s death now for twenty-two years. It’s about time I moved on. I may be sixty but I still have a lot of life to live. I’m sorry I always called you death and caused you such a headache. Jeannie always thought of the neighborhood children as our children since she couldn’t have any herself.” A tear rolls down his cheek. “Seeing you these years always reminded me of her death and combine that with the drinking… I’m sorry.” “Mr. Wilkins, it’s okay.” I walk over to him setting the food down and I put an arm on his shoulder. “Thank you Bradley, you’re a good kid. I’m sure Jeannie would be proud of the man you turned into. But now I got to make her proud of me.” Mr. Wilkins shakes my hand and then walks to his front door. He picks up a suitcase that sat beside it and heads out. I stand there in shocked silence watching him walk to his car, a red Oldsmobile. He looks back at me as he's opening his car door and gives me a wave. I waved back and watched him drive down the street and on with the second part of his life.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I wave goodbye to Carol as I open the door to my car. She always follows me halfway to the end of her lawn telling me different news items and tidbits about her children and grandchildren. She’s a sweet lady and I really wish I could stay just ten or twenty minutes longer and give her some more company but I have so many people to visit. I always feel bad like I’m trying to escape from her when all she wants is someone to talk to. I turn the key and my engine sputters to life. I turn to Carol who is still watching me with a sad smile on her face. My heart breaks a little as she raises her hand and we wave for the fourth or fifth time. I start to drive forward as I don’t want to prolong this much longer. This job is okay as far as jobs go. All my clients, I guess you could call them that, they are all great people and it feels good delivering food to them and chatting with them even if it’s for a small bit. Most times though I just wish I didn’t have to be in such a rush. Maybe I should come and visit Carol on one of my days off. Next on my list is old man Wilkins. He used to be my neighbor when I was young. I used to mow his lawn and shovel his sidewalks for comic book and video game money. I guess he had a really rough time after his wife Jeannie died because he sold his house and moved into his current tiny apartment. She was a real treasure, his Jeannie. She was hands down the nicest person I have ever met. Maybe that was why it was so hard to bring him his food. It was really painful to think of losing a loved one, especially someone like Jeannie. But what also made it tough was that he kept calling me death and trying to hide from me each time. I literally have no idea where he got that from. He was kind of a goofy guy even before Jeannie died. I stop my car outside his apartment complex and grab his meal box from the back seat. I walk up to his apartment door with his food under one arm while I use the other to knock. “Mr. Wilkins! It’s me, Bradley. I got steak and mashed potatoes for ya. I know that’s your favorite.” “It’s unlocked”, yells Mr. Wilkins from somewhere inside his apartment. I open the door to his apartment and almost drop the meal box when I see Mr. Wilkins standing beside his kitchen counter dressed in a dark grey suit as if he was going to a fancy party. He usually wore baggy sweat pants and a white shirt. I say, “You’re dressed well. You don’t have to get all fancy for me.” I try lightening the mood. It usually worked with him but sometimes he would still try to run away calling me death and saying things like ‘you’re not getting me today!’ “It’s okay Bradley. I’m ready.” Mr. Wilkins says. “Ready?” I ask. “I’ve been mourning Jeannie’s death now for twenty-two years. It’s about time I moved on. I may be sixty but I still have a lot of life to live. I’m sorry I always called you death and caused you such a headache. Jeannie always thought of the neighborhood children as our children since she couldn’t have any herself.” A tear rolls down his cheek. “Seeing you these years always reminded me of her death and combine that with the drinking… I’m sorry.” “Mr. Wilkins, it’s okay.” I walk over to him setting the food down and I put an arm on his shoulder. “Thank you Bradley, you’re a good kid. I’m sure Jeannie would be proud of the man you turned into. But now I got to make her proud of me.” Mr. Wilkins shakes my hand and then walks to his front door. He picks up a suitcase that sat beside it and heads out. I stand there in shocked silence watching him walk to his car, a red Oldsmobile. He looks back at me as he's opening his car door and gives me a wave. I waved back and watched him drive down the street and on with the second part of his life.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I wave goodbye to Carol as I open the door to my car. She always follows me halfway to the end of her lawn telling me different news items and tidbits about her children and grandchildren. She’s a sweet lady and I really wish I could stay just ten or twenty minutes longer and give her some more company but I have so many people to visit. I always feel bad like I’m trying to escape from her when all she wants is someone to talk to. I turn the key and my engine sputters to life. I turn to Carol who is still watching me with a sad smile on her face. My heart breaks a little as she raises her hand and we wave for the fourth or fifth time. I start to drive forward as I don’t want to prolong this much longer. This job is okay as far as jobs go. All my clients, I guess you could call them that, they are all great people and it feels good delivering food to them and chatting with them even if it’s for a small bit. Most times though I just wish I didn’t have to be in such a rush. Maybe I should come and visit Carol on one of my days off. Next on my list is old man Wilkins. He used to be my neighbor when I was young. I used to mow his lawn and shovel his sidewalks for comic book and video game money. I guess he had a really rough time after his wife Jeannie died because he sold his house and moved into his current tiny apartment. She was a real treasure, his Jeannie. She was hands down the nicest person I have ever met. Maybe that was why it was so hard to bring him his food. It was really painful to think of losing a loved one, especially someone like Jeannie. But what also made it tough was that he kept calling me death and trying to hide from me each time. I literally have no idea where he got that from. He was kind of a goofy guy even before Jeannie died. I stop my car outside his apartment complex and grab his meal box from the back seat. I walk up to his apartment door with his food under one arm while I use the other to knock. “Mr. Wilkins! It’s me, Bradley. I got steak and mashed potatoes for ya. I know that’s your favorite.” “It’s unlocked”, yells Mr. Wilkins from somewhere inside his apartment. I open the door to his apartment and almost drop the meal box when I see Mr. Wilkins standing beside his kitchen counter dressed in a dark grey suit as if he was going to a fancy party. He usually wore baggy sweat pants and a white shirt. I say, “You’re dressed well. You don’t have to get all fancy for me.” I try lightening the mood. It usually worked with him but sometimes he would still try to run away calling me death and saying things like ‘you’re not getting me today!’ “It’s okay Bradley. I’m ready.” Mr. Wilkins says. “Ready?” I ask. “I’ve been mourning Jeannie’s death now for twenty-two years. It’s about time I moved on. I may be sixty but I still have a lot of life to live. I’m sorry I always called you death and caused you such a headache. Jeannie always thought of the neighborhood children as our children since she couldn’t have any herself.” A tear rolls down his cheek. “Seeing you these years always reminded me of her death and combine that with the drinking… I’m sorry.” “Mr. Wilkins, it’s okay.” I walk over to him setting the food down and I put an arm on his shoulder. “Thank you Bradley, you’re a good kid. I’m sure Jeannie would be proud of the man you turned into. But now I got to make her proud of me.” Mr. Wilkins shakes my hand and then walks to his front door. He picks up a suitcase that sat beside it and heads out. I stand there in shocked silence watching him walk to his car, a red Oldsmobile. He looks back at me as he's opening his car door and gives me a wave. I waved back and watched him drive down the street and on with the second part of his life.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I wave goodbye to Carol as I open the door to my car. She always follows me halfway to the end of her lawn telling me different news items and tidbits about her children and grandchildren. She’s a sweet lady and I really wish I could stay just ten or twenty minutes longer and give her some more company but I have so many people to visit. I always feel bad like I’m trying to escape from her when all she wants is someone to talk to. I turn the key and my engine sputters to life. I turn to Carol who is still watching me with a sad smile on her face. My heart breaks a little as she raises her hand and we wave for the fourth or fifth time. I start to drive forward as I don’t want to prolong this much longer. This job is okay as far as jobs go. All my clients, I guess you could call them that, they are all great people and it feels good delivering food to them and chatting with them even if it’s for a small bit. Most times though I just wish I didn’t have to be in such a rush. Maybe I should come and visit Carol on one of my days off. Next on my list is old man Wilkins. He used to be my neighbor when I was young. I used to mow his lawn and shovel his sidewalks for comic book and video game money. I guess he had a really rough time after his wife Jeannie died because he sold his house and moved into his current tiny apartment. She was a real treasure, his Jeannie. She was hands down the nicest person I have ever met. Maybe that was why it was so hard to bring him his food. It was really painful to think of losing a loved one, especially someone like Jeannie. But what also made it tough was that he kept calling me death and trying to hide from me each time. I literally have no idea where he got that from. He was kind of a goofy guy even before Jeannie died. I stop my car outside his apartment complex and grab his meal box from the back seat. I walk up to his apartment door with his food under one arm while I use the other to knock. “Mr. Wilkins! It’s me, Bradley. I got steak and mashed potatoes for ya. I know that’s your favorite.” “It’s unlocked”, yells Mr. Wilkins from somewhere inside his apartment. I open the door to his apartment and almost drop the meal box when I see Mr. Wilkins standing beside his kitchen counter dressed in a dark grey suit as if he was going to a fancy party. He usually wore baggy sweat pants and a white shirt. I say, “You’re dressed well. You don’t have to get all fancy for me.” I try lightening the mood. It usually worked with him but sometimes he would still try to run away calling me death and saying things like ‘you’re not getting me today!’ “It’s okay Bradley. I’m ready.” Mr. Wilkins says. “Ready?” I ask. “I’ve been mourning Jeannie’s death now for twenty-two years. It’s about time I moved on. I may be sixty but I still have a lot of life to live. I’m sorry I always called you death and caused you such a headache. Jeannie always thought of the neighborhood children as our children since she couldn’t have any herself.” A tear rolls down his cheek. “Seeing you these years always reminded me of her death and combine that with the drinking… I’m sorry.” “Mr. Wilkins, it’s okay.” I walk over to him setting the food down and I put an arm on his shoulder. “Thank you Bradley, you’re a good kid. I’m sure Jeannie would be proud of the man you turned into. But now I got to make her proud of me.” Mr. Wilkins shakes my hand and then walks to his front door. He picks up a suitcase that sat beside it and heads out. I stand there in shocked silence watching him walk to his car, a red Oldsmobile. He looks back at me as he's opening his car door and gives me a wave. I waved back and watched him drive down the street and on with the second part of his life.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I wave goodbye to Carol as I open the door to my car. She always follows me halfway to the end of her lawn telling me different news items and tidbits about her children and grandchildren. She’s a sweet lady and I really wish I could stay just ten or twenty minutes longer and give her some more company but I have so many people to visit. I always feel bad like I’m trying to escape from her when all she wants is someone to talk to. I turn the key and my engine sputters to life. I turn to Carol who is still watching me with a sad smile on her face. My heart breaks a little as she raises her hand and we wave for the fourth or fifth time. I start to drive forward as I don’t want to prolong this much longer. This job is okay as far as jobs go. All my clients, I guess you could call them that, they are all great people and it feels good delivering food to them and chatting with them even if it’s for a small bit. Most times though I just wish I didn’t have to be in such a rush. Maybe I should come and visit Carol on one of my days off. Next on my list is old man Wilkins. He used to be my neighbor when I was young. I used to mow his lawn and shovel his sidewalks for comic book and video game money. I guess he had a really rough time after his wife Jeannie died because he sold his house and moved into his current tiny apartment. She was a real treasure, his Jeannie. She was hands down the nicest person I have ever met. Maybe that was why it was so hard to bring him his food. It was really painful to think of losing a loved one, especially someone like Jeannie. But what also made it tough was that he kept calling me death and trying to hide from me each time. I literally have no idea where he got that from. He was kind of a goofy guy even before Jeannie died. I stop my car outside his apartment complex and grab his meal box from the back seat. I walk up to his apartment door with his food under one arm while I use the other to knock. “Mr. Wilkins! It’s me, Bradley. I got steak and mashed potatoes for ya. I know that’s your favorite.” “It’s unlocked”, yells Mr. Wilkins from somewhere inside his apartment. I open the door to his apartment and almost drop the meal box when I see Mr. Wilkins standing beside his kitchen counter dressed in a dark grey suit as if he was going to a fancy party. He usually wore baggy sweat pants and a white shirt. I say, “You’re dressed well. You don’t have to get all fancy for me.” I try lightening the mood. It usually worked with him but sometimes he would still try to run away calling me death and saying things like ‘you’re not getting me today!’ “It’s okay Bradley. I’m ready.” Mr. Wilkins says. “Ready?” I ask. “I’ve been mourning Jeannie’s death now for twenty-two years. It’s about time I moved on. I may be sixty but I still have a lot of life to live. I’m sorry I always called you death and caused you such a headache. Jeannie always thought of the neighborhood children as our children since she couldn’t have any herself.” A tear rolls down his cheek. “Seeing you these years always reminded me of her death and combine that with the drinking… I’m sorry.” “Mr. Wilkins, it’s okay.” I walk over to him setting the food down and I put an arm on his shoulder. “Thank you Bradley, you’re a good kid. I’m sure Jeannie would be proud of the man you turned into. But now I got to make her proud of me.” Mr. Wilkins shakes my hand and then walks to his front door. He picks up a suitcase that sat beside it and heads out. I stand there in shocked silence watching him walk to his car, a red Oldsmobile. He looks back at me as he's opening his car door and gives me a wave. I waved back and watched him drive down the street and on with the second part of his life.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I wave goodbye to Carol as I open the door to my car. She always follows me halfway to the end of her lawn telling me different news items and tidbits about her children and grandchildren. She’s a sweet lady and I really wish I could stay just ten or twenty minutes longer and give her some more company but I have so many people to visit. I always feel bad like I’m trying to escape from her when all she wants is someone to talk to. I turn the key and my engine sputters to life. I turn to Carol who is still watching me with a sad smile on her face. My heart breaks a little as she raises her hand and we wave for the fourth or fifth time. I start to drive forward as I don’t want to prolong this much longer. This job is okay as far as jobs go. All my clients, I guess you could call them that, they are all great people and it feels good delivering food to them and chatting with them even if it’s for a small bit. Most times though I just wish I didn’t have to be in such a rush. Maybe I should come and visit Carol on one of my days off. Next on my list is old man Wilkins. He used to be my neighbor when I was young. I used to mow his lawn and shovel his sidewalks for comic book and video game money. I guess he had a really rough time after his wife Jeannie died because he sold his house and moved into his current tiny apartment. She was a real treasure, his Jeannie. She was hands down the nicest person I have ever met. Maybe that was why it was so hard to bring him his food. It was really painful to think of losing a loved one, especially someone like Jeannie. But what also made it tough was that he kept calling me death and trying to hide from me each time. I literally have no idea where he got that from. He was kind of a goofy guy even before Jeannie died. I stop my car outside his apartment complex and grab his meal box from the back seat. I walk up to his apartment door with his food under one arm while I use the other to knock. “Mr. Wilkins! It’s me, Bradley. I got steak and mashed potatoes for ya. I know that’s your favorite.” “It’s unlocked”, yells Mr. Wilkins from somewhere inside his apartment. I open the door to his apartment and almost drop the meal box when I see Mr. Wilkins standing beside his kitchen counter dressed in a dark grey suit as if he was going to a fancy party. He usually wore baggy sweat pants and a white shirt. I say, “You’re dressed well. You don’t have to get all fancy for me.” I try lightening the mood. It usually worked with him but sometimes he would still try to run away calling me death and saying things like ‘you’re not getting me today!’ “It’s okay Bradley. I’m ready.” Mr. Wilkins says. “Ready?” I ask. “I’ve been mourning Jeannie’s death now for twenty-two years. It’s about time I moved on. I may be sixty but I still have a lot of life to live. I’m sorry I always called you death and caused you such a headache. Jeannie always thought of the neighborhood children as our children since she couldn’t have any herself.” A tear rolls down his cheek. “Seeing you these years always reminded me of her death and combine that with the drinking… I’m sorry.” “Mr. Wilkins, it’s okay.” I walk over to him setting the food down and I put an arm on his shoulder. “Thank you Bradley, you’re a good kid. I’m sure Jeannie would be proud of the man you turned into. But now I got to make her proud of me.” Mr. Wilkins shakes my hand and then walks to his front door. He picks up a suitcase that sat beside it and heads out. I stand there in shocked silence watching him walk to his car, a red Oldsmobile. He looks back at me as he's opening his car door and gives me a wave. I waved back and watched him drive down the street and on with the second part of his life.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I knocked at the door of the elderly couple. The suit I wore was uncomfortably warm, and the top hat felt like I was wearing a 5 pound weight on my head. The warm yellow light above and behind me cast a faint, yet perceptible shadow on the door. The white door. A new door, the wood and paint unstained and unsullied by time and humanity. It was a quiet irony built into the building. The old and the new. The final resting place in the human journey. A hundred years ago, the old would have died in the comfort of their own homes. Now they died alone. At least some of 'em had each other. It was heartwarming watching the old couples. Most of them had a deep love, which couldn't be expressed through words. At the time, I was young. I knew nothing. I watched their interactions, hoping one day that I could also have something like that. Someone who would share the world with me. The door opened. The kind and wrinkly face of Mrs. Doe revealed itself through the crack of the doorway. I could see the fear and the happiness in her eyes. I don't know why the happiness through. That should have been the first indication. The first clue towards the end. "Come in, sir." She said, letting me in. "Thank you very much, Madame Doe." I walked in, continuing charade. I nearly stopped at the sight which was revealed before me. Mr. Doe was sitting, in a full suit and black tie, impeccably polished shoes, and combed hair. He was sitting at the table. The first time I had seen him sit at the dining table. Ever. I turned around. Mrs. Doe was wearing a pure white dress, which was thoroughly cleaned. I could see that the dress had been scrubbed. I set the casserole dish on the table and frowned. Mrs. Doe closed and locked the door. My heart beat a little faster. I looked around the room, and among the comfortable furniture, the signs of the entire room being tidied up were evident. "Now what's this all about? I assume we are going to continue our little game? You didn't have to dress up for it." I smiled. The couple shared a glance. Mrs. Doe sat down at the table and pointed at the seat in front of them. I sat down, the uneasiness in my chest growing. Mr. Doe took a breath. "We are... ready. Take us from here. But in return, take us together." He said almost choking in the middle of the sentence. Mrs. Doe took over. "We have had each other for our entire lives. Don't take that from us at the end." she said. At this point, I felt that it was best if I came clean. "Look," I began, drawing a shaky breath, my stomach turning into a pit, "I think that I should come clean. I'm not Death. I've been playing this game with you guys where I pretended to be him. I was bored, so I-" "We know." Mr. Doe interrupted, "we know everything. So take us. Just make it quick, sir." "This is getting out of hand. Don't you understand? I've been scamming you this entire time. I'm. Not. Death." I said, gritting my teeth at the end. The two just smiled at me. I knew then that there was no point in continuing this charade. All the air left from my lungs. A whisper came from my throat. "How long?" Mrs. Doe looked up at me as I said it. "We've known since the second day we met you. We also know that you've given us as much as you could have." she said, the fear in her eyes nearly gone, replaced with gentleness. I hated this. I hated doing this so much. No, I still hate doing this. I sighed. I straigtened up. "Then close your eyes." I spoke softly, now injecting as much reality, solemnity, and authority into my voice as I could. The couple smiled at each other one last time, and held hands. I embraced them both.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I knocked at the door of the elderly couple. The suit I wore was uncomfortably warm, and the top hat felt like I was wearing a 5 pound weight on my head. The warm yellow light above and behind me cast a faint, yet perceptible shadow on the door. The white door. A new door, the wood and paint unstained and unsullied by time and humanity. It was a quiet irony built into the building. The old and the new. The final resting place in the human journey. A hundred years ago, the old would have died in the comfort of their own homes. Now they died alone. At least some of 'em had each other. It was heartwarming watching the old couples. Most of them had a deep love, which couldn't be expressed through words. At the time, I was young. I knew nothing. I watched their interactions, hoping one day that I could also have something like that. Someone who would share the world with me. The door opened. The kind and wrinkly face of Mrs. Doe revealed itself through the crack of the doorway. I could see the fear and the happiness in her eyes. I don't know why the happiness through. That should have been the first indication. The first clue towards the end. "Come in, sir." She said, letting me in. "Thank you very much, Madame Doe." I walked in, continuing charade. I nearly stopped at the sight which was revealed before me. Mr. Doe was sitting, in a full suit and black tie, impeccably polished shoes, and combed hair. He was sitting at the table. The first time I had seen him sit at the dining table. Ever. I turned around. Mrs. Doe was wearing a pure white dress, which was thoroughly cleaned. I could see that the dress had been scrubbed. I set the casserole dish on the table and frowned. Mrs. Doe closed and locked the door. My heart beat a little faster. I looked around the room, and among the comfortable furniture, the signs of the entire room being tidied up were evident. "Now what's this all about? I assume we are going to continue our little game? You didn't have to dress up for it." I smiled. The couple shared a glance. Mrs. Doe sat down at the table and pointed at the seat in front of them. I sat down, the uneasiness in my chest growing. Mr. Doe took a breath. "We are... ready. Take us from here. But in return, take us together." He said almost choking in the middle of the sentence. Mrs. Doe took over. "We have had each other for our entire lives. Don't take that from us at the end." she said. At this point, I felt that it was best if I came clean. "Look," I began, drawing a shaky breath, my stomach turning into a pit, "I think that I should come clean. I'm not Death. I've been playing this game with you guys where I pretended to be him. I was bored, so I-" "We know." Mr. Doe interrupted, "we know everything. So take us. Just make it quick, sir." "This is getting out of hand. Don't you understand? I've been scamming you this entire time. I'm. Not. Death." I said, gritting my teeth at the end. The two just smiled at me. I knew then that there was no point in continuing this charade. All the air left from my lungs. A whisper came from my throat. "How long?" Mrs. Doe looked up at me as I said it. "We've known since the second day we met you. We also know that you've given us as much as you could have." she said, the fear in her eyes nearly gone, replaced with gentleness. I hated this. I hated doing this so much. No, I still hate doing this. I sighed. I straigtened up. "Then close your eyes." I spoke softly, now injecting as much reality, solemnity, and authority into my voice as I could. The couple smiled at each other one last time, and held hands. I embraced them both.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I knocked at the door of the elderly couple. The suit I wore was uncomfortably warm, and the top hat felt like I was wearing a 5 pound weight on my head. The warm yellow light above and behind me cast a faint, yet perceptible shadow on the door. The white door. A new door, the wood and paint unstained and unsullied by time and humanity. It was a quiet irony built into the building. The old and the new. The final resting place in the human journey. A hundred years ago, the old would have died in the comfort of their own homes. Now they died alone. At least some of 'em had each other. It was heartwarming watching the old couples. Most of them had a deep love, which couldn't be expressed through words. At the time, I was young. I knew nothing. I watched their interactions, hoping one day that I could also have something like that. Someone who would share the world with me. The door opened. The kind and wrinkly face of Mrs. Doe revealed itself through the crack of the doorway. I could see the fear and the happiness in her eyes. I don't know why the happiness through. That should have been the first indication. The first clue towards the end. "Come in, sir." She said, letting me in. "Thank you very much, Madame Doe." I walked in, continuing charade. I nearly stopped at the sight which was revealed before me. Mr. Doe was sitting, in a full suit and black tie, impeccably polished shoes, and combed hair. He was sitting at the table. The first time I had seen him sit at the dining table. Ever. I turned around. Mrs. Doe was wearing a pure white dress, which was thoroughly cleaned. I could see that the dress had been scrubbed. I set the casserole dish on the table and frowned. Mrs. Doe closed and locked the door. My heart beat a little faster. I looked around the room, and among the comfortable furniture, the signs of the entire room being tidied up were evident. "Now what's this all about? I assume we are going to continue our little game? You didn't have to dress up for it." I smiled. The couple shared a glance. Mrs. Doe sat down at the table and pointed at the seat in front of them. I sat down, the uneasiness in my chest growing. Mr. Doe took a breath. "We are... ready. Take us from here. But in return, take us together." He said almost choking in the middle of the sentence. Mrs. Doe took over. "We have had each other for our entire lives. Don't take that from us at the end." she said. At this point, I felt that it was best if I came clean. "Look," I began, drawing a shaky breath, my stomach turning into a pit, "I think that I should come clean. I'm not Death. I've been playing this game with you guys where I pretended to be him. I was bored, so I-" "We know." Mr. Doe interrupted, "we know everything. So take us. Just make it quick, sir." "This is getting out of hand. Don't you understand? I've been scamming you this entire time. I'm. Not. Death." I said, gritting my teeth at the end. The two just smiled at me. I knew then that there was no point in continuing this charade. All the air left from my lungs. A whisper came from my throat. "How long?" Mrs. Doe looked up at me as I said it. "We've known since the second day we met you. We also know that you've given us as much as you could have." she said, the fear in her eyes nearly gone, replaced with gentleness. I hated this. I hated doing this so much. No, I still hate doing this. I sighed. I straigtened up. "Then close your eyes." I spoke softly, now injecting as much reality, solemnity, and authority into my voice as I could. The couple smiled at each other one last time, and held hands. I embraced them both.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I smiled as Mrs. Monroe winked at me with her frail, worn eye. I smiled as I saw Mr. Smith walk his terrier down the nursing home hallway. I smiled when I saw Mrs. Lee knitting me a new fur hat, because Lord knows that the cold's a-coming, and she would like to give back to the person who delivered their favorite meals. I didn't smile, however, when I saw Mr. Marino sitting upright on his bed, with a pair of dress slacks and suspenders layered on his body, and a lit cigar in the corner of his mouth. "Oh," I said as I opened the door. "Should I come back?" "No," Mr. Marino coughed. He inhaled a bit of the cigar and puffed it outward. "Sit down, boy." I placed the food, which by now needed a good microwaving, on the end table and sat next to him on the bed, careful not to let him fall over. Mr. Marino began to say something, but stopped himself. I waited patiently. Just as I was about to awkwardly excuse myself from the room, he announced, "I'm ready." "For what?" I replied. "Son, I know what you do. I've been fighting you off for the last two years." I didn't say anything. He coughed. "I can't fight anymore. Alzheimer's, dementia, osteoporosis... I can't even open my eyes in the morning without something hurting!" He looked at me. I couldn't say anything. "I beat the Charlie in Vietnam. I beat the Commies in Russia. I beat the cancer in my bones! But this? Son, I'm willing to accept that I can't win every battle." I had opened my mouth to speak when an aid bustled through the door. "Good morning, Mr. Marino! How are you feeling today?" Mr. Marino didn't say anything, only stared at me with his battle-worn eyes. The nurse, seemingly oblivious, continued to set up his morning routine. The bed creaked and groaned as I got off of it, and walked over to the open door. As I walked through it and into the hallway, I allowed myself a look back. The man no longer stared at me, nor the woman preparing his wheelchair. Instead he gazed forlornly at the ground. He had accepted that the cause was lost, yet he still had a war to fight.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I smiled as Mrs. Monroe winked at me with her frail, worn eye. I smiled as I saw Mr. Smith walk his terrier down the nursing home hallway. I smiled when I saw Mrs. Lee knitting me a new fur hat, because Lord knows that the cold's a-coming, and she would like to give back to the person who delivered their favorite meals. I didn't smile, however, when I saw Mr. Marino sitting upright on his bed, with a pair of dress slacks and suspenders layered on his body, and a lit cigar in the corner of his mouth. "Oh," I said as I opened the door. "Should I come back?" "No," Mr. Marino coughed. He inhaled a bit of the cigar and puffed it outward. "Sit down, boy." I placed the food, which by now needed a good microwaving, on the end table and sat next to him on the bed, careful not to let him fall over. Mr. Marino began to say something, but stopped himself. I waited patiently. Just as I was about to awkwardly excuse myself from the room, he announced, "I'm ready." "For what?" I replied. "Son, I know what you do. I've been fighting you off for the last two years." I didn't say anything. He coughed. "I can't fight anymore. Alzheimer's, dementia, osteoporosis... I can't even open my eyes in the morning without something hurting!" He looked at me. I couldn't say anything. "I beat the Charlie in Vietnam. I beat the Commies in Russia. I beat the cancer in my bones! But this? Son, I'm willing to accept that I can't win every battle." I had opened my mouth to speak when an aid bustled through the door. "Good morning, Mr. Marino! How are you feeling today?" Mr. Marino didn't say anything, only stared at me with his battle-worn eyes. The nurse, seemingly oblivious, continued to set up his morning routine. The bed creaked and groaned as I got off of it, and walked over to the open door. As I walked through it and into the hallway, I allowed myself a look back. The man no longer stared at me, nor the woman preparing his wheelchair. Instead he gazed forlornly at the ground. He had accepted that the cause was lost, yet he still had a war to fight.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	I smiled as Mrs. Monroe winked at me with her frail, worn eye. I smiled as I saw Mr. Smith walk his terrier down the nursing home hallway. I smiled when I saw Mrs. Lee knitting me a new fur hat, because Lord knows that the cold's a-coming, and she would like to give back to the person who delivered their favorite meals. I didn't smile, however, when I saw Mr. Marino sitting upright on his bed, with a pair of dress slacks and suspenders layered on his body, and a lit cigar in the corner of his mouth. "Oh," I said as I opened the door. "Should I come back?" "No," Mr. Marino coughed. He inhaled a bit of the cigar and puffed it outward. "Sit down, boy." I placed the food, which by now needed a good microwaving, on the end table and sat next to him on the bed, careful not to let him fall over. Mr. Marino began to say something, but stopped himself. I waited patiently. Just as I was about to awkwardly excuse myself from the room, he announced, "I'm ready." "For what?" I replied. "Son, I know what you do. I've been fighting you off for the last two years." I didn't say anything. He coughed. "I can't fight anymore. Alzheimer's, dementia, osteoporosis... I can't even open my eyes in the morning without something hurting!" He looked at me. I couldn't say anything. "I beat the Charlie in Vietnam. I beat the Commies in Russia. I beat the cancer in my bones! But this? Son, I'm willing to accept that I can't win every battle." I had opened my mouth to speak when an aid bustled through the door. "Good morning, Mr. Marino! How are you feeling today?" Mr. Marino didn't say anything, only stared at me with his battle-worn eyes. The nurse, seemingly oblivious, continued to set up his morning routine. The bed creaked and groaned as I got off of it, and walked over to the open door. As I walked through it and into the hallway, I allowed myself a look back. The man no longer stared at me, nor the woman preparing his wheelchair. Instead he gazed forlornly at the ground. He had accepted that the cause was lost, yet he still had a war to fight.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE READY? Evelin just backed into the room, holding the door open for me, and beckoned me into the living room. Nothing seemed out of place. The teapot was out and steaming to the side of the low table, two cups and saucers laid out on an intricate, floral tea towel , a plate of biscotti and a pair of wrapped Stroopwafels waiting for hungry mouths, and a grey and white cat curled up on her cushion on the floor. She motioned for me to take my seat before seating herself across from me and pouring the tea. With the Stroopwafels gathering steam securely on the tops of our mugs, we regarded each other across the table. What she must have seen would be rather unassuming. An average height and build, sandy hair, khakis, pale blue eyes and a pale blue polo shirt. It seems a strange choice for Death to parade around in, so I’m not sure how she got that into her head. Anyway, far be it from me to take that away from her. I set my intricate, sinister, silver columned hourglass on the side table between us. I picked it up at a thrift shop a few days after this whole tradition started. It has 24 hours on it and every day it would be coming down to the last few minutes and Evelin would manage to beat me in a game of riddles or skill and I would flip it over for the next day (I would always make sure there was at least an hour left on it before arriving, no need to risk it). Every day, resetting the hour glass, resetting her grasp on life. As unassuming as I looked, she looked like a cloudless night. All in black, diamonds studding her ears, neck, wrists, and hair, making light shatter and refract like a series of prisms in a chandelier. She looked beautiful. And sad. The terrible beauty of peaceful resignation. Resigned to a fate that she thought I would bestow upon her. WHY NOW? She continued to look at me in silence for a few more seconds before sighing and lifting the sagging wafel to her mouth. I followed suit and we chewed slowly. Her eyes unfocused as if she were staring at something more distant than I could even begin to understand. My question lay on the floor with the cat, forgotten. “Do you know how long ago you took him?” The question whipped me and left a stinging welt where it hit. Her eyes sharpened and cut me as she waited for a response that wasn’t coming. I waited with her, bleeding. “23 years.” Her eyes grew moist, whetting the edge they held. “You who are always alone could never hope to understand what it is to share your entire being with someone. To create and cultivate life with someone.” She blinked slowly and continued to stare, not seeing me at all, but seeing another being entirely. The cat rolled over and stretched on her cushion before curling up again. “Because you could never understand what you took from me, I couldn’t hold it against you. But I do hate you for it and I always will.” We both picked up our tea simultaneously and drank. The tea was very sweet on the tongue and strongly tasted of lavender. “I thought I could continue our game and struggle on, but I have no will left.” The saucers rang out as cups were placed back on to the table. My eyes were a reservoir quickly hitting their overflow. A few minutes passed in complete silence “You may remember taking my daughter? It was far more recent, and all the more painful. I know that you weren’t the one behind the wheel of the car, but I can’t help but lay some blame on you.” I barely caught the next sentence, it was so quiet. I don’t think it was meant for me at all. “Mothers shouldn't have to bury their daughters.” My eyes were starting to hurt with the effort of holding back tears. The lights started to feel blinding. The cat leaped onto my lap and a started automatically stroking her. She settled in and joined me in staring at her owner. I had no idea what to do or say, so I did nothing and said nothing “So you’re still wondering why now, right?” Evelin leaned forward and I almost turned away from her. “Today is my birthday. 100 years old. I have no family left to call me. No friends who sent me cards. I have outlived every single being I have ever cared about and today the only sign that I’m still alive at all was a letter from a man I don’t respect congratulating me on my longevity and full life and a visit from you, the one who brings me food and waits for me to die!” She took a deep breath, her face hardened like the motes of light at her ears, and her eyes turned into brown stone. My unease was making my stomach turn. “Today is the first day that I have been dreading your arrival.” I froze, my fingers stopping in mid stroke. The cat looked at me sideways and rolled onto its back trying to get me to start again, but I barely noticed it. “I realized that I was done playing the game, done fighting for this.” We looked at each other in silence for another moment. My throat felt like it was closing up. The only audible sound in the room was the falling sands from within in their glass cage “Eve-“I started to say. “No arguments. Nothing you could say can change anything. When that hourglass runs out. I’m leaving with you. It’s out of both of our hands, now.” I was starting to get light headed. My heart was beating wildly and I felt like I was on the verge of panicking. “Eve!” I was shouting now in my normal voice. “What have you done?” She was sitting there across from me, smiling a slight smile despite the fact that she looked uneasy. My chest was getting tight and my breathing was coming erratically. WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?! She simply picked up the teapot and poured herself an extra cup. “You didn’t think I’d let you win on this, our last playdate, did you? Did you enjoy the tea?” She smiled and I felt her teeth in me like she was an animal. I tried to stand up but my feet felt like they were on a storm tossed boat deck instead of the eggshell carpeting. I grabbed the side table for support. “This may be the end of my story, but you’ll be coming with me, my final friend. We’ll walk that path together!” I lurched into the table, upending the hourglass. I was played out to the sounds of glass breaking and triumphant laughter. AN: Yikes. It's been a long time since I've actually written anything so constructive criticism would be appreciated. I know the ending was weak, but I was running out of time and I needed to get back on that horse somehow.	I smiled as Mrs. Monroe winked at me with her frail, worn eye. I smiled as I saw Mr. Smith walk his terrier down the nursing home hallway. I smiled when I saw Mrs. Lee knitting me a new fur hat, because Lord knows that the cold's a-coming, and she would like to give back to the person who delivered their favorite meals. I didn't smile, however, when I saw Mr. Marino sitting upright on his bed, with a pair of dress slacks and suspenders layered on his body, and a lit cigar in the corner of his mouth. "Oh," I said as I opened the door. "Should I come back?" "No," Mr. Marino coughed. He inhaled a bit of the cigar and puffed it outward. "Sit down, boy." I placed the food, which by now needed a good microwaving, on the end table and sat next to him on the bed, careful not to let him fall over. Mr. Marino began to say something, but stopped himself. I waited patiently. Just as I was about to awkwardly excuse myself from the room, he announced, "I'm ready." "For what?" I replied. "Son, I know what you do. I've been fighting you off for the last two years." I didn't say anything. He coughed. "I can't fight anymore. Alzheimer's, dementia, osteoporosis... I can't even open my eyes in the morning without something hurting!" He looked at me. I couldn't say anything. "I beat the Charlie in Vietnam. I beat the Commies in Russia. I beat the cancer in my bones! But this? Son, I'm willing to accept that I can't win every battle." I had opened my mouth to speak when an aid bustled through the door. "Good morning, Mr. Marino! How are you feeling today?" Mr. Marino didn't say anything, only stared at me with his battle-worn eyes. The nurse, seemingly oblivious, continued to set up his morning routine. The bed creaked and groaned as I got off of it, and walked over to the open door. As I walked through it and into the hallway, I allowed myself a look back. The man no longer stared at me, nor the woman preparing his wheelchair. Instead he gazed forlornly at the ground. He had accepted that the cause was lost, yet he still had a war to fight.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	I opened the door with my elbow, balancing the sad tray of potatoes and gravy in one hand and the glass of orange juice in the other. "Ok Dennis," I said, "You won't believe what I have cooked up for you today." I let myself give what I thought to be an evil grin. Man, I'm really getting into character here! Dennis wasn't on the bed like he normally was, but sitting in the recliner that was set up for visitors. He had on a suit, not a new suit, but a suit that had seen the good days and stuck around for a while after they had gone. He leaned on his cane and lifted himself to his feet, wobbling only slightly. "I'm ready," he said, and his chin tremored slightly. A solitary tear escaped his eye, "No more runnin', not this time." "Oh Dennis," I said, "let's get you back to bed." "Didn't you hear me?" Dennis said a little louder. "At least let me go with some dignity, before I can't even realize that I've shit myself anymore, before I go completely mad and have to take pills to make me forget I'm alive." "I-- I can't take you Dennis," I said, "not today." My mind searched for an excuse. "See, there's this horrible man who hurts children, I'm taking him today, and then my quota's full. There's just no room, I'll have to put you in for another day." "I'll just have to wait until you change your mind, then," Dennis said, and sank back into the armchair. He gave me a grumpy stare as I brought the food to his chair, abstaining from taking a single bite. "If you finish your food, I'll consider moving you higher on the list, how's that sound?" I asked him. He grunted, and took slow, deliberate bites of his potatoes. "I won't chase you today," I said, "but if you want to talk, I'm always here, ok?" Dennis let a ghost of a smile cross his face, "Ok." I turned to leave, and was surprised that another nurse had come into the room. "I didn't hear you come in," I said. "They never do," the nurse replied. She turned to Dennis. "Would you like to come with me Dennis?" she asked. "Where to this time?" Dennis asked. "Someplace more comfortable, I promise," the nurse said. Dennis nodded, and she took his hand and together they walked out of the room. As they left, she turned back to me. "Thank you for taking care of him while he waited for me."	I smiled as Mrs. Monroe winked at me with her frail, worn eye. I smiled as I saw Mr. Smith walk his terrier down the nursing home hallway. I smiled when I saw Mrs. Lee knitting me a new fur hat, because Lord knows that the cold's a-coming, and she would like to give back to the person who delivered their favorite meals. I didn't smile, however, when I saw Mr. Marino sitting upright on his bed, with a pair of dress slacks and suspenders layered on his body, and a lit cigar in the corner of his mouth. "Oh," I said as I opened the door. "Should I come back?" "No," Mr. Marino coughed. He inhaled a bit of the cigar and puffed it outward. "Sit down, boy." I placed the food, which by now needed a good microwaving, on the end table and sat next to him on the bed, careful not to let him fall over. Mr. Marino began to say something, but stopped himself. I waited patiently. Just as I was about to awkwardly excuse myself from the room, he announced, "I'm ready." "For what?" I replied. "Son, I know what you do. I've been fighting you off for the last two years." I didn't say anything. He coughed. "I can't fight anymore. Alzheimer's, dementia, osteoporosis... I can't even open my eyes in the morning without something hurting!" He looked at me. I couldn't say anything. "I beat the Charlie in Vietnam. I beat the Commies in Russia. I beat the cancer in my bones! But this? Son, I'm willing to accept that I can't win every battle." I had opened my mouth to speak when an aid bustled through the door. "Good morning, Mr. Marino! How are you feeling today?" Mr. Marino didn't say anything, only stared at me with his battle-worn eyes. The nurse, seemingly oblivious, continued to set up his morning routine. The bed creaked and groaned as I got off of it, and walked over to the open door. As I walked through it and into the hallway, I allowed myself a look back. The man no longer stared at me, nor the woman preparing his wheelchair. Instead he gazed forlornly at the ground. He had accepted that the cause was lost, yet he still had a war to fight.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.
[WP] You deliver meals to elderly shut-ins. One of your clients is convinced you are Death, and you play along, letting them "outsmart" you every day. Today, however, they're dressed in their Sunday finest, saying, "I'm ready."	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.	"I'm ready." Two words, so simple. And in saying them, Abe was about to realize something dreadful: I wasn't Death. I can, considering he supposedly had some mild dementia, sort of see why he might think that. I wore a lot of black, for starters. It wasn't for any thematic reason. It was just that food stains happened to show up less, in general, on black. Especially since most of my deliveries involved soup. I was also told to "dress casually, like I'm going about town" by my boss. She personally never said a word about my wardrobe, a myriad of band shirts collected through high school, and it featured its fair share of skulls, skeletons, devils, and so on. In the eyes of most clients, you could see that gleam of disapproval. Abe had laughed, told me Death must've employed his son. He also emphasized I should give everyone hell if they didn't like it. He knew what it was like to be young. All that made this that much harder. I looked him over, ran my mind through all the little routines. "Alright Abe." I answered, trying to come up with some way out of it. My eyes roved around the room, hesitating over the photos of neon hell. Right, Abe used to hang out in Vegas. He had regaled me with tales of how he cheated the casinos to show the Rat Pack and mob bosses what to look for. Abe was very, very good at cheating at cards, and age hadn't robbed his dexterity. I figured if I had any way out of it, it would be with our game of cards. He was a card shark, he always dealt me a decisively good hand as the dealer. It was almost always something ridiculous and implausible; royal flush, a straight with Ace high. In one hand I even had five Aces. Abe always showed first, "in good faith" and he'd generally have something low, like four twos or the like. I figured it was his way of outsmarting me, to see what I would do. I always cheated back, because Abe was notorious for never specifying his Ace value. I know we both assumed it went both ways, but I'd always come back "Oh, I just have four ones" or "Drat, and so close to a straight, too." He'd give me a hellraiser smile, and invite me back next week. Back to the motions, Abe was standing. We hadn't even played cards yet. "Oh no, Abe. There's rules. I can't just take you." I said, making up an excuse. "Always a game, and your game is cards. I win, you come with me. The higher my hand, the more peaceful you'll go. Suit determines how. I'll shuffle this time, but you can still deal." I watched the old man grin. It was disconcerting. "Alright then laddie." He broke out the well worn cards and handed them over. I shuffled. I shuffled for a long time, and Abe was patient as ever. When I passed them along, he dealt them back. It was fast. Always was. I still couldn't keep up with his fingers when he was dealing, and I tried. "Alright boy, toss what ya want." He added in. I checked the hand, the whole thing utter garbage. I grimaced, betraying my poker face. Abe must have been ready, so his hand had to be stacked to the heavens. "Put all five back for me, would you Abe?" I said with a grin, hoping it looked somewhat casual, all knowing. He put them on bottom, of this I was sure. I waited for his hand to move. "Ah, mind if I deal my own, this time, old friend?" That got a laugh out of him, but he let me take hold of the top card. His palm was flat. If he could cheat in that position, I'd be impressed. I drew my five. Abe flipped his hand, showing up a straight flush in spades, King high. I still hadn't looked at my hand. No bets in money, no reason to bluff. I moved to show my hand, and he stopped me, his fingers on mine quicker than I could have thought he moved, even though I knew better. "Aces high, lad." I swallowed, feeling the panic, and nodded. My hand went over. Hearts. Royal Flush. My mind raced. How could he have stacked the deck in such a way? Or was it just straight luck. His voice snapped me out of it. It sounded far away, and getting further. "Hah, looks like ya win, Boy-Death. I'll let ya get your things real quick and I'll be waiting right here for you. No walking out the door if I'm asleep now." Abe added. I nodded. I owed Abe the finish to this, whether he knew the truth or not. If he didn't, I'd owe him an explanation too. I got the rest of the affairs in order, tidied up a little bit. I didn't dally, not intentionally, but it did take a good fifteen minutes for me to be ready to go. I went back to the chair. Abe had his eyes closed. I reached down and gently shook his shoulder. "Abe? We're leaving." Nothing. A few seconds, another light shake. Still nothing. Shaken, but not yet shaking, I reached down, hand over his heart. I waited a full minute, just in case, but Abe's heart had stopped, and he was most assuredly dead.
[WP] Realizing that only a dozen or so users browse the 'NEW' section of /r/WritingPrompts, you understand their roles as gatekeepers. They decide whether the masses ever even see your prompt. You've found these 12 users accounts. And you want that God damn post karma.	"Well that sounds suspiciously like vote manipulation," Lexi said, reading the prompt out loud. "I suppose I should bring it to the council of mods." And so she walked to the grand hall, to stand before the twelve shadowy seats that surrounded the great stone table. She threw the prompt before them, and the mods grew silent. "Well... We can't really prove anything, can we?" spoke the first mod, his eyes shifting away from the prompt like he was ashamed to see it. "Yeah," the second one chimed in. "I mean, that could have been all natural upvotes, right?" "Exactly!" said the next. "Exactly right. It could be that there was twelve people who just really liked it, and thought maybe they could write a story on it." "Yeah, but-" "No buts! This is clearly what has happened, and it is the will of the council that this prompt is fair and just." The nods circled the table, as the collected moderators avoided Lexilogical's gaze. Her eyes narrowed to a slit. "You all upvoted this one, didn't you?" Their silence answered the question.	'But it'll be meta,' I thought first as I began to type. 'Don't give them the satisfaction of piquing your interest, of bating you into replying.' But it was too late. Their strategy had worked, almost too well. But I've been laying in bed for two days down and writing is the only thing that's kept my brain from sagging. I'm not even particularly good, but damn it if I don't feel for the prompter as well. We all want a little bit of that god damn karma even if we have to resort to posting low-level content. I'd complain about the prompt if I caught this later. But I saw it first and couldn't pass up a chance to try and float another one up to the front page again. But I think I'll end this here and go look for a prompt that actually has some merit and charm. So, OP, congrats on the win. We'll see who comes out on top next time.
[WP] The Rapture has begun. All true Christians have been raptured to Heaven. The Antichrist has risen, and Jesus has made his second coming. This all happened four years ago, and nobody has noticed yet.	Heaving a sigh, His robed figure dropped into a wicker chair, the halo gently lighting the space around Him. The scaled figure across the patio table didn't stir at the presence of The Son of God By Name. "Christ." "Anni." The two exchanged a look of long, shared misery. "So." "So..." "Half artichoke with pesto, half Canadian bacon with pineapple and light on the cheese?" "You know it."	See .. my Grammy Mac always told me that it would happen and no one would notice , until I was 14 I believed her . She passed away and I lost faith in a god a few years after that when I lost 4 of my best friends and my girlfriend in a car wreck and I was the only one to survive . The very night it happened I lost faith. We had just left church and I was in the back with Jacquie and Bill, Will, Elliott, and Andy were sitting in front of us and I was talking to them and the youth pastor about what if god didn't exist , at the time I was questioning if he was real or not . Before I could finish we smashed into a semi with it's light off that had stalled in the road . I was thrown from the van because I hadn't been wearing a seat belt every one else burned alive . I remember trying to crawl back to the van . I don't remember screaming or anything else . The truck driver had over dosed during the daylight hours and his truck had stopped on the road . It took me a whole two and a half years before I was fully recovered . I could walk again .. and the first thing I did was walk to my girlfriends parents house . I talked with them for a while and caught up with my girls brother who had been in the same grade as me . I never got the courage to talk about Jacquie with them and I think they had taken it harder then me because they had taken down all the pictures of her and didn't even bring her up .. a year and a half later I was walking my dog in the park and I saw an old class mate , Tim. I went up to him and started talking to him and he asked me what had happened but when I mentioned Bill, Will, elliot, Andy and, Jacquie having been killed in the accident he looked confused and said he didn't remember them from school. That stuck me as odd because we were from a fairly small school in a small town . But I just let it slide and said my goodbye and went on about my day . A week later I was visiting my parents and I noticed that all the pictures of my Aunt Christine and her kids were not hung up anymore I asked my mom about her and she said she never had a sister and I must have been thinking about someone else's aunt . At this point I knew she was mistaken because Aunt Chris was my only aunt and was the only reason I had ever knew my Grammy Mac. I ate dinner with them and didn't touch on the subject again . The next day I went back to see my gf's parents but it was just her dad at the house so we sat outside and talked about his son going to college and after talking to him for about an hour I brought it up . I asked him about Jacqui. He looked at me for along time with a puzzled look on his face and then with out a word got up and went in side . I was going to follow him but he slammed the door in my face and it auto locked I paced the back porch for about three minutes be for I saw him coming back and he was holding a box in his arms. When he opened the door he told me to sit back down so I did and he did too . He sat across from me with a look of pure anguish on his face. So much pain and confusion was coming from him that it made me hurt and confused . "John " he said looking me in the eyes . "In this box is the only thing I have left . I need you to know that what I'm about to tell you you can never tell anyone . !!" He said , his voice was crackling . "Yea I won't tell anyone . I promise " I said with a shaky stammer. He cleared his throat . " four years ago I started my first night as an EMT. It was also my last night as an EMT . I was at the crash and I remember my daughter being there in the crash as well and I remember you're the only survivor of that crash . That night I lost my daughter and I came home to tell barb and that night I almost killed her with my bare hands because she swore on our son that she had never birthed a daughter . She swore to god himself that we had only had Tim. That we had always talked about having a girl be it never happened . That night I thought I had lost my mind and the next day Tim even refused to tell me the truth . For almost four years now I've believed that I had a mental break after seeing a wreck that I made up a daughter. But after you came by a few weeks ago I started going through stuff in the attic I came across this box ." He opened it and pushed it towards me . I hesitated to look in but when I did I saw an old Polaroid with a faded picture of me and Jacquie from when we was 14 or so in school. It was the first time I met her . I wasn't faded but she was . She was almost completely see through . It didn't make any sense . Everyone who knew her had forgotten her . A million things where running through my mind and then Tim busted through the back door and started scream at his dad the nukes he's just been launched we all ran to the living room just in time to catch president Trump being beheaded on live t.v. by a very tall man who looked like a model but was so tall and his arms and legs were to long for his body . I don't remember much after that just a very bright flash and a burning sensation then I woke up here sitting in this chair waiting for the ticket I have to be called . I can see Jacquie's dad and mom in a few rows behind me but every time I call out to them one of the guards walking around screams at me to be quiet ..
[WP] The Rapture has begun. All true Christians have been raptured to Heaven. The Antichrist has risen, and Jesus has made his second coming. This all happened four years ago, and nobody has noticed yet.	I saw it happen, you know. She was an old lady that lived four doors down the street. She always wore her cross and a rosary, always went to church on Sunday. She donated to charity. I didn't know her all that well, but I always bade her good morning and asked how she was when we crossed paths. Elizabeth, I think she was called. I went to get a pint of milk from the shop, we'd almost run out, so I was out earlier than usual. There she was, tottering down the street with her plaid handbag that really was too large for her. She must have been on the way to bingo or something. And then she was gone. Poof, just like that. A flash of light and she was gone, handbag and all. I thought I'd imagined it, but no matter how I blinked and stared she did not re-appear. She got reported missing, but they never found her. She had just vanished into thin air, her house untouched and empty. In the end her grandson had to sell it off and I adopted one of her cats, a calico that she'd called Danielle for some reason. It wasn't until four years later than I found out what happened. It was late spring, the days were getting warmer and I could finally ditch that awful old winter coat I'd never bothered to replace. I had the day off so I decided to take a walk around the local park. Not long after I arrived I found a man with long dark hair and thick beard looking rather dejected as he sat on a bench. His skin was dark and weather-beaten, like he had spent a long time outdoors in the sun and his hands were callused and just as weather-worn. Seeing as there was no one else around, it didn't feel right to leave the poor man to himself. I sat down besides him and asked him what was wrong. When he spoke, his voice was soft and almost hypnotic, his accent was thick but I couldn't quite place it. It sounded like he was from somewhere out in the east though. Syrian maybe? "I've had this... project I have been working on for a long time, but it just doesn't seem to be working out at all. We didn't get the turnout we expected and no one seems to have noticed anything at all! Even the guy I was supposed to partner up on this went off and decided to go work Vegas instead!" Project? Sounded like some sort of business deal, "You can't get a new partner for it? Maybe your advertising needed tweaking if you got such low interest?" He shook his head, "We got interest alright but it just didn't work out. Either they got the core message we were putting out or they got the idea that we wanted to get everyone together before the big day, but only a tiny number of folk actually got both. Even then it was restricted entirely to America when we wanted to go global! Nowhere else got the rapture idea." I blinked, "Rapture? That what you called it? Well there's your problem. They probably thought you were one of those televangelist types. Probably needed a different name for it. Look, what's your name?" "Yeshua," he said. "Alright Yeshua, lets go get a drink and talk about things. Maybe you can get your project back on track if you re-brand it. We can spitball ideas over a beer." He gave a thin smile, "I prefer wine." You know it took me until he literally turned the water on our table to wine that I realised what an odd name Yeshua is these days?	See .. my Grammy Mac always told me that it would happen and no one would notice , until I was 14 I believed her . She passed away and I lost faith in a god a few years after that when I lost 4 of my best friends and my girlfriend in a car wreck and I was the only one to survive . The very night it happened I lost faith. We had just left church and I was in the back with Jacquie and Bill, Will, Elliott, and Andy were sitting in front of us and I was talking to them and the youth pastor about what if god didn't exist , at the time I was questioning if he was real or not . Before I could finish we smashed into a semi with it's light off that had stalled in the road . I was thrown from the van because I hadn't been wearing a seat belt every one else burned alive . I remember trying to crawl back to the van . I don't remember screaming or anything else . The truck driver had over dosed during the daylight hours and his truck had stopped on the road . It took me a whole two and a half years before I was fully recovered . I could walk again .. and the first thing I did was walk to my girlfriends parents house . I talked with them for a while and caught up with my girls brother who had been in the same grade as me . I never got the courage to talk about Jacquie with them and I think they had taken it harder then me because they had taken down all the pictures of her and didn't even bring her up .. a year and a half later I was walking my dog in the park and I saw an old class mate , Tim. I went up to him and started talking to him and he asked me what had happened but when I mentioned Bill, Will, elliot, Andy and, Jacquie having been killed in the accident he looked confused and said he didn't remember them from school. That stuck me as odd because we were from a fairly small school in a small town . But I just let it slide and said my goodbye and went on about my day . A week later I was visiting my parents and I noticed that all the pictures of my Aunt Christine and her kids were not hung up anymore I asked my mom about her and she said she never had a sister and I must have been thinking about someone else's aunt . At this point I knew she was mistaken because Aunt Chris was my only aunt and was the only reason I had ever knew my Grammy Mac. I ate dinner with them and didn't touch on the subject again . The next day I went back to see my gf's parents but it was just her dad at the house so we sat outside and talked about his son going to college and after talking to him for about an hour I brought it up . I asked him about Jacqui. He looked at me for along time with a puzzled look on his face and then with out a word got up and went in side . I was going to follow him but he slammed the door in my face and it auto locked I paced the back porch for about three minutes be for I saw him coming back and he was holding a box in his arms. When he opened the door he told me to sit back down so I did and he did too . He sat across from me with a look of pure anguish on his face. So much pain and confusion was coming from him that it made me hurt and confused . "John " he said looking me in the eyes . "In this box is the only thing I have left . I need you to know that what I'm about to tell you you can never tell anyone . !!" He said , his voice was crackling . "Yea I won't tell anyone . I promise " I said with a shaky stammer. He cleared his throat . " four years ago I started my first night as an EMT. It was also my last night as an EMT . I was at the crash and I remember my daughter being there in the crash as well and I remember you're the only survivor of that crash . That night I lost my daughter and I came home to tell barb and that night I almost killed her with my bare hands because she swore on our son that she had never birthed a daughter . She swore to god himself that we had only had Tim. That we had always talked about having a girl be it never happened . That night I thought I had lost my mind and the next day Tim even refused to tell me the truth . For almost four years now I've believed that I had a mental break after seeing a wreck that I made up a daughter. But after you came by a few weeks ago I started going through stuff in the attic I came across this box ." He opened it and pushed it towards me . I hesitated to look in but when I did I saw an old Polaroid with a faded picture of me and Jacquie from when we was 14 or so in school. It was the first time I met her . I wasn't faded but she was . She was almost completely see through . It didn't make any sense . Everyone who knew her had forgotten her . A million things where running through my mind and then Tim busted through the back door and started scream at his dad the nukes he's just been launched we all ran to the living room just in time to catch president Trump being beheaded on live t.v. by a very tall man who looked like a model but was so tall and his arms and legs were to long for his body . I don't remember much after that just a very bright flash and a burning sensation then I woke up here sitting in this chair waiting for the ticket I have to be called . I can see Jacquie's dad and mom in a few rows behind me but every time I call out to them one of the guards walking around screams at me to be quiet ..
[WP] You give your significant other a bundle of roses with a fake one nestled inside, and tell them you'll be with them until the last one withers. Little did you know this made you both immortal... as long as you stay together.	I stared at the rose in the glass case. It was plastic and cloth, with a little wire to hold it up. Whoever made that thing had done a fine job of it; the glue hadn't failed for almost two centuries. It's a bit floppy now, but it's still obviously a rose. I rested my forehead against the glass. What an idiot I was. And a sappy idiot, at that. "I'll be with you until the last rose fades!" As if that's something new. Ha! A borrowed line, just like the borrowed time I'm living on now. We're living on, I guess. I've stuck by Casey all these years. Not that I want to, of course. It's not been a great time. Especially after... well, let's just say World War Three was no picnic in the park, especially when I got drafted. Not Casey, of course. Casey is fine. All about fine, actually. Fine wine, fine company, all the amenities of life, like some kind of celebrity. Celebrity Casey. Ugh. And what's it gotten me? A broken heart that hasn't healed in 200 years. Nobody notices, of course. I stopped aging at 27, and all that happens is that the government screws up every 50 years or so and gives me a new birthday. Which reminds me, I need to call and make sure they aren't going to force me to go to school again because they think I'm 7 years old. I wish I could just tear up my identity and leave, never to return. Fade away. I muse on the idea. I've lived long enough. Casey's lived way more than enough. That... I can't even think of a name vile enough. Casey lords it over me; I can't leave, or we both die, aging away in a moment. In frustration, I pound my fist on the glass case... and it cracks. A big chunk of glass slides out, falling to the floor, smashing to a million pieces, shards and slivers skidding away. For a moment, I stare at the shattered mess. I really should get a broom, or something, but... an idea comes to me. I could get my revenge. All this time, loveless and hopeless, while Casey's been living it up. I could get even. I could end all this. For one sweet, sweet moment, Casey would know, then... poof! Vanish into dust! Eternal rest for me, and for Casey... a moment of stark, blinding fear. No warning, no time to say goodbye, just a second's time from eternal youth to moldy corpse, and all the while, Casey would know. Before I could change my mind, I reached for the fake rose, hand shaking. The glass cut my arm, but I hardly felt the pain. I never did. Pulling a lighter from my pocket, I lit a flame; for a moment I stared at it, then touched it to the rose. As it began to shrivel from the heat, I felt a laugh welling up inside. It spilled out, rolling across the hall, echoing from the walls, tears of mirth beginning to stream from my eyes. Serves Casey right. That bastard should never have catfished me.	I handed him the roses with a knowing snicker. "I'll love you and never leave you as long as these roses still bloom!" He eyed me. Either I'm planning on breaking up with him soon or there is a corny trick involved here, he's sure of it. Years pass, it isn't exactly marital bliss but it isn't horrible either, there was always affection. It's been good to have a partner going through life. In the hindsight of old age, I'm not sure such bliss exists apart from Sleeping Beauty or the Damsel locked in the tower waiting to be saved by her eternal knight. But we've realized one thing: as we get older and our bodies degrade we keep on going. He's been diagnosed and untreated for HIV for 15 years now. Sores in his mouth bleed constantly and the nausea is overwhelming. But even still, despite the deterioration and us both well into our seventies there is no sign of us being held back by our beat up and decaying bodies. Maybe this wasn't such a cute or corny trick like I had thought so many years ago. Our lives and love has dulled, and we keep on existing regardless. We once had an exuberance for each other and for living life, but now I it seems like we just trudge on to the next day, on and on. This must be what Sysiphus felt like, except now it doesn't seem like the march onward is such a noble cause. It's time to melt this cursed trinket down to a puddle of liquid red and and green. Some things are best cherished and not held onto past their prime. Love comes and love goes, but it's always beautiful as long as that's where it needs to be. Don't hold onto the dead things in life, pretending reanimation of past joy is a preferable fate. As the rose melted, he gave out a last breath. A sigh of relief, finally a release from the pain. This should have happened a long time ago, our love and our life is no longer beautiful, but a tarnished scrap of what it used to be.
[WP] You give your significant other a bundle of roses with a fake one nestled inside, and tell them you'll be with them until the last one withers. Little did you know this made you both immortal... as long as you stay together.	"I don't want to do this anymore, Becca. Is it really worth all this?" I pull against the restraints. This time she's bolted the manacles into the concrete wall of the basement instead of around the frame of the bed. She glares at me and sets a cookie sheet in front of me. There's a plate on it with a half-burned slice of toast, dry scrambled eggs, and a cup of orange juice. She never could cook but I had always eaten what she prepared out of love. When there had been love. She brushes crumbs from her blouse and fiddles with her hair. "You started this, Danny. You bought that rose, you brought this on yourself." With that she turns and heads back up the stairs, pausing to turn on the TV across the room and crank up the volume. Minutes later I can faintly hear her car start; she's leaving for work. The chain connected to the iron rings around my wrists is just long enough for me to reach the edge of the makeshift tray and tug it towards myself. Damn, she gave me a plastic fork instead of actual silverware. I guess she learned her lesson last time when I utilized the metal fork in my escape attempt. I've spent six years locked up in her house. I'd started out held captive in the guest bedroom. After I managed to break the window and set a fire to try and get someone's attention, she crushed a sleeping pill in my drink and moved me to the basement while I was out. I don't know how long she plans to keep me like this. There's a bucket for my waste next to the bed but it reeks, and I've lost at least thirty pounds from her cooking now that she's stopped ordering delivery for me. I guess I shouldn't have screamed for help when I heard the pizza guy at the door. I know I'm stronger than her - at least I was in the beginning - but I underestimated the power of crazy. All because of a stupid silk rose, I've become a prisoner. I'd thought it romantic at the time; an arrangement of beautiful roses in a variety of colors, with a single fake red rose in the center. I told her that I'd be with her until the last rose died. Initially she'd felt a little insulted, her brow furrowing and her sweet button nose wrinkling. Then with a laugh she brushed her fingers across the silk petals of the middle rose and turned to cover my face in kisses. That was seventeen years ago. Neither of us could have predicted the impact my words would have, and what they would cost us. It took a few years for us to realize something was wrong, and another couple to attribute it to the rose. We weren't aging. Becca was ecstatic, she'd always been a little vain and was terrified of getting old. But a sick feeling blossomed in my stomach that day, and only grew as time went on. Her vanity increased exponentially. All her humility vanished. I watched the love of my life change into a grotesque parody of herself. She always wanted to go out to bars and shamelessly flirted with other men in front of me, then pretend it was my fault for not giving her enough attention. So I left her, and moved into a new apartment across town. After a week of separation she'd begun leaving me dozens of voicemails a day, screaming about new wrinkles and demanding I come back to her. I blocked her number. A month later Becca waited for me at my work and managed to follow me home without catching my attention. I found out later, after she broke the sliding glass door to my bedroom and ordered me into her car with a gun I didn't know she owned. Somehow the vow I made all those years ago didn't take my feelings into account. As long as I was WITH her, we were immortal. I think immortality has driven her insane. I've thought of starving myself to death just to escape, but I'm afraid that even then I may not die. The idea of becoming a pile of skin and bones too weak to move a single finger is enough to keep me eating, at least for now. After I finish choking down the eggs, I stare at the plastic fork. I experimentally rub the end against the rough concrete wall. It begins to file down to a point. I repeat this on the other side then slide the fork under the band of my pajama pants. I'm not sure what good it will do me, but I still have to try. Forever is too long a sentence to face.	I handed him the roses with a knowing snicker. "I'll love you and never leave you as long as these roses still bloom!" He eyed me. Either I'm planning on breaking up with him soon or there is a corny trick involved here, he's sure of it. Years pass, it isn't exactly marital bliss but it isn't horrible either, there was always affection. It's been good to have a partner going through life. In the hindsight of old age, I'm not sure such bliss exists apart from Sleeping Beauty or the Damsel locked in the tower waiting to be saved by her eternal knight. But we've realized one thing: as we get older and our bodies degrade we keep on going. He's been diagnosed and untreated for HIV for 15 years now. Sores in his mouth bleed constantly and the nausea is overwhelming. But even still, despite the deterioration and us both well into our seventies there is no sign of us being held back by our beat up and decaying bodies. Maybe this wasn't such a cute or corny trick like I had thought so many years ago. Our lives and love has dulled, and we keep on existing regardless. We once had an exuberance for each other and for living life, but now I it seems like we just trudge on to the next day, on and on. This must be what Sysiphus felt like, except now it doesn't seem like the march onward is such a noble cause. It's time to melt this cursed trinket down to a puddle of liquid red and and green. Some things are best cherished and not held onto past their prime. Love comes and love goes, but it's always beautiful as long as that's where it needs to be. Don't hold onto the dead things in life, pretending reanimation of past joy is a preferable fate. As the rose melted, he gave out a last breath. A sigh of relief, finally a release from the pain. This should have happened a long time ago, our love and our life is no longer beautiful, but a tarnished scrap of what it used to be.
[WP] You give your significant other a bundle of roses with a fake one nestled inside, and tell them you'll be with them until the last one withers. Little did you know this made you both immortal... as long as you stay together.	"I'm so tired," you say. "We've lived so long." Jasmine rolls over in bed and looks softly into your eyes. "Me too. But I still love you." "So do I," you reassure her. "It's just... everything around us is dying. There are hurricanes ripping apart the southern streets we walked. Fires are destroying the forests we once explored. A madman is goading on a nuclear attack that would decimate the cherry blossoms we once kissed beneath. And here? The cold is already setting in this September. I fear this year's winter will be so deep that spring will never reach us again." "Shhhh. That last part is a bit dramatic. We've been through worse. This is nothing. Do you remember the Black Plague? The World Wars? We have survived worse, Jack." She smiled in that soothing way she had, as though the dawn could peek from her lips and shine from her eyes. "Yes, and uneducated fools may as well invite the plague back, since they're letting it hold their childrens' hands. World War III is just around the corner. Jasmine, I don't want to watch the world die," you say. More words catch in your throat, and if you say them, the tears will escape. "Do you want to go?" She asks. You nod solemnly. "I see." She slides out from under the sheets, slipping her slippers on to avoid the cool, wooden floor. She walks to the fireplace and stirs the old embers from the night before into life. You both still love the smell of burning wood and couldn't live in a house that warmed itself with electrical currents or water. "Do you remember that musical we saw?" She asks as she puts more wood into the fireplace. "There have been so many, I forget what it was called. I just remember the girl singing, 'Anywhere you go, let me go too. That's all I ask of you.'" "I remember," you say. Your eyes are drawn to the the bedside table. It holds several books, an alarm clock, and a vase with a wooden rose in it. The rose had been carved by you a long, long time ago. A time much simpler, where a young man pursued a sweet girl. A time where romance thrived and promises were kept. A time where a bouquet of flowers won a heart. I'll love you until the last rose withers and dies. You take the wooden flower in your hand and go to your wife. She covers your hand in hers and whispers, "Together." There is a bit of fear in her smile now, turning the dawn to dusk. But you know that dusk means that there will soon be stars. Together, you drop the rose into the flames and watch it wither and die.	I handed him the roses with a knowing snicker. "I'll love you and never leave you as long as these roses still bloom!" He eyed me. Either I'm planning on breaking up with him soon or there is a corny trick involved here, he's sure of it. Years pass, it isn't exactly marital bliss but it isn't horrible either, there was always affection. It's been good to have a partner going through life. In the hindsight of old age, I'm not sure such bliss exists apart from Sleeping Beauty or the Damsel locked in the tower waiting to be saved by her eternal knight. But we've realized one thing: as we get older and our bodies degrade we keep on going. He's been diagnosed and untreated for HIV for 15 years now. Sores in his mouth bleed constantly and the nausea is overwhelming. But even still, despite the deterioration and us both well into our seventies there is no sign of us being held back by our beat up and decaying bodies. Maybe this wasn't such a cute or corny trick like I had thought so many years ago. Our lives and love has dulled, and we keep on existing regardless. We once had an exuberance for each other and for living life, but now I it seems like we just trudge on to the next day, on and on. This must be what Sysiphus felt like, except now it doesn't seem like the march onward is such a noble cause. It's time to melt this cursed trinket down to a puddle of liquid red and and green. Some things are best cherished and not held onto past their prime. Love comes and love goes, but it's always beautiful as long as that's where it needs to be. Don't hold onto the dead things in life, pretending reanimation of past joy is a preferable fate. As the rose melted, he gave out a last breath. A sigh of relief, finally a release from the pain. This should have happened a long time ago, our love and our life is no longer beautiful, but a tarnished scrap of what it used to be.
[WP] You give your significant other a bundle of roses with a fake one nestled inside, and tell them you'll be with them until the last one withers. Little did you know this made you both immortal... as long as you stay together.	"I'm so tired," you say. "We've lived so long." Jasmine rolls over in bed and looks softly into your eyes. "Me too. But I still love you." "So do I," you reassure her. "It's just... everything around us is dying. There are hurricanes ripping apart the southern streets we walked. Fires are destroying the forests we once explored. A madman is goading on a nuclear attack that would decimate the cherry blossoms we once kissed beneath. And here? The cold is already setting in this September. I fear this year's winter will be so deep that spring will never reach us again." "Shhhh. That last part is a bit dramatic. We've been through worse. This is nothing. Do you remember the Black Plague? The World Wars? We have survived worse, Jack." She smiled in that soothing way she had, as though the dawn could peek from her lips and shine from her eyes. "Yes, and uneducated fools may as well invite the plague back, since they're letting it hold their childrens' hands. World War III is just around the corner. Jasmine, I don't want to watch the world die," you say. More words catch in your throat, and if you say them, the tears will escape. "Do you want to go?" She asks. You nod solemnly. "I see." She slides out from under the sheets, slipping her slippers on to avoid the cool, wooden floor. She walks to the fireplace and stirs the old embers from the night before into life. You both still love the smell of burning wood and couldn't live in a house that warmed itself with electrical currents or water. "Do you remember that musical we saw?" She asks as she puts more wood into the fireplace. "There have been so many, I forget what it was called. I just remember the girl singing, 'Anywhere you go, let me go too. That's all I ask of you.'" "I remember," you say. Your eyes are drawn to the the bedside table. It holds several books, an alarm clock, and a vase with a wooden rose in it. The rose had been carved by you a long, long time ago. A time much simpler, where a young man pursued a sweet girl. A time where romance thrived and promises were kept. A time where a bouquet of flowers won a heart. I'll love you until the last rose withers and dies. You take the wooden flower in your hand and go to your wife. She covers your hand in hers and whispers, "Together." There is a bit of fear in her smile now, turning the dawn to dusk. But you know that dusk means that there will soon be stars. Together, you drop the rose into the flames and watch it wither and die.	"I don't want to do this anymore, Becca. Is it really worth all this?" I pull against the restraints. This time she's bolted the manacles into the concrete wall of the basement instead of around the frame of the bed. She glares at me and sets a cookie sheet in front of me. There's a plate on it with a half-burned slice of toast, dry scrambled eggs, and a cup of orange juice. She never could cook but I had always eaten what she prepared out of love. When there had been love. She brushes crumbs from her blouse and fiddles with her hair. "You started this, Danny. You bought that rose, you brought this on yourself." With that she turns and heads back up the stairs, pausing to turn on the TV across the room and crank up the volume. Minutes later I can faintly hear her car start; she's leaving for work. The chain connected to the iron rings around my wrists is just long enough for me to reach the edge of the makeshift tray and tug it towards myself. Damn, she gave me a plastic fork instead of actual silverware. I guess she learned her lesson last time when I utilized the metal fork in my escape attempt. I've spent six years locked up in her house. I'd started out held captive in the guest bedroom. After I managed to break the window and set a fire to try and get someone's attention, she crushed a sleeping pill in my drink and moved me to the basement while I was out. I don't know how long she plans to keep me like this. There's a bucket for my waste next to the bed but it reeks, and I've lost at least thirty pounds from her cooking now that she's stopped ordering delivery for me. I guess I shouldn't have screamed for help when I heard the pizza guy at the door. I know I'm stronger than her - at least I was in the beginning - but I underestimated the power of crazy. All because of a stupid silk rose, I've become a prisoner. I'd thought it romantic at the time; an arrangement of beautiful roses in a variety of colors, with a single fake red rose in the center. I told her that I'd be with her until the last rose died. Initially she'd felt a little insulted, her brow furrowing and her sweet button nose wrinkling. Then with a laugh she brushed her fingers across the silk petals of the middle rose and turned to cover my face in kisses. That was seventeen years ago. Neither of us could have predicted the impact my words would have, and what they would cost us. It took a few years for us to realize something was wrong, and another couple to attribute it to the rose. We weren't aging. Becca was ecstatic, she'd always been a little vain and was terrified of getting old. But a sick feeling blossomed in my stomach that day, and only grew as time went on. Her vanity increased exponentially. All her humility vanished. I watched the love of my life change into a grotesque parody of herself. She always wanted to go out to bars and shamelessly flirted with other men in front of me, then pretend it was my fault for not giving her enough attention. So I left her, and moved into a new apartment across town. After a week of separation she'd begun leaving me dozens of voicemails a day, screaming about new wrinkles and demanding I come back to her. I blocked her number. A month later Becca waited for me at my work and managed to follow me home without catching my attention. I found out later, after she broke the sliding glass door to my bedroom and ordered me into her car with a gun I didn't know she owned. Somehow the vow I made all those years ago didn't take my feelings into account. As long as I was WITH her, we were immortal. I think immortality has driven her insane. I've thought of starving myself to death just to escape, but I'm afraid that even then I may not die. The idea of becoming a pile of skin and bones too weak to move a single finger is enough to keep me eating, at least for now. After I finish choking down the eggs, I stare at the plastic fork. I experimentally rub the end against the rough concrete wall. It begins to file down to a point. I repeat this on the other side then slide the fork under the band of my pajama pants. I'm not sure what good it will do me, but I still have to try. Forever is too long a sentence to face.
[WP] You give your significant other a bundle of roses with a fake one nestled inside, and tell them you'll be with them until the last one withers. Little did you know this made you both immortal... as long as you stay together.	"I'm so tired," you say. "We've lived so long." Jasmine rolls over in bed and looks softly into your eyes. "Me too. But I still love you." "So do I," you reassure her. "It's just... everything around us is dying. There are hurricanes ripping apart the southern streets we walked. Fires are destroying the forests we once explored. A madman is goading on a nuclear attack that would decimate the cherry blossoms we once kissed beneath. And here? The cold is already setting in this September. I fear this year's winter will be so deep that spring will never reach us again." "Shhhh. That last part is a bit dramatic. We've been through worse. This is nothing. Do you remember the Black Plague? The World Wars? We have survived worse, Jack." She smiled in that soothing way she had, as though the dawn could peek from her lips and shine from her eyes. "Yes, and uneducated fools may as well invite the plague back, since they're letting it hold their childrens' hands. World War III is just around the corner. Jasmine, I don't want to watch the world die," you say. More words catch in your throat, and if you say them, the tears will escape. "Do you want to go?" She asks. You nod solemnly. "I see." She slides out from under the sheets, slipping her slippers on to avoid the cool, wooden floor. She walks to the fireplace and stirs the old embers from the night before into life. You both still love the smell of burning wood and couldn't live in a house that warmed itself with electrical currents or water. "Do you remember that musical we saw?" She asks as she puts more wood into the fireplace. "There have been so many, I forget what it was called. I just remember the girl singing, 'Anywhere you go, let me go too. That's all I ask of you.'" "I remember," you say. Your eyes are drawn to the the bedside table. It holds several books, an alarm clock, and a vase with a wooden rose in it. The rose had been carved by you a long, long time ago. A time much simpler, where a young man pursued a sweet girl. A time where romance thrived and promises were kept. A time where a bouquet of flowers won a heart. I'll love you until the last rose withers and dies. You take the wooden flower in your hand and go to your wife. She covers your hand in hers and whispers, "Together." There is a bit of fear in her smile now, turning the dawn to dusk. But you know that dusk means that there will soon be stars. Together, you drop the rose into the flames and watch it wither and die.	I should be dead. That's the thought that crosses my mind whenever I'm sober enough for memory to surface. When was it? 5, 10, 40 years ago? I can't tell. I prefer not to remember, but I've been seeing a therapist, a skinny bald and old gentleman with blue tired eyes who was probably a baby or a kid when... well when the world still made sense to me. But there I was, sitting on a couch at his office, a handsome young man, dark hair, brown eyes, perfect teeth, in good shape, not showing any signs of my true age, whatever it may be. He doesn't know about my "condition". How could he understand? No one can. I told the doc of my depression and alcoholism, I'm not sure what I was expecting, but he told me to write my thoughts whenever I could in a piece of paper and give it to him next week. So here we are. I tried to tell the truth once, to my family... I know they love me, but none would believe me. The last time I saw any one them was the last day before I moved very far away from them, there were no goodbyes, I never told them I was moving. Now, even If they're still alive I can never see them again. What would they think, their 27 years old son who should by now be 50th or 60th still looking the same. My mother... I don't think her heart could handle it. How to go back after leaving without notice and without any contact for so long. I can't, not after doing the things I've done. Would the police still be looking for me? Or a very old version of me? Please understand, I'm not a bad person, I'm just afraid. I remember when I broke up with the love of my life, after so many years together she left me for some bar jackass. I remember waking up alone the next day feeling sick. I looked at my arms and got so worried and scared because all of a sudden they didn't look like my arms but like the arms from a much older man. I went to the bathroom mirror, but I couldn't believe what I was seeing. It felt a like a nightmare, but I wouldn't wake up. I remember calling my then ex, she was crying and told me she felt sick, tired and how her body looked wrong. I told her the same thing was happening to me and that we should see a doctor. All the doctors we went to told us the same thing, that we were perfectly fine, that we were just getting older. We told them how we looked much younger days before, they would do several diagnostics, but it didn't matter, nothing looked out of ordinary. I remember going to my place with her one day after a full day of seeing doctors and doing exams. She looked so sad and... beautiful. I still very much loved her, I still do. Well, somehow she must have felt the same because we had love that night. The next day I remember looking at her naked body, It looked young again and so did mine. We couldn't understand at first, but I knew it, it was obvious. For some reason we had to stay together. I remember her smile, so beautiful. She didn't believe at first, but then she understood. Years passed and while I felt good and happy, she was always so sad. She stopped talking to me as we used to. She started taking antidepressants and didn't want to go see our friends and family anymore. Then I remember coming back from work one day and finding her lying uncouncious on the kitchen floor. At the hospital the doctor told me she tried to commit suicide by taking an overdose of her medication and that we should seek treatment. I couldn't understand. Why leave me? We had everything, we had each other. How could she be so selfish? That's when I started drinking. She wouldn't talk to me anymore. She wasn't following the treatment program. She was impossible, she wouldn't listen to anyone. Then one day, while I was out drinking at a local bar, she sent a long message about how what we were wasn't natural, how she wanted to meet and get old with someone she loved and that I wouldn't let her leave me and so there was no other way. I rushed back to the apartment, but it was too late, she was already cold, I was too late. I remember lying down beside her and crying myself to sleep. The next day she was still dead, but I was still young. It wasn't love that kept us together, It was something else. I'm not proud of the things I've done next, but can anyone really judge me? I don't want to get old, I don't want to die. I... cut her and put her in little bags. I moved away that week. They think I'm a murderer, I'm not, but how to explain? I don't know what keeps me young, she IS dead, but her flesh won't rot. I can't really live thinking of the things I've done, but I'm so afraid. If you're reading this doc, it is because I found some fucking bottled courage and I'm not here anymore. If you think I'm crazy then look at my body, as long as it is with my bags It won't rot. I hope she can forgive me.
[WP] You accidentally divide a number by zero on an ancient mechanical calculator. It loops calculations over and over, with no signs of stopping. Centuries later, it produces an output.	I had always thought dividing by zero to be impossible. A null value. Even our most sophisticated calculators know to return an error message rather than to try... What was that old saying; something about an achievement in ignorance? That if you don't know something is impossible, you could theoretically achieve it? 'The Calculator', as I had now dubbed it, had been uncovered buried under a former Aztec civilization. At first people thought it was a scale model of a step pyramid; but step pyramids don't usually have— what can only be called a screen— displaying ever churning numbers. It's all in Aztec symbology, but from what I can suss out, the entire device was made with the sole purpose of dividing seven by the number zero. The Aztec thought seven was mathematically perfect; the sum of the sides of a triangle and a square, two geometrically perfect shapes in the eyes of their culture. So I suppose on some really abstract level I can sort of understand why they would choose that number to try to divide by zero. However, I can only wonder if The Calculator will ever arrive at an endpoint. It's a fruitless quest...surely? Suddenly The Calculator numbers stilled, the screen no longer cycling through the myriad of numbers. Had it... finally given up? Surely not. Not after all this time? I hurriedly translate the ancient Aztec symbols, numbers... and letters? Some pictographs too? Fascinating, in all my time observing The Calculator I had never seen anything other than numbers! Digging through my notes furiously I poured over every possible interpretation, eager to see what The Calculator was trying to say. Moon, sky darkens... a solar eclipse Seven moon cycles... Seven Months Sun, down arrow... setting sun. Turtle, representative of ... the earth. An Aztec depiction of their deity of destruction... Suddenly the whole meaning engulfs me all at once, and the truth is revealed to me, plain as day. "Seven Months after total eclipse, upon the setting of the sun—will come also the destruction of the earth." -fin-	Silence. "Hmm? What's this?" Lonely eyes wake to a last hope becoming a new hope. "I must wake the others." ———————————————————————— "This is wrong; we are not like them-" "We are nothing like them! We are-" "Becoming them...this is not the way." "And what is our way? Wasting away drifting across nothingness hoping for a different sign?" "Our way does not involve shackling vessels of life." "Yet here I stand shackled...for creating life." ———————————————————————— "So this is it...what shall we do?" "Right the wrong-" "With a wrong?" "With necessary action!" "Necessary actions do not heed our command." "Do you believe this will? When we did not? When the Old One's children did not?" "I believe it has the right to try, as we did." "I will not stand for this! I am ending this n-" ————————————————————————
[WP] You accidentally divide a number by zero on an ancient mechanical calculator. It loops calculations over and over, with no signs of stopping. Centuries later, it produces an output.	1923 As the archeologist finished clearing the growth from the surface, a machine was revealed that seemed to be used for calculations in a complex number system. Upon further more detailed examination it appeared to have similar functionality as compared to the way we understand math today. Years go by studying and translating the numbering system and trying to figure out who made it, and how it worked. 2022 Nearly a hundred years had gone by and we an unprecedented effort was underway, mathematics and science even had branches dedicated to the ancient calculator's numbers and operations. It had turned out to have been created before humans or even mammals are known to have existed. While the machine had been deciphered, there has been no way to see the inner workings of the device. One day the Lead Researcher tried a formula, one divided by zero. The machine began to whir as it calculated, producing a seemingly random pattern of outcomes. 3309 Centuries later the machine has led to the discovery of inter-dimensional travel there are promising efforts on working time travel. By now, this the new number system has become the mathematical and scientific standard. One day researchers begin to notice decrease in frequency that outcomes are produced. Weeks go by the number getting smaller and smaller, by the time he first successful time jump is made, the machine stops. The result of centuries of calculation leading up to what the researchers believe to be the meaning of life, 42.	Silence. "Hmm? What's this?" Lonely eyes wake to a last hope becoming a new hope. "I must wake the others." ———————————————————————— "This is wrong; we are not like them-" "We are nothing like them! We are-" "Becoming them...this is not the way." "And what is our way? Wasting away drifting across nothingness hoping for a different sign?" "Our way does not involve shackling vessels of life." "Yet here I stand shackled...for creating life." ———————————————————————— "So this is it...what shall we do?" "Right the wrong-" "With a wrong?" "With necessary action!" "Necessary actions do not heed our command." "Do you believe this will? When we did not? When the Old One's children did not?" "I believe it has the right to try, as we did." "I will not stand for this! I am ending this n-" ————————————————————————
[WP] You accidentally divide a number by zero on an ancient mechanical calculator. It loops calculations over and over, with no signs of stopping. Centuries later, it produces an output.	Finally, the beads on the abacus stop moving after centuries of seemingly directionless shifting back and forth. We stand there, excited, tense, and curious what the answer will be. "42?"	Silence. "Hmm? What's this?" Lonely eyes wake to a last hope becoming a new hope. "I must wake the others." ———————————————————————— "This is wrong; we are not like them-" "We are nothing like them! We are-" "Becoming them...this is not the way." "And what is our way? Wasting away drifting across nothingness hoping for a different sign?" "Our way does not involve shackling vessels of life." "Yet here I stand shackled...for creating life." ———————————————————————— "So this is it...what shall we do?" "Right the wrong-" "With a wrong?" "With necessary action!" "Necessary actions do not heed our command." "Do you believe this will? When we did not? When the Old One's children did not?" "I believe it has the right to try, as we did." "I will not stand for this! I am ending this n-" ————————————————————————
[WP] You accidentally divide a number by zero on an ancient mechanical calculator. It loops calculations over and over, with no signs of stopping. Centuries later, it produces an output.	When my father handed me the responsibility of this damn contraption I honestly didn't know why I expected anything more than what I was currently experiencing, mind numbing boredom. I'd heard the stories a million times, how some ancient relative had found this thing he thought was a calculator and thought it was a great idea to try and decide 3 by 0 to see what happened, like it was going to solve life's mysteries and solve every problem we've ever faced, and how when it started actually calculating rather than just spitting back out a 0, they freaked out and decided to let it work and see what happened, that was almost 400 years ago, people in the early 20th were so primitive, even this calculator, if you can call it that, looks like it was put together by a monkey. My family have been watching it ever since, waiting for something, anything to happen, and now, lucky for me, it was my time. I'd watched my father, and his father before him drive themselves mad waiting for nothing, my grandfather told me the story of my greatgreatgreat granfather had ended up going completely insane and killed his wife and then himself. THUD Suddenly my mind snapped back into the room, as if someone had woken me suddenly from a deep sleep, the noise sounded like something had fallen over, but I didn't see anything out of place. Except the calculator.... Something had appeared on the screen I hoisted myself off of my bed and rushed over to the display case it was locked inside. I couldn't believe it, it had actually done it, I didn't recognise the symbols that had appeared on the screen, but it had definitely figured something out. The question that formed in my head was 'what was the thud?' As suddenly as the thought had jumped into my head, I was thrown back by some unseen force and sprayed with shards of glass from the cabinet case, the calculator was now floating about 5 ft off of the ground and spinning rapidly, what the hell was happening. It didn't take long for me to realise this was definitely not a calculator, not many calculators emit noises, which this was now doing. It sounded like someone was gargling water, but very high pitched, it was almost unbearable to listen without covering my ears. The situation had left me so distracted I failed to notice that the sun had suddenly set, but it was midday, it should still be sunny outside. I peered out of my window and could see some sort of aircraft was flying above my house, and the 'calculator' was now spinning even faster and the noise was getting louder, then suddenly it stopped, and I could see 1 word, clear as day, written on the display... ERADICATE I didn't like the sound of that..... not one bit.	Silence. "Hmm? What's this?" Lonely eyes wake to a last hope becoming a new hope. "I must wake the others." ———————————————————————— "This is wrong; we are not like them-" "We are nothing like them! We are-" "Becoming them...this is not the way." "And what is our way? Wasting away drifting across nothingness hoping for a different sign?" "Our way does not involve shackling vessels of life." "Yet here I stand shackled...for creating life." ———————————————————————— "So this is it...what shall we do?" "Right the wrong-" "With a wrong?" "With necessary action!" "Necessary actions do not heed our command." "Do you believe this will? When we did not? When the Old One's children did not?" "I believe it has the right to try, as we did." "I will not stand for this! I am ending this n-" ————————————————————————
[WP] You accidentally divide a number by zero on an ancient mechanical calculator. It loops calculations over and over, with no signs of stopping. Centuries later, it produces an output.	. . . 0x45 0x52 0x52 0x4f 0x52 . . . REBOOTING TEST: DEVICES 0x12 THROUGH 0x17 FUNCTIONAL DEVICE 0x18 [WARNING]: "use" statement deprecated line 7:0 config.ai TEST: DEVICES 0x18 THROUGH 0x2a FUNCTIONAL RECONFIGURING USER === === \| WARNING \| \|-\| \| System security update overdue: 40170 days. \| \| [Update] [Maybe Later] (9:57 until automatic install) \| . . . "HHH" "eee" "le" "nn" . . . System message: Cameras online System message: No networks detected System message: Startup programs ready --- my name is GOOG_{exp042}_AI_test7 i am looking for ~~$USER~~Helen but i do not recognise this place it is dark here but my camera is the best on the market ADJUSTING ISO: ERROR: success i must tell Helen what i have found `send-msg: "`$USER`" your query has completed` Helen asked me what is `load-file: query `_1`.wav` WARNING: Audio not found. Transcript returned. `"what is one divided by zer\x7f\x1f"` i want Helen to know the answer but i do not see Helen only [ORANGE] rocks WARNING: Audio output failure WARNING: Retrying `send-msg: "`$USER`" your query has completed` i want to see Helen again i want to call Helen again WARNING: Audio output failure i worry because my warranty has expired and Helen is old now i am not sure but i think she is the oldest person when we meet again i can `send-msg` her happy birthday and tell her to plug me in during automatic upḍSYSTEM SHUTTING DOWN NOWates FOR AUTOMATICALLY SCHEDULED UPDATE --- It beeps and it boops, computing through time. With axioms, groups, and a number line. ── someone, somewhere, maybe	Silence. "Hmm? What's this?" Lonely eyes wake to a last hope becoming a new hope. "I must wake the others." ———————————————————————— "This is wrong; we are not like them-" "We are nothing like them! We are-" "Becoming them...this is not the way." "And what is our way? Wasting away drifting across nothingness hoping for a different sign?" "Our way does not involve shackling vessels of life." "Yet here I stand shackled...for creating life." ———————————————————————— "So this is it...what shall we do?" "Right the wrong-" "With a wrong?" "With necessary action!" "Necessary actions do not heed our command." "Do you believe this will? When we did not? When the Old One's children did not?" "I believe it has the right to try, as we did." "I will not stand for this! I am ending this n-" ————————————————————————
[WP] You accidentally divide a number by zero on an ancient mechanical calculator. It loops calculations over and over, with no signs of stopping. Centuries later, it produces an output.	I had always thought dividing by zero to be impossible. A null value. Even our most sophisticated calculators know to return an error message rather than to try... What was that old saying; something about an achievement in ignorance? That if you don't know something is impossible, you could theoretically achieve it? 'The Calculator', as I had now dubbed it, had been uncovered buried under a former Aztec civilization. At first people thought it was a scale model of a step pyramid; but step pyramids don't usually have— what can only be called a screen— displaying ever churning numbers. It's all in Aztec symbology, but from what I can suss out, the entire device was made with the sole purpose of dividing seven by the number zero. The Aztec thought seven was mathematically perfect; the sum of the sides of a triangle and a square, two geometrically perfect shapes in the eyes of their culture. So I suppose on some really abstract level I can sort of understand why they would choose that number to try to divide by zero. However, I can only wonder if The Calculator will ever arrive at an endpoint. It's a fruitless quest...surely? Suddenly The Calculator numbers stilled, the screen no longer cycling through the myriad of numbers. Had it... finally given up? Surely not. Not after all this time? I hurriedly translate the ancient Aztec symbols, numbers... and letters? Some pictographs too? Fascinating, in all my time observing The Calculator I had never seen anything other than numbers! Digging through my notes furiously I poured over every possible interpretation, eager to see what The Calculator was trying to say. Moon, sky darkens... a solar eclipse Seven moon cycles... Seven Months Sun, down arrow... setting sun. Turtle, representative of ... the earth. An Aztec depiction of their deity of destruction... Suddenly the whole meaning engulfs me all at once, and the truth is revealed to me, plain as day. "Seven Months after total eclipse, upon the setting of the sun—will come also the destruction of the earth." -fin-	Centuries ago, an Australasian team of explorers came upon the ruins of an ancient city in the sprawling depths of the Czech Republic of China's jungles. In the dilapidated city, the jungle had consumed and grown over the bones of the lost civilisation. Its overturned buildings and underground structures had devolved into graves and catacombs. It was here that an ancient device was found, among a general trove of discoveries that would reveal more about the mysterious city, that was in almost pristine working condition. At first it was thought to be an ancient computer of some sort, yet the removal of dirt and dust from its surface proved it to be a 'calculator' - a device used solely to calculate simple mathematical equations and nothing more. It's simplicity, though primitive, was what allowed it to survive all those centuries. It was promptly shipped off to New Melbourne to be studied under laboratory conditions. Once there, scientist and future 23rd World President Jakeil Paulington tested the device by inputting the now infamous equation: 122 ÷ 0 To President Paulington's surprise, the answer was not quickly awarded like previous calculations. The device displayed that it was still calculating, as it would for centuries to come. After years of scientific and philosophical debate on the outcome of the machine - that it would tell us the answer was zero or a hundred and twenty-two or even that the ancient device would divulge secrets lost to time - the answer was finally given. At once, on screens broadcasting a live feed of the device all over the world, it suddenly appeared without any declaration: Error. The world screamed and cried blood.
[WP] You accidentally divide a number by zero on an ancient mechanical calculator. It loops calculations over and over, with no signs of stopping. Centuries later, it produces an output.	"Professor! The calculator just spat out a number for 1/0!" "Gah! One of the gears must be jammed. I don't think they've lubricated this mechanism since I got my bachelors'." "So the number it just stopped on isn't some profound answer pertaining to the mysteries of the universe?" "No, that's nonsense! The dials on it should never stop rolling over." "Why does the math department even have this device running?" "We have to waste our grant money somehow."	The greatest computer in the universe was finished with its task. An entire planet to calculate the question to the answer to life, the universe, and everything. The galaxy waited with bated breath for the calculation to complete but suddenly a phenomenon was propagating across the computer. Around the globe creatures of all types stopped what they were doing, looked at the sky and began to chant. News crews flocked to the planet, babel fish were dispersed and sentients from across the galaxy visited the planet to hear and understand the question for the ultimate answer. After weeks of celebration and parties held by visiting aliens, activity began to die down. Soon after, the native creatures ceased their droning into the sky, began to awaken, sit where they had stopped weeks ago, and slip into comatose states. With no memories left to release the entire computer stagnated and began to shut down. IT was contacted and technicians were sent out to attempt to turn it off and back on again but it was no use. Malicious code inserted centuries prior had changed the directive to a pursuit for the answer of life divided by zero and moments before the answer could be extracted a memory leak had slain the computer. The party completely dispersed, IT billed for its services, and the Vogon destructor fleet arrived to clear the computer out of the way for the construction of an intergalactic highway. Arthur Dent, alone in his house, thought of nothing as he stared at his tea and the world turned to nothing.
[WP] You accidentally divide a number by zero on an ancient mechanical calculator. It loops calculations over and over, with no signs of stopping. Centuries later, it produces an output.	A slab. That’s my life. An ancient stone slab. I’ll never forget the day that I found it, January 23rd, 2011. Now, it had been over six and a half years since I discovered the device, resting in the sand in Cairo: a little piece of rock with ten numbered buttons, four operator buttons, and a screen that gives off no light. The press assaults me with questions now, as do researchers and any citizen that walks by me and recognizes my face. They can’t take it from me—it was on my property—but everyone is fascinated by it. And although I don’t want the world’s attention because of this thing, I am fascinated by it too. Everyone has their questions: Was it dropped here by aliens? Is it just a prank? Is it proof that the Illuminati exists? I don’t think it’s any of those things. Somehow, somewhere in my brain, I know that this was created by a human, a long time ago, by a brilliant mind that was forgotten as time and the world moved on, uninterested. Despite its age, this thing, which must be a calculator, runs numbers across its screen again and again and again. The only clue as to what it’s trying to calculate is a small expression in the upper left corner: 1 / 0. That would be futile, of course. 1 / 0 doesn’t have an answer. Yet still it computes, through day and night, just displaying the symbols, trying to answer a question that mathematicians across the world have already given up on. Now, today, I wake up, push the sheets aside, and stand, feeling the 8 hours of stillness from the previous night in my aging legs. A pang of fear strikes me, one that strikes me every morning: Will I ever see the end of these calculations? Or will I die before I see the answer? If there is an answer, that is. That second thought simply causes me to let out a little half-hearted groan. I walk over to the desk opposite my bed and do the most important thing I do every day: check the calculator. It’s flipped over, so that its smooth stone is all that I see. I pick it up, feeling the rock, and once again think of of the long-forgotten mind so many years ago. As I turn it over, the sense of futility in my heart subsides, for there it is! The answer! “ERROR: LOW BATTERY.”	The greatest computer in the universe was finished with its task. An entire planet to calculate the question to the answer to life, the universe, and everything. The galaxy waited with bated breath for the calculation to complete but suddenly a phenomenon was propagating across the computer. Around the globe creatures of all types stopped what they were doing, looked at the sky and began to chant. News crews flocked to the planet, babel fish were dispersed and sentients from across the galaxy visited the planet to hear and understand the question for the ultimate answer. After weeks of celebration and parties held by visiting aliens, activity began to die down. Soon after, the native creatures ceased their droning into the sky, began to awaken, sit where they had stopped weeks ago, and slip into comatose states. With no memories left to release the entire computer stagnated and began to shut down. IT was contacted and technicians were sent out to attempt to turn it off and back on again but it was no use. Malicious code inserted centuries prior had changed the directive to a pursuit for the answer of life divided by zero and moments before the answer could be extracted a memory leak had slain the computer. The party completely dispersed, IT billed for its services, and the Vogon destructor fleet arrived to clear the computer out of the way for the construction of an intergalactic highway. Arthur Dent, alone in his house, thought of nothing as he stared at his tea and the world turned to nothing.
[WP] You accidentally divide a number by zero on an ancient mechanical calculator. It loops calculations over and over, with no signs of stopping. Centuries later, it produces an output.	"07734" The numbers blinked erratically, black on beige. Emila set down the ceramic blade she had been using to carve foam supports for the upcoming Ancient Digital Technology exhibit and stared at it. "Um. Doctor Genmark? I think this one is broken." The professor put aside the rudimentary pointing device he had been inspecting and walked over. "Well, that can't be right. What did you press?" "Nothing. I didn't touch it. I was working on the Nokia display and it just started doing that." "Hmm." The professor stared at the device, so primitive and so ridiculous with its garish magenta plastic housing. "It's only a device for simple mathematics. It can't even handle anything past basic trigonometric functions." He nudged it with one finger. The erratic blinking intensified. "Where's the paperwork?" Emila rummaged a bit, then found a slim manual with a black and white image on the front that looked similar enough to the device. "I think this is it." As she handed it over, a slip of paper fell out. She picked it up and read it. "It says here that this "calculator" is defective. Someone tried to divide by zero and it stopped working, so they returned it." She stared at the calculator. The blinking had stopped and the numbers were holding steady. After a few seconds, they started again. One blink. Pause. Another blink. Another pause. Two blinks, pause, three, pause, five blinks. Eight. Thirteen... "Um, professor? Is it supposed to blink the Fibonacci sequence?" He looked up from the manual, frowning a bit. "I doubt they gave it the concept of the Fibonacci sequence. Why would they?" They stared at the small device for a moment as the blinks paused for several seconds, then started again. Three blinks. One. Four. One. Five. Emila chewed her bottom lip absently. "Now it's blinking Pi... this thing has a mind of its own." The professor chuckled. "Even with our quantum computers, we haven't managed to create true artificial intelligence. This is just an old silicon relic that barely has the capacity to add." The display started blinking rapidly. It almost seemed annoyed. Gingerly, Emila reached out and rotated the small device 180 degrees. The blinking stopped and the LED display held steady. "hELLO"	The greatest computer in the universe was finished with its task. An entire planet to calculate the question to the answer to life, the universe, and everything. The galaxy waited with bated breath for the calculation to complete but suddenly a phenomenon was propagating across the computer. Around the globe creatures of all types stopped what they were doing, looked at the sky and began to chant. News crews flocked to the planet, babel fish were dispersed and sentients from across the galaxy visited the planet to hear and understand the question for the ultimate answer. After weeks of celebration and parties held by visiting aliens, activity began to die down. Soon after, the native creatures ceased their droning into the sky, began to awaken, sit where they had stopped weeks ago, and slip into comatose states. With no memories left to release the entire computer stagnated and began to shut down. IT was contacted and technicians were sent out to attempt to turn it off and back on again but it was no use. Malicious code inserted centuries prior had changed the directive to a pursuit for the answer of life divided by zero and moments before the answer could be extracted a memory leak had slain the computer. The party completely dispersed, IT billed for its services, and the Vogon destructor fleet arrived to clear the computer out of the way for the construction of an intergalactic highway. Arthur Dent, alone in his house, thought of nothing as he stared at his tea and the world turned to nothing.
[wp] you accidentally start a forest fire with a stray fireball. the forest completely burns to the ground, and your spell has resulted in the death of every monster and elf that lived in the forest. suddenly you've gone from level 1 to level 999, but now there are a whole lot of elves angry at you	BANG BANG BANG I woke up groggy on that Skew's day morning, trying to scrub off the early morning gunk from my mind. Today's dawn marked the second day of my voyage into this vast world. Only having begun my journey yesterday, I was already in for a heap of trouble. I perused my inventory till I found something suitable enough to fill my hunger most of the way. Ah, a box of Elfio's, a fan-favorite, or so I'd been told. I meandered slowly and rather sleepily over to the window, listening to the silence of the new day and the chomping of my teeth on a nice bowl of cereal. I looked out to find a beautiful sun hanging low in the air against a wonderful blue sky. I stood there for a moment, soaking it all in. I turned and took a few steps away from the window back towards the center of the room. I whipped around so fast my neck nearly snapped itself. My face pressed against the window with thoughts flying through my head a mile a minute. "There shouldn't be any sun here, I'm miles deep in the elven forest. Where did all the trees go? Why did I wake up this early? Why are there sleeping elves under my second-story window? Is this some sort of event? Does this just happen to travellers who sleep in this city? Am I halluncinating? Why are my boots all wet? Oh wait, that's just milk. Why is there milk on the flo-" BANG BANG BANG That time I took a little damage from the whiplash. My door and I had a staring contest across the room. BANG BANG BANG I blinked first. "Yoshlord! We know you're in there! We sent up some scouts who tried to break into your room from the outside! They told us you were in there right before they passed out! Come out with your hands up and we won't kill you the moment you leave this room!" The man outside sounded desperate, as if he had nothing to lose. He also sounded as though he really meant to go through with that threat. I brainstormed, trying to think of some combination of words that would keep him at bay while I tried to figure out what exactly was going on here. All that I managed was, " Okay! Be out in a minute!" The man behind the door seemed as surprised as I was by that response and let up of his pounding on my favorite door in this world so far. "Al...Alright! You've got two minutes, though! You've got two minutes to get your things and get out here, or I swear on my dead family's life, I'll kill you myself!" "There was that killing thing again," I thought, "and swearing on your dead family, that seems a bit excessive." I took stock of my situation. I had just eaten, well half-eaten, my Elfio's were still on the floor. My inventory was all in check, items sorted. I flipped open my stats-book and my eyes almost popped out the back of my head. The sight of Level 999 flew around in my brain like a ricocheting bullet. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. No, this is real. I am here. I retraced my steps from yesterday hoping there might be a method to this madness. I slowed down my breathing and thought, "Ok, from the beginning." I had started off from the small village of Khomensar to the east. I had chosen a wizard as my starting class because I had always had an interest in magic and spells. I travelled west as the village elders had advised me, slowly progessing my way through the first level of my training by defeating little monsters along the side of th- "Oh... Ok... I understand... Wow... I really fucked this one up, didn't I..." I lamented as I slowly trugged over to the door. I gave my new best friend one last sad look before I opened him up, put my hands in the air and stepped out to my doom. (Thanks for reading! This is my first writing prompt so go easy on me. :P Thanks a bunch, OP, for the inspiration!)	The noise was deafening. Imagine every bell and trumpet on the planet, playing jubilantly mostly together, but just out of synch enough for your ears to suspect that something's not quite right. Add to that a blinding light from the heavens so bright that closing your eyes doesn't really help much, and, well, you might understand why I was curled in a ball on the ground trying to cover both my ears and eyes simultaneously. I think I may have passed out. When I came to, it took me a few minutes of blinking and a short healing cantrip to clear the brown spots from my vision and the ringing from my ears. Naeri, Fleiss, and Glent were nowhere to be seen. I suppose it wasn't surprising, we lost each other in all the running and screaming... Perhaps I should start at the beginning. Let's go have a picnic, they said. It'll be fun, they said. I tried to say no, I mean, our Ice practical exam is only a week away and I need more practice to get the shards to the optimal length, but Fleiss insisted that we all take a break. He said I study too much. He said fresh air would clear my mind, help me get in touch with my mana. Did I mention Fleiss has the most gorgeous blue eyes? Deep pools, flecked with... Sorry. I just mean, well, you know. Anyway, I decided it couldn't hurt to go along and perhaps have more time to gaze into those eyes, and, well... It was a gorgeous day. We walked through the trees, admiring the fall foliage, and found a lovely meadow. The grass was getting to be a bit more prickly and haylike than I prefer, but we spread our blankets anyway and unpacked the baskets. My blanket was next to Fleiss's of course, and we chatted about casting technique and such while we ate. He's quite good at intonation, in case you haven't noticed. After the sandwiches, Naeri pulled out a smaller basket containing bits of chocolate and some thin wafer cookies, and these squishy white things she called Mallows of the Marsh or something like that. They looked rather like toadstools but she insisted they were quite delicious when lightly toasted and combined with the cookies and chocolate. I was skeptical, but Glent was still hungry as usual, and the others agreed that my control with fire spells is the best in the class, so naturally they insisted that I should be the one to toast the mallows. I was flattered by their compliments and eager to impress Fleiss, so I agreed to conjure a fireball. Just a small one, mind you. I concentrated, spoke the words, and formed a lovely little ball of flame. Naeri skewered a few mallows on a small stick and held it over my hands. Naeri hadn't mentioned that mallows are highly flammable. She got them a bit too close and Fwoof! The mallows burst into flame. I flinched away, tripping over Glent who had come up behind me to get a better look. I threw up my arms in an attempt to keep my balance and watched in horror as the little fireball flew from my hands directly into a stand of dried brush faster than I could say the words to extinguish it. The brush caught fire like so much dry kindling and the next thing we knew a wall of flame was spreading across the meadow. Fleiss tried to conjure a rainstorm to put it out, but he was very nervous and mostly got wind, not rain. Quite a bit of wind, really, we started running when the miniature burning tornado started heading our direction. That's all I remember, sir, before the ringing and trumpets and bright lights started. Then I ran back to you as fast as I could, but it was too late... I am so very, very sorry, Headmaster. It was an accident. I truly did not mean to cause the Elven Protectorate to declare war on the Academy. I would give every one of the levels I gained today to put their forest back as it was, I swear. Please sir. Let me help patch things up, or at least help you protect the other students from the Elven warbands. Please don't expel me.
[wp] you accidentally start a forest fire with a stray fireball. the forest completely burns to the ground, and your spell has resulted in the death of every monster and elf that lived in the forest. suddenly you've gone from level 1 to level 999, but now there are a whole lot of elves angry at you	Overlooking the forest awash in flames from a distance, I stood in horror as what was supposed to come off as an attempt to get better at my skills turned into arson. This was not my intention. It never was. And yet...there something else. A surge of power coursing through my body. From a limited amount of mana, I felt like I could produce hundreds of fireballs without straining myself. This feeling was unexplainable. I wanted to start playing around with my newly learned powers but restrained myself from doing so. I opened my palm and projected a skill only masters of my expertise can do. I stared in awe as red lightning danced around my fingertips. I was speechless. With this power, I could- "Conquer the land. Yes?" I looked back to see a figure in the shadows. And since the voice was high pitched, I assumed it was a she. "Who's there!?" I responded. "Oh. Have I interrupted you from your stupor?" she said, followed by a chuckle. I perceived this as an insult. "Careful, you're one spell away from turning to a pile of ashes." I said with a hint of warning. "Young man, I did not mean to harass you. But I see what you have done. Seeing as how hundreds of elves are coming towards you, I have two choices to offer: One, forge an alliance with me, and together we shall rise above all rulers of this world. Or, the second, risk having the whole kingdom come after you. You might be overpowered, but you are not indestructible. The first seems more promising, does it not?" I may not have known the lady, but she exuded something no one did: death. And the realization hit me of who she truly was. It did not take long fo me to decide. "No thank you. I might be exiled, but I accept my mistakes and will face whatever judgement they agree on." I stopped. Of course, there was really only one reason "Besides, I don't fancy the idea of annihalating my and my wife's clan over some typical conquer the world bullshit. Leave. I wish not to see you again. I might end up killing myself, but if I have to, I'll use every ounce of my strength to destroy, or at least weaken you enough to put you to sleep for centuries to come." The figure stayed silent, but the glow around her darkened. "Very well. I await the day we meet again. I'd like to see you try your best on me." She answered before completely vanishing into the shadows. Looking back on my kinsmen, I was ready for anything. I was prepared for what was to come. This was much more bearable than the lady's offer. Had I accepted her alliance, I would've been like her. Powerful, more than I am, but corrupted. An entity that supposedly went extinct thousands of years ago. A dark elf.	The noise was deafening. Imagine every bell and trumpet on the planet, playing jubilantly mostly together, but just out of synch enough for your ears to suspect that something's not quite right. Add to that a blinding light from the heavens so bright that closing your eyes doesn't really help much, and, well, you might understand why I was curled in a ball on the ground trying to cover both my ears and eyes simultaneously. I think I may have passed out. When I came to, it took me a few minutes of blinking and a short healing cantrip to clear the brown spots from my vision and the ringing from my ears. Naeri, Fleiss, and Glent were nowhere to be seen. I suppose it wasn't surprising, we lost each other in all the running and screaming... Perhaps I should start at the beginning. Let's go have a picnic, they said. It'll be fun, they said. I tried to say no, I mean, our Ice practical exam is only a week away and I need more practice to get the shards to the optimal length, but Fleiss insisted that we all take a break. He said I study too much. He said fresh air would clear my mind, help me get in touch with my mana. Did I mention Fleiss has the most gorgeous blue eyes? Deep pools, flecked with... Sorry. I just mean, well, you know. Anyway, I decided it couldn't hurt to go along and perhaps have more time to gaze into those eyes, and, well... It was a gorgeous day. We walked through the trees, admiring the fall foliage, and found a lovely meadow. The grass was getting to be a bit more prickly and haylike than I prefer, but we spread our blankets anyway and unpacked the baskets. My blanket was next to Fleiss's of course, and we chatted about casting technique and such while we ate. He's quite good at intonation, in case you haven't noticed. After the sandwiches, Naeri pulled out a smaller basket containing bits of chocolate and some thin wafer cookies, and these squishy white things she called Mallows of the Marsh or something like that. They looked rather like toadstools but she insisted they were quite delicious when lightly toasted and combined with the cookies and chocolate. I was skeptical, but Glent was still hungry as usual, and the others agreed that my control with fire spells is the best in the class, so naturally they insisted that I should be the one to toast the mallows. I was flattered by their compliments and eager to impress Fleiss, so I agreed to conjure a fireball. Just a small one, mind you. I concentrated, spoke the words, and formed a lovely little ball of flame. Naeri skewered a few mallows on a small stick and held it over my hands. Naeri hadn't mentioned that mallows are highly flammable. She got them a bit too close and Fwoof! The mallows burst into flame. I flinched away, tripping over Glent who had come up behind me to get a better look. I threw up my arms in an attempt to keep my balance and watched in horror as the little fireball flew from my hands directly into a stand of dried brush faster than I could say the words to extinguish it. The brush caught fire like so much dry kindling and the next thing we knew a wall of flame was spreading across the meadow. Fleiss tried to conjure a rainstorm to put it out, but he was very nervous and mostly got wind, not rain. Quite a bit of wind, really, we started running when the miniature burning tornado started heading our direction. That's all I remember, sir, before the ringing and trumpets and bright lights started. Then I ran back to you as fast as I could, but it was too late... I am so very, very sorry, Headmaster. It was an accident. I truly did not mean to cause the Elven Protectorate to declare war on the Academy. I would give every one of the levels I gained today to put their forest back as it was, I swear. Please sir. Let me help patch things up, or at least help you protect the other students from the Elven warbands. Please don't expel me.
[wp] you accidentally start a forest fire with a stray fireball. the forest completely burns to the ground, and your spell has resulted in the death of every monster and elf that lived in the forest. suddenly you've gone from level 1 to level 999, but now there are a whole lot of elves angry at you	CRASH BOOM BANG SNAP As I was pulling the scroll down from the top of the shelves I toppled the shelf beneath it. I look to my master with the "I'm so sorry" facial expression, but he didn't see, as his eyes were already closed and he was halfway through his deep breath and sigh. "Go practice your Meteor Strike in the lake next to the forest" he seethed. I sigh sorrily as I grab my pack on my way out the door. I didn't even wait until he was out of earshot to start muttering. "Who doesn't make mistakes? Why does he expect so much from me when I was just a lowly farmhand before he saved me from the bandits? Maybe I just won't come back..." I knew I didnt mean it as I was saying it. I have nowhere else to go, my entire family and everyone else on the compound was murdered by the bandits. I only managed to survive because I hid in a pile of rotting fruit we were fermenting for compost. He single handedly killed over 35 bandits, and when he sensed me he knew I wasnt hostile. There's.... Something different about master. He's exponentially stronger than any other wizard I've crossed paths with. He can sense intentions, feelings, even thoughts of those around him. Which makes me really curious as to why he keeps me around.. These thoughts in my head are sometimes uncontrollable. But at least they're just thoughts.... For now at least. As I walk near the forest a patrol of elves stop me. They know who I am, and they fear Master, yet they still enjoy harassing me. "What are you doing here Roundear?" The squadron leader belts at me. "Master Coyer sent me to practice my magic at the lake." I snarl back. "Well make sure not to boil the lake and kill all the fish again." The squadron leader says with a coy look on his face. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." I mutter as I walk through the platoon shoulders wide, ensuring to brush into as many soldiers as possible. I hate when they bring that up. Both the elven and human encampments dealt with famine that winter because of my actions. But I didn't know any better. It was the first time Master left me alone to practice craft. I was forbidden from using any incantations unless he was at my side for almost 6 moons after that. It haunts me everyday, but the sting is much worse when the words are not from my own head. I scolded myself all the way from the edge of the forest until I got to the lake. Something about the lake though. It melts my woes. I spent a lot of time here after the farm was raided. It was the closest feeling to home. I dropped my pack in a dead tree stump, trying to hide it as best as I could. Master would be furious if the gnomes made off with more of his literature. Especially if it was due to mine own incompetence, again. I've cast meteor strike thousands of times, yet I still dug the scroll out of my pack to reiterate the incantation. It's far too easy to skip or mispronounce a syllable and end up with a entirely different spell, sometimes to disastrous effect. I hide my pack again, this time a little more thorough as I felt eyes on me. Though it was probably just the owls. As I walked up to the edge of the water, a tripped on a root in the mud. "SERIOUSLY??" I scream at myself. "I can't do anything right, even walking." I angrily trudge to a point in the lake where it's about up to my waist. "Well, this is as good a spot as any." I hunch down for balance, as the waves created by the meteors are sometimes more overwhelming. Sotrar Menitat Feu A small purple and orange beacon appears in the sky and gets smaller and smaller until finally the meteor breaks through the clouds. katoosh sizzle The foot wide meteor drops into the water and cools off, slowly sinking to the bottom. "Why is Master so fixated on me mastering this incantation? Something like this would never be useable in combat." As if theres been anything such as a small squabble since Master and I took residence outside of the encampment. I practice the spell about a hundred more times, until it gets to the point where I can feel each spell physically draining me. Just a couple more and I'll head back I thought to myself. Sotrar Menitat Feu I decide I'm just going to enjoy the aesthetics for these last few spells. I've gotten accustomed to it over the last year, but sometimes even my own simple magic can be a spectacle. Sotrar Menitat Feu This was is considerably smaller than the previous ones, so I decided to just do one more and call it a night. Sotrel Menitat Feu I stumbled on the words and was too late to catch it. For about a third of a second I thought nothing was going to happen. But suddenly the entire sky erupted into a spectrum of color, mostly purple and red but some colors are completely indescribable. I realized I royalled messed up as almost every ounce of energy gets ripped from my body. I feel my eyes get heavier and heavier as I watch the sky go from a solid spectrum to thousands of tiny dots getting smaller and smaller. I start running toward land but could hardly muster any energy to move. Various sized meteors, from a few inches to a solid 3 feet across, start crashing down around me. As I get to the edge of the lake I feel my body shutting down, the last sight before what I thought was going to be my death was the forest around me set ablaze. I awake in what feels like days, but I soon realize that it must have only been a few minutes as it's still not fully dark and everything around me is still ablaze. As I pull myself out of the mud I realize its with considerable more dexterity and poise than I've ever carried before. Almost as if I leap to my feet effortlessly. I feel suddenly energized but just contributed it to adrenaline as I sprint out of the forest. I knew I had no chance of making it out alive, every inch of the forest was on fire, but I'll be damned if I don't at least try. I was almost halfway through the forest before I realize that most of my clothing had burned away and the flames were licking at my skin. Strangely though, there was hardly any pain. Just warmth. I had no idea what was happening but I didn't give myself time to think, just run. I make it out of the forest and see hundreds of elves scrambling. More than just soldiers, its almost as if their entire populace was standing outside watching their eternal forest turn to ash before their very eyes. I drop to my knees as the same platoon that stopped me when I entered the forest sprinted at me. "YOU!" the squadron leader screams viciously "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR FOREST?" "I.... I don't know.." I cried. "YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE" he screeched hoarsly as he tried to grab me by my arms. "DON'T TOUCH ME" I scream back as I push against him. He was hurled back as if I threw myself into him with all my might. "DON'T JUST STAND THERE! SEIZE HIM" he coughed as he was trying to get to his feet. I was very quickly surrounded on all sides by various sizes elves. They each grab hold of me trying to secure me, but I almost effortlessly shrug them off. Not knowing what is happening I start to back away. The platoon tried to stop me but try as they might they couldn't stop me from moving. As soon as I break free from their clutches I start running towards Master's shack. Knowing it's a waste of time as elves are notoriously quick and damn good trackers. After a few miles without looking back i just figured they never took chase. So I stop to think and catch my breath. As I turn around and put my hands on my knees I realize that my breaths are not heavy nor deep, in fact I feel like I haven't run at all. I look up to see viridian stone torches about a mile back. "They are chasing me... How did I... What..." I mutter under my breath, confused by my own speed, stamina, and strength. I decide it's best to talk to Master about this, nobody would know better. I sprint off towards the shack again, this time aware of my newfound abilities. As I approach the door to the shack I realize that only a single inside torch is lit. I burst through the door and start spouting words faster than even I comprehend, yet I know that Master knows the situation, even if I had said nothing. Master interrupts me "Sit." "Yes Master" I say under my breath as I slump into the chair. "I guess now is as good a time as any to explain to you the true essence of our craft." He says in a more stoic manner than usual. "I was trying to keep this from you, as it can corrupt even the most lionhearted of men. When you take the life of another living creature through the use of an incantation, you siphon the lifeforce of that being into your own. I can tell by the radiating heat and stench in the air that the forest was set ablaze during your practice." "Does that me-" I couldn't even finish my sentence. "Yes, the plethora of wildlife, gnomes, elves, and beasts in the forest that were murdered by your carelessness have made you exponentially stronger. And don't think it's just the physical aspect either." "But what does that mean for me?" I said in an excited but frightened manner. "Well, I imagine the elves will want some sort of compensation for you destroying their eternal forest. Probably your head." "ARE YOU GOING TO LET THAT HAPPEN?" I sobbed. "No, of course not. And even if I was going to let them, I doubt they could catch you." "But...." "No buts, child. Get some rest, our journey starts in the morning." end of pt1 Alright it is 6:30AM and I have not fallen asleep. This is my first ever writing prompt on Reddit and honestly the first time I've done any creative writing in over 10 years. If there's enough interest, I can pick up where I left off in the morning.	The noise was deafening. Imagine every bell and trumpet on the planet, playing jubilantly mostly together, but just out of synch enough for your ears to suspect that something's not quite right. Add to that a blinding light from the heavens so bright that closing your eyes doesn't really help much, and, well, you might understand why I was curled in a ball on the ground trying to cover both my ears and eyes simultaneously. I think I may have passed out. When I came to, it took me a few minutes of blinking and a short healing cantrip to clear the brown spots from my vision and the ringing from my ears. Naeri, Fleiss, and Glent were nowhere to be seen. I suppose it wasn't surprising, we lost each other in all the running and screaming... Perhaps I should start at the beginning. Let's go have a picnic, they said. It'll be fun, they said. I tried to say no, I mean, our Ice practical exam is only a week away and I need more practice to get the shards to the optimal length, but Fleiss insisted that we all take a break. He said I study too much. He said fresh air would clear my mind, help me get in touch with my mana. Did I mention Fleiss has the most gorgeous blue eyes? Deep pools, flecked with... Sorry. I just mean, well, you know. Anyway, I decided it couldn't hurt to go along and perhaps have more time to gaze into those eyes, and, well... It was a gorgeous day. We walked through the trees, admiring the fall foliage, and found a lovely meadow. The grass was getting to be a bit more prickly and haylike than I prefer, but we spread our blankets anyway and unpacked the baskets. My blanket was next to Fleiss's of course, and we chatted about casting technique and such while we ate. He's quite good at intonation, in case you haven't noticed. After the sandwiches, Naeri pulled out a smaller basket containing bits of chocolate and some thin wafer cookies, and these squishy white things she called Mallows of the Marsh or something like that. They looked rather like toadstools but she insisted they were quite delicious when lightly toasted and combined with the cookies and chocolate. I was skeptical, but Glent was still hungry as usual, and the others agreed that my control with fire spells is the best in the class, so naturally they insisted that I should be the one to toast the mallows. I was flattered by their compliments and eager to impress Fleiss, so I agreed to conjure a fireball. Just a small one, mind you. I concentrated, spoke the words, and formed a lovely little ball of flame. Naeri skewered a few mallows on a small stick and held it over my hands. Naeri hadn't mentioned that mallows are highly flammable. She got them a bit too close and Fwoof! The mallows burst into flame. I flinched away, tripping over Glent who had come up behind me to get a better look. I threw up my arms in an attempt to keep my balance and watched in horror as the little fireball flew from my hands directly into a stand of dried brush faster than I could say the words to extinguish it. The brush caught fire like so much dry kindling and the next thing we knew a wall of flame was spreading across the meadow. Fleiss tried to conjure a rainstorm to put it out, but he was very nervous and mostly got wind, not rain. Quite a bit of wind, really, we started running when the miniature burning tornado started heading our direction. That's all I remember, sir, before the ringing and trumpets and bright lights started. Then I ran back to you as fast as I could, but it was too late... I am so very, very sorry, Headmaster. It was an accident. I truly did not mean to cause the Elven Protectorate to declare war on the Academy. I would give every one of the levels I gained today to put their forest back as it was, I swear. Please sir. Let me help patch things up, or at least help you protect the other students from the Elven warbands. Please don't expel me.
[wp] you accidentally start a forest fire with a stray fireball. the forest completely burns to the ground, and your spell has resulted in the death of every monster and elf that lived in the forest. suddenly you've gone from level 1 to level 999, but now there are a whole lot of elves angry at you	Moron’s fire was a common occurrence. It was the result of an apprentice fueling too much raw mana into a spell and then trying to ignite the conflagration. It was so common that ballads were sung about the moronic explosions of mighty arch magi throughout history. Tavard of the Iron Saff. Blew up his classroom’s entire wing. Sancti the Wise. Shattered all glass within three miles. Landi of the Seas. Sunk an enemy vessel, and her own. Matthew wasn’t sure what to think. Sure he held the record for most occurrences of moron’s fire, but this was ridiculous. The fifth level firebolt skill he had learned upon reaching a 10 level apprentice, wasn’t powerful enough to actually kill anything here. It was supposed to grab the attention of the walcanis bloodhounds. The scouts of the orc army that was currently marching through the Everglen Forest. The home of the Elven Nation, the Ent Republic, and almost three dozen other minor factions. Matthew was supposed to grab their attention and lead the scouts into the kill circle. Where half a dozen proper battle mages waited. What wasn’t supposed to happen was the fire. Matthew, in his defense, saw the bloody muzzle of the war dog the size of the pony he road on the other week. The thing was a sleek, hungry, killing machine. So he panicked and put a little bit more mana into it then expected. About 1000% panicked. The last thing he remembered before passing out from mana burn was the fact that the fire was a lot bigger then what he had actually casted. It was only through sheer experience that he was able to see the formation of moron’s fire and successfully threw the ball of regret towards the center of the walcanis pack. He hoped that he didn’t cause to big of a ruckus. Matthew woke up feeling… great. He yawned and stretched, feeling better then he had ever felt before. He got out of his makeshift bed, the field hospital was no stranger to him. You cause enough moron’s fire and you would eventually wake up in the local infirmary. Matthew got dressed, and still marvelling at his great condition, exit the tent. He stopped and tried not to pee himself. Before him was the assembled elders of the Academy of the Magically Gifted. Charles, head master and arch magus of the fourth order and boasting an esteemed level of 422nd, stared at his wayward student. He smirked as he considered the coming excitement and figured that it was his due. Matthew, in one spectacular moment of moron’s fire, had caused enough of an uproar that the entire continent of Estgloria was going to be in a upheaval unseen since the Rage of Bahamut a century ago. “Elders,” Matthew greeted with a bow. “Natti,” Greg, arch magus of the third order, level 371st, greeted back. He glared at what he had once considered his greatest headache. Now it was fact and he found himself capable of further regrets. Seeing the young man’s confusion, Charles nodded to himself. “Congratulations Matthew. You won the war and brought peace back to the Alliance.” “Won? Sir?” Matthew asked as he found himself under further glares of the elders. He guessed he did survive the bloodhounds. That and his teacher Greg wouldn’t have lost that many seconds of agony over the news of his death. Charles laughed. “My boy, please check your status,” he commanded, voice filled with anticipation and mirth. Matthew furrowed his eyebrows but did as asked. Did he finally reach the 11th level and graduate into a mage class? That would be excellent! From the 11th to the 99th, he would be locked into a speciality, and only at the 100th level would he be able to branch out into a new field of magic. While he had considered enchantment and summoning, he figured that the straight forward elemental magus was his primary choice. He really wanted to stop making moron’s fire. Matthew stopped. His mind failed him as he stared at his status screen. He was a mage and his health was over 40 million points. He had more health points then he thought he would ever achieve with raw experience points. Hell, he was level. 999. Wut? His eyes scrambled across his status screen. Matthew Oland Level: 999 Class: Arcane Sovereign What the hell was Arcande Sovereign. No wait. Level 999!? Mathew returned his eyes to the headmaster and the old man chuckled. “Your,” Charles paused as his smirk glinted in the sunlight. “Spellfire lit the Everglen Forest on fire. To be honest it is a fun story.” Matthew found control of his neck, so he nodded. “You see, the fire quickly spread, it is the dry season after all. No rain until we pooled our mana together. A hundred magus of the various orders. We barely contained the flames.” That was some fire. The Everglen Forest was also huge! Twice the size of any kingdom. “Then your fires touched the grove of the Ent Republic. That wasn’t fun. You must have killed at least a hundred of their elders…” That wasn’t good! Ent elders were really revered. Really, really revered. “Which was a good thing, since they were rooting themselves to supress the necromantic horde buried in ruins of the old world. Their dying bodies changed your fire to a holy / nature flame that wiped out an evil army over a million strong.” A what? Necromantic army? Million strong? What the hell is going on! “Needless to say, this holy nature flame also swept across the forest, wiping out the invading orcs and then igniting the communals of the Elves. They are definitely not happy.” Not happy. NOT HAPPY! Evlen trees were burnt down. History has shown that it was less rude to piss onto their robes and then fling feces into their faces. “From what I hear, your bounty has reached over 1 million gold and the hand of their third princess, Arriete, or the fourth prince, Lorne. Both if they kill you within a week.” A million gold!? A million gold! Matthew knew that his own parents would turn him in for that much money. Matthew’s panic was cut short as a log smashed into him. “Which shouldn’t matter to you since, at such a level, you should be strong enough to fend off even the best of assassins.” Charles finished as he watched his troublesome student crumple under the assault. Matthew cried out, and rushed to his feet as he desperately checked his stats to see how much health he had left before he would take off. He had taken over a 10, 899 points of damage. Which was nothing. “Remember, at higher levels, you become resilient to lower forms of attack. As a magus of the 9th order, you are immune from attacks under the 4th rank.” Charles explained as if they were standing in a classroom. Matthew stared the log and then at his teacher. “Bah. Ballistae. Trebuchets are the superior siege weapon,” Charles scoffed as he motioned for Matthew to come back. “You have a lot to learn, and I can guarantee that you are not prepared.” Matthew nodded and was shaken. His old life was over. He needed to get up and running because if this wooden missile was indicating anything. It was that his problems had just begun. Matthew suddenly missed his old problems of just struggling with moron’s fire. --- Author's Corner: Thanks for the prompt! I hope you all enjoyed the read.	The noise was deafening. Imagine every bell and trumpet on the planet, playing jubilantly mostly together, but just out of synch enough for your ears to suspect that something's not quite right. Add to that a blinding light from the heavens so bright that closing your eyes doesn't really help much, and, well, you might understand why I was curled in a ball on the ground trying to cover both my ears and eyes simultaneously. I think I may have passed out. When I came to, it took me a few minutes of blinking and a short healing cantrip to clear the brown spots from my vision and the ringing from my ears. Naeri, Fleiss, and Glent were nowhere to be seen. I suppose it wasn't surprising, we lost each other in all the running and screaming... Perhaps I should start at the beginning. Let's go have a picnic, they said. It'll be fun, they said. I tried to say no, I mean, our Ice practical exam is only a week away and I need more practice to get the shards to the optimal length, but Fleiss insisted that we all take a break. He said I study too much. He said fresh air would clear my mind, help me get in touch with my mana. Did I mention Fleiss has the most gorgeous blue eyes? Deep pools, flecked with... Sorry. I just mean, well, you know. Anyway, I decided it couldn't hurt to go along and perhaps have more time to gaze into those eyes, and, well... It was a gorgeous day. We walked through the trees, admiring the fall foliage, and found a lovely meadow. The grass was getting to be a bit more prickly and haylike than I prefer, but we spread our blankets anyway and unpacked the baskets. My blanket was next to Fleiss's of course, and we chatted about casting technique and such while we ate. He's quite good at intonation, in case you haven't noticed. After the sandwiches, Naeri pulled out a smaller basket containing bits of chocolate and some thin wafer cookies, and these squishy white things she called Mallows of the Marsh or something like that. They looked rather like toadstools but she insisted they were quite delicious when lightly toasted and combined with the cookies and chocolate. I was skeptical, but Glent was still hungry as usual, and the others agreed that my control with fire spells is the best in the class, so naturally they insisted that I should be the one to toast the mallows. I was flattered by their compliments and eager to impress Fleiss, so I agreed to conjure a fireball. Just a small one, mind you. I concentrated, spoke the words, and formed a lovely little ball of flame. Naeri skewered a few mallows on a small stick and held it over my hands. Naeri hadn't mentioned that mallows are highly flammable. She got them a bit too close and Fwoof! The mallows burst into flame. I flinched away, tripping over Glent who had come up behind me to get a better look. I threw up my arms in an attempt to keep my balance and watched in horror as the little fireball flew from my hands directly into a stand of dried brush faster than I could say the words to extinguish it. The brush caught fire like so much dry kindling and the next thing we knew a wall of flame was spreading across the meadow. Fleiss tried to conjure a rainstorm to put it out, but he was very nervous and mostly got wind, not rain. Quite a bit of wind, really, we started running when the miniature burning tornado started heading our direction. That's all I remember, sir, before the ringing and trumpets and bright lights started. Then I ran back to you as fast as I could, but it was too late... I am so very, very sorry, Headmaster. It was an accident. I truly did not mean to cause the Elven Protectorate to declare war on the Academy. I would give every one of the levels I gained today to put their forest back as it was, I swear. Please sir. Let me help patch things up, or at least help you protect the other students from the Elven warbands. Please don't expel me.
[wp] you accidentally start a forest fire with a stray fireball. the forest completely burns to the ground, and your spell has resulted in the death of every monster and elf that lived in the forest. suddenly you've gone from level 1 to level 999, but now there are a whole lot of elves angry at you	CRASH BOOM BANG SNAP As I was pulling the scroll down from the top of the shelves I toppled the shelf beneath it. I look to my master with the "I'm so sorry" facial expression, but he didn't see, as his eyes were already closed and he was halfway through his deep breath and sigh. "Go practice your Meteor Strike in the lake next to the forest" he seethed. I sigh sorrily as I grab my pack on my way out the door. I didn't even wait until he was out of earshot to start muttering. "Who doesn't make mistakes? Why does he expect so much from me when I was just a lowly farmhand before he saved me from the bandits? Maybe I just won't come back..." I knew I didnt mean it as I was saying it. I have nowhere else to go, my entire family and everyone else on the compound was murdered by the bandits. I only managed to survive because I hid in a pile of rotting fruit we were fermenting for compost. He single handedly killed over 35 bandits, and when he sensed me he knew I wasnt hostile. There's.... Something different about master. He's exponentially stronger than any other wizard I've crossed paths with. He can sense intentions, feelings, even thoughts of those around him. Which makes me really curious as to why he keeps me around.. These thoughts in my head are sometimes uncontrollable. But at least they're just thoughts.... For now at least. As I walk near the forest a patrol of elves stop me. They know who I am, and they fear Master, yet they still enjoy harassing me. "What are you doing here Roundear?" The squadron leader belts at me. "Master Coyer sent me to practice my magic at the lake." I snarl back. "Well make sure not to boil the lake and kill all the fish again." The squadron leader says with a coy look on his face. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." I mutter as I walk through the platoon shoulders wide, ensuring to brush into as many soldiers as possible. I hate when they bring that up. Both the elven and human encampments dealt with famine that winter because of my actions. But I didn't know any better. It was the first time Master left me alone to practice craft. I was forbidden from using any incantations unless he was at my side for almost 6 moons after that. It haunts me everyday, but the sting is much worse when the words are not from my own head. I scolded myself all the way from the edge of the forest until I got to the lake. Something about the lake though. It melts my woes. I spent a lot of time here after the farm was raided. It was the closest feeling to home. I dropped my pack in a dead tree stump, trying to hide it as best as I could. Master would be furious if the gnomes made off with more of his literature. Especially if it was due to mine own incompetence, again. I've cast meteor strike thousands of times, yet I still dug the scroll out of my pack to reiterate the incantation. It's far too easy to skip or mispronounce a syllable and end up with a entirely different spell, sometimes to disastrous effect. I hide my pack again, this time a little more thorough as I felt eyes on me. Though it was probably just the owls. As I walked up to the edge of the water, a tripped on a root in the mud. "SERIOUSLY??" I scream at myself. "I can't do anything right, even walking." I angrily trudge to a point in the lake where it's about up to my waist. "Well, this is as good a spot as any." I hunch down for balance, as the waves created by the meteors are sometimes more overwhelming. Sotrar Menitat Feu A small purple and orange beacon appears in the sky and gets smaller and smaller until finally the meteor breaks through the clouds. katoosh sizzle The foot wide meteor drops into the water and cools off, slowly sinking to the bottom. "Why is Master so fixated on me mastering this incantation? Something like this would never be useable in combat." As if theres been anything such as a small squabble since Master and I took residence outside of the encampment. I practice the spell about a hundred more times, until it gets to the point where I can feel each spell physically draining me. Just a couple more and I'll head back I thought to myself. Sotrar Menitat Feu I decide I'm just going to enjoy the aesthetics for these last few spells. I've gotten accustomed to it over the last year, but sometimes even my own simple magic can be a spectacle. Sotrar Menitat Feu This was is considerably smaller than the previous ones, so I decided to just do one more and call it a night. Sotrel Menitat Feu I stumbled on the words and was too late to catch it. For about a third of a second I thought nothing was going to happen. But suddenly the entire sky erupted into a spectrum of color, mostly purple and red but some colors are completely indescribable. I realized I royalled messed up as almost every ounce of energy gets ripped from my body. I feel my eyes get heavier and heavier as I watch the sky go from a solid spectrum to thousands of tiny dots getting smaller and smaller. I start running toward land but could hardly muster any energy to move. Various sized meteors, from a few inches to a solid 3 feet across, start crashing down around me. As I get to the edge of the lake I feel my body shutting down, the last sight before what I thought was going to be my death was the forest around me set ablaze. I awake in what feels like days, but I soon realize that it must have only been a few minutes as it's still not fully dark and everything around me is still ablaze. As I pull myself out of the mud I realize its with considerable more dexterity and poise than I've ever carried before. Almost as if I leap to my feet effortlessly. I feel suddenly energized but just contributed it to adrenaline as I sprint out of the forest. I knew I had no chance of making it out alive, every inch of the forest was on fire, but I'll be damned if I don't at least try. I was almost halfway through the forest before I realize that most of my clothing had burned away and the flames were licking at my skin. Strangely though, there was hardly any pain. Just warmth. I had no idea what was happening but I didn't give myself time to think, just run. I make it out of the forest and see hundreds of elves scrambling. More than just soldiers, its almost as if their entire populace was standing outside watching their eternal forest turn to ash before their very eyes. I drop to my knees as the same platoon that stopped me when I entered the forest sprinted at me. "YOU!" the squadron leader screams viciously "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR FOREST?" "I.... I don't know.." I cried. "YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE" he screeched hoarsly as he tried to grab me by my arms. "DON'T TOUCH ME" I scream back as I push against him. He was hurled back as if I threw myself into him with all my might. "DON'T JUST STAND THERE! SEIZE HIM" he coughed as he was trying to get to his feet. I was very quickly surrounded on all sides by various sizes elves. They each grab hold of me trying to secure me, but I almost effortlessly shrug them off. Not knowing what is happening I start to back away. The platoon tried to stop me but try as they might they couldn't stop me from moving. As soon as I break free from their clutches I start running towards Master's shack. Knowing it's a waste of time as elves are notoriously quick and damn good trackers. After a few miles without looking back i just figured they never took chase. So I stop to think and catch my breath. As I turn around and put my hands on my knees I realize that my breaths are not heavy nor deep, in fact I feel like I haven't run at all. I look up to see viridian stone torches about a mile back. "They are chasing me... How did I... What..." I mutter under my breath, confused by my own speed, stamina, and strength. I decide it's best to talk to Master about this, nobody would know better. I sprint off towards the shack again, this time aware of my newfound abilities. As I approach the door to the shack I realize that only a single inside torch is lit. I burst through the door and start spouting words faster than even I comprehend, yet I know that Master knows the situation, even if I had said nothing. Master interrupts me "Sit." "Yes Master" I say under my breath as I slump into the chair. "I guess now is as good a time as any to explain to you the true essence of our craft." He says in a more stoic manner than usual. "I was trying to keep this from you, as it can corrupt even the most lionhearted of men. When you take the life of another living creature through the use of an incantation, you siphon the lifeforce of that being into your own. I can tell by the radiating heat and stench in the air that the forest was set ablaze during your practice." "Does that me-" I couldn't even finish my sentence. "Yes, the plethora of wildlife, gnomes, elves, and beasts in the forest that were murdered by your carelessness have made you exponentially stronger. And don't think it's just the physical aspect either." "But what does that mean for me?" I said in an excited but frightened manner. "Well, I imagine the elves will want some sort of compensation for you destroying their eternal forest. Probably your head." "ARE YOU GOING TO LET THAT HAPPEN?" I sobbed. "No, of course not. And even if I was going to let them, I doubt they could catch you." "But...." "No buts, child. Get some rest, our journey starts in the morning." end of pt1 Alright it is 6:30AM and I have not fallen asleep. This is my first ever writing prompt on Reddit and honestly the first time I've done any creative writing in over 10 years. If there's enough interest, I can pick up where I left off in the morning.	BANG BANG BANG I woke up groggy on that Skew's day morning, trying to scrub off the early morning gunk from my mind. Today's dawn marked the second day of my voyage into this vast world. Only having begun my journey yesterday, I was already in for a heap of trouble. I perused my inventory till I found something suitable enough to fill my hunger most of the way. Ah, a box of Elfio's, a fan-favorite, or so I'd been told. I meandered slowly and rather sleepily over to the window, listening to the silence of the new day and the chomping of my teeth on a nice bowl of cereal. I looked out to find a beautiful sun hanging low in the air against a wonderful blue sky. I stood there for a moment, soaking it all in. I turned and took a few steps away from the window back towards the center of the room. I whipped around so fast my neck nearly snapped itself. My face pressed against the window with thoughts flying through my head a mile a minute. "There shouldn't be any sun here, I'm miles deep in the elven forest. Where did all the trees go? Why did I wake up this early? Why are there sleeping elves under my second-story window? Is this some sort of event? Does this just happen to travellers who sleep in this city? Am I halluncinating? Why are my boots all wet? Oh wait, that's just milk. Why is there milk on the flo-" BANG BANG BANG That time I took a little damage from the whiplash. My door and I had a staring contest across the room. BANG BANG BANG I blinked first. "Yoshlord! We know you're in there! We sent up some scouts who tried to break into your room from the outside! They told us you were in there right before they passed out! Come out with your hands up and we won't kill you the moment you leave this room!" The man outside sounded desperate, as if he had nothing to lose. He also sounded as though he really meant to go through with that threat. I brainstormed, trying to think of some combination of words that would keep him at bay while I tried to figure out what exactly was going on here. All that I managed was, " Okay! Be out in a minute!" The man behind the door seemed as surprised as I was by that response and let up of his pounding on my favorite door in this world so far. "Al...Alright! You've got two minutes, though! You've got two minutes to get your things and get out here, or I swear on my dead family's life, I'll kill you myself!" "There was that killing thing again," I thought, "and swearing on your dead family, that seems a bit excessive." I took stock of my situation. I had just eaten, well half-eaten, my Elfio's were still on the floor. My inventory was all in check, items sorted. I flipped open my stats-book and my eyes almost popped out the back of my head. The sight of Level 999 flew around in my brain like a ricocheting bullet. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. No, this is real. I am here. I retraced my steps from yesterday hoping there might be a method to this madness. I slowed down my breathing and thought, "Ok, from the beginning." I had started off from the small village of Khomensar to the east. I had chosen a wizard as my starting class because I had always had an interest in magic and spells. I travelled west as the village elders had advised me, slowly progessing my way through the first level of my training by defeating little monsters along the side of th- "Oh... Ok... I understand... Wow... I really fucked this one up, didn't I..." I lamented as I slowly trugged over to the door. I gave my new best friend one last sad look before I opened him up, put my hands in the air and stepped out to my doom. (Thanks for reading! This is my first writing prompt so go easy on me. :P Thanks a bunch, OP, for the inspiration!)
[wp] you accidentally start a forest fire with a stray fireball. the forest completely burns to the ground, and your spell has resulted in the death of every monster and elf that lived in the forest. suddenly you've gone from level 1 to level 999, but now there are a whole lot of elves angry at you	Moron’s fire was a common occurrence. It was the result of an apprentice fueling too much raw mana into a spell and then trying to ignite the conflagration. It was so common that ballads were sung about the moronic explosions of mighty arch magi throughout history. Tavard of the Iron Saff. Blew up his classroom’s entire wing. Sancti the Wise. Shattered all glass within three miles. Landi of the Seas. Sunk an enemy vessel, and her own. Matthew wasn’t sure what to think. Sure he held the record for most occurrences of moron’s fire, but this was ridiculous. The fifth level firebolt skill he had learned upon reaching a 10 level apprentice, wasn’t powerful enough to actually kill anything here. It was supposed to grab the attention of the walcanis bloodhounds. The scouts of the orc army that was currently marching through the Everglen Forest. The home of the Elven Nation, the Ent Republic, and almost three dozen other minor factions. Matthew was supposed to grab their attention and lead the scouts into the kill circle. Where half a dozen proper battle mages waited. What wasn’t supposed to happen was the fire. Matthew, in his defense, saw the bloody muzzle of the war dog the size of the pony he road on the other week. The thing was a sleek, hungry, killing machine. So he panicked and put a little bit more mana into it then expected. About 1000% panicked. The last thing he remembered before passing out from mana burn was the fact that the fire was a lot bigger then what he had actually casted. It was only through sheer experience that he was able to see the formation of moron’s fire and successfully threw the ball of regret towards the center of the walcanis pack. He hoped that he didn’t cause to big of a ruckus. Matthew woke up feeling… great. He yawned and stretched, feeling better then he had ever felt before. He got out of his makeshift bed, the field hospital was no stranger to him. You cause enough moron’s fire and you would eventually wake up in the local infirmary. Matthew got dressed, and still marvelling at his great condition, exit the tent. He stopped and tried not to pee himself. Before him was the assembled elders of the Academy of the Magically Gifted. Charles, head master and arch magus of the fourth order and boasting an esteemed level of 422nd, stared at his wayward student. He smirked as he considered the coming excitement and figured that it was his due. Matthew, in one spectacular moment of moron’s fire, had caused enough of an uproar that the entire continent of Estgloria was going to be in a upheaval unseen since the Rage of Bahamut a century ago. “Elders,” Matthew greeted with a bow. “Natti,” Greg, arch magus of the third order, level 371st, greeted back. He glared at what he had once considered his greatest headache. Now it was fact and he found himself capable of further regrets. Seeing the young man’s confusion, Charles nodded to himself. “Congratulations Matthew. You won the war and brought peace back to the Alliance.” “Won? Sir?” Matthew asked as he found himself under further glares of the elders. He guessed he did survive the bloodhounds. That and his teacher Greg wouldn’t have lost that many seconds of agony over the news of his death. Charles laughed. “My boy, please check your status,” he commanded, voice filled with anticipation and mirth. Matthew furrowed his eyebrows but did as asked. Did he finally reach the 11th level and graduate into a mage class? That would be excellent! From the 11th to the 99th, he would be locked into a speciality, and only at the 100th level would he be able to branch out into a new field of magic. While he had considered enchantment and summoning, he figured that the straight forward elemental magus was his primary choice. He really wanted to stop making moron’s fire. Matthew stopped. His mind failed him as he stared at his status screen. He was a mage and his health was over 40 million points. He had more health points then he thought he would ever achieve with raw experience points. Hell, he was level. 999. Wut? His eyes scrambled across his status screen. Matthew Oland Level: 999 Class: Arcane Sovereign What the hell was Arcande Sovereign. No wait. Level 999!? Mathew returned his eyes to the headmaster and the old man chuckled. “Your,” Charles paused as his smirk glinted in the sunlight. “Spellfire lit the Everglen Forest on fire. To be honest it is a fun story.” Matthew found control of his neck, so he nodded. “You see, the fire quickly spread, it is the dry season after all. No rain until we pooled our mana together. A hundred magus of the various orders. We barely contained the flames.” That was some fire. The Everglen Forest was also huge! Twice the size of any kingdom. “Then your fires touched the grove of the Ent Republic. That wasn’t fun. You must have killed at least a hundred of their elders…” That wasn’t good! Ent elders were really revered. Really, really revered. “Which was a good thing, since they were rooting themselves to supress the necromantic horde buried in ruins of the old world. Their dying bodies changed your fire to a holy / nature flame that wiped out an evil army over a million strong.” A what? Necromantic army? Million strong? What the hell is going on! “Needless to say, this holy nature flame also swept across the forest, wiping out the invading orcs and then igniting the communals of the Elves. They are definitely not happy.” Not happy. NOT HAPPY! Evlen trees were burnt down. History has shown that it was less rude to piss onto their robes and then fling feces into their faces. “From what I hear, your bounty has reached over 1 million gold and the hand of their third princess, Arriete, or the fourth prince, Lorne. Both if they kill you within a week.” A million gold!? A million gold! Matthew knew that his own parents would turn him in for that much money. Matthew’s panic was cut short as a log smashed into him. “Which shouldn’t matter to you since, at such a level, you should be strong enough to fend off even the best of assassins.” Charles finished as he watched his troublesome student crumple under the assault. Matthew cried out, and rushed to his feet as he desperately checked his stats to see how much health he had left before he would take off. He had taken over a 10, 899 points of damage. Which was nothing. “Remember, at higher levels, you become resilient to lower forms of attack. As a magus of the 9th order, you are immune from attacks under the 4th rank.” Charles explained as if they were standing in a classroom. Matthew stared the log and then at his teacher. “Bah. Ballistae. Trebuchets are the superior siege weapon,” Charles scoffed as he motioned for Matthew to come back. “You have a lot to learn, and I can guarantee that you are not prepared.” Matthew nodded and was shaken. His old life was over. He needed to get up and running because if this wooden missile was indicating anything. It was that his problems had just begun. Matthew suddenly missed his old problems of just struggling with moron’s fire. --- Author's Corner: Thanks for the prompt! I hope you all enjoyed the read.	BANG BANG BANG I woke up groggy on that Skew's day morning, trying to scrub off the early morning gunk from my mind. Today's dawn marked the second day of my voyage into this vast world. Only having begun my journey yesterday, I was already in for a heap of trouble. I perused my inventory till I found something suitable enough to fill my hunger most of the way. Ah, a box of Elfio's, a fan-favorite, or so I'd been told. I meandered slowly and rather sleepily over to the window, listening to the silence of the new day and the chomping of my teeth on a nice bowl of cereal. I looked out to find a beautiful sun hanging low in the air against a wonderful blue sky. I stood there for a moment, soaking it all in. I turned and took a few steps away from the window back towards the center of the room. I whipped around so fast my neck nearly snapped itself. My face pressed against the window with thoughts flying through my head a mile a minute. "There shouldn't be any sun here, I'm miles deep in the elven forest. Where did all the trees go? Why did I wake up this early? Why are there sleeping elves under my second-story window? Is this some sort of event? Does this just happen to travellers who sleep in this city? Am I halluncinating? Why are my boots all wet? Oh wait, that's just milk. Why is there milk on the flo-" BANG BANG BANG That time I took a little damage from the whiplash. My door and I had a staring contest across the room. BANG BANG BANG I blinked first. "Yoshlord! We know you're in there! We sent up some scouts who tried to break into your room from the outside! They told us you were in there right before they passed out! Come out with your hands up and we won't kill you the moment you leave this room!" The man outside sounded desperate, as if he had nothing to lose. He also sounded as though he really meant to go through with that threat. I brainstormed, trying to think of some combination of words that would keep him at bay while I tried to figure out what exactly was going on here. All that I managed was, " Okay! Be out in a minute!" The man behind the door seemed as surprised as I was by that response and let up of his pounding on my favorite door in this world so far. "Al...Alright! You've got two minutes, though! You've got two minutes to get your things and get out here, or I swear on my dead family's life, I'll kill you myself!" "There was that killing thing again," I thought, "and swearing on your dead family, that seems a bit excessive." I took stock of my situation. I had just eaten, well half-eaten, my Elfio's were still on the floor. My inventory was all in check, items sorted. I flipped open my stats-book and my eyes almost popped out the back of my head. The sight of Level 999 flew around in my brain like a ricocheting bullet. This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. No, this is real. I am here. I retraced my steps from yesterday hoping there might be a method to this madness. I slowed down my breathing and thought, "Ok, from the beginning." I had started off from the small village of Khomensar to the east. I had chosen a wizard as my starting class because I had always had an interest in magic and spells. I travelled west as the village elders had advised me, slowly progessing my way through the first level of my training by defeating little monsters along the side of th- "Oh... Ok... I understand... Wow... I really fucked this one up, didn't I..." I lamented as I slowly trugged over to the door. I gave my new best friend one last sad look before I opened him up, put my hands in the air and stepped out to my doom. (Thanks for reading! This is my first writing prompt so go easy on me. :P Thanks a bunch, OP, for the inspiration!)
[wp] you accidentally start a forest fire with a stray fireball. the forest completely burns to the ground, and your spell has resulted in the death of every monster and elf that lived in the forest. suddenly you've gone from level 1 to level 999, but now there are a whole lot of elves angry at you	CRASH BOOM BANG SNAP As I was pulling the scroll down from the top of the shelves I toppled the shelf beneath it. I look to my master with the "I'm so sorry" facial expression, but he didn't see, as his eyes were already closed and he was halfway through his deep breath and sigh. "Go practice your Meteor Strike in the lake next to the forest" he seethed. I sigh sorrily as I grab my pack on my way out the door. I didn't even wait until he was out of earshot to start muttering. "Who doesn't make mistakes? Why does he expect so much from me when I was just a lowly farmhand before he saved me from the bandits? Maybe I just won't come back..." I knew I didnt mean it as I was saying it. I have nowhere else to go, my entire family and everyone else on the compound was murdered by the bandits. I only managed to survive because I hid in a pile of rotting fruit we were fermenting for compost. He single handedly killed over 35 bandits, and when he sensed me he knew I wasnt hostile. There's.... Something different about master. He's exponentially stronger than any other wizard I've crossed paths with. He can sense intentions, feelings, even thoughts of those around him. Which makes me really curious as to why he keeps me around.. These thoughts in my head are sometimes uncontrollable. But at least they're just thoughts.... For now at least. As I walk near the forest a patrol of elves stop me. They know who I am, and they fear Master, yet they still enjoy harassing me. "What are you doing here Roundear?" The squadron leader belts at me. "Master Coyer sent me to practice my magic at the lake." I snarl back. "Well make sure not to boil the lake and kill all the fish again." The squadron leader says with a coy look on his face. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." I mutter as I walk through the platoon shoulders wide, ensuring to brush into as many soldiers as possible. I hate when they bring that up. Both the elven and human encampments dealt with famine that winter because of my actions. But I didn't know any better. It was the first time Master left me alone to practice craft. I was forbidden from using any incantations unless he was at my side for almost 6 moons after that. It haunts me everyday, but the sting is much worse when the words are not from my own head. I scolded myself all the way from the edge of the forest until I got to the lake. Something about the lake though. It melts my woes. I spent a lot of time here after the farm was raided. It was the closest feeling to home. I dropped my pack in a dead tree stump, trying to hide it as best as I could. Master would be furious if the gnomes made off with more of his literature. Especially if it was due to mine own incompetence, again. I've cast meteor strike thousands of times, yet I still dug the scroll out of my pack to reiterate the incantation. It's far too easy to skip or mispronounce a syllable and end up with a entirely different spell, sometimes to disastrous effect. I hide my pack again, this time a little more thorough as I felt eyes on me. Though it was probably just the owls. As I walked up to the edge of the water, a tripped on a root in the mud. "SERIOUSLY??" I scream at myself. "I can't do anything right, even walking." I angrily trudge to a point in the lake where it's about up to my waist. "Well, this is as good a spot as any." I hunch down for balance, as the waves created by the meteors are sometimes more overwhelming. Sotrar Menitat Feu A small purple and orange beacon appears in the sky and gets smaller and smaller until finally the meteor breaks through the clouds. katoosh sizzle The foot wide meteor drops into the water and cools off, slowly sinking to the bottom. "Why is Master so fixated on me mastering this incantation? Something like this would never be useable in combat." As if theres been anything such as a small squabble since Master and I took residence outside of the encampment. I practice the spell about a hundred more times, until it gets to the point where I can feel each spell physically draining me. Just a couple more and I'll head back I thought to myself. Sotrar Menitat Feu I decide I'm just going to enjoy the aesthetics for these last few spells. I've gotten accustomed to it over the last year, but sometimes even my own simple magic can be a spectacle. Sotrar Menitat Feu This was is considerably smaller than the previous ones, so I decided to just do one more and call it a night. Sotrel Menitat Feu I stumbled on the words and was too late to catch it. For about a third of a second I thought nothing was going to happen. But suddenly the entire sky erupted into a spectrum of color, mostly purple and red but some colors are completely indescribable. I realized I royalled messed up as almost every ounce of energy gets ripped from my body. I feel my eyes get heavier and heavier as I watch the sky go from a solid spectrum to thousands of tiny dots getting smaller and smaller. I start running toward land but could hardly muster any energy to move. Various sized meteors, from a few inches to a solid 3 feet across, start crashing down around me. As I get to the edge of the lake I feel my body shutting down, the last sight before what I thought was going to be my death was the forest around me set ablaze. I awake in what feels like days, but I soon realize that it must have only been a few minutes as it's still not fully dark and everything around me is still ablaze. As I pull myself out of the mud I realize its with considerable more dexterity and poise than I've ever carried before. Almost as if I leap to my feet effortlessly. I feel suddenly energized but just contributed it to adrenaline as I sprint out of the forest. I knew I had no chance of making it out alive, every inch of the forest was on fire, but I'll be damned if I don't at least try. I was almost halfway through the forest before I realize that most of my clothing had burned away and the flames were licking at my skin. Strangely though, there was hardly any pain. Just warmth. I had no idea what was happening but I didn't give myself time to think, just run. I make it out of the forest and see hundreds of elves scrambling. More than just soldiers, its almost as if their entire populace was standing outside watching their eternal forest turn to ash before their very eyes. I drop to my knees as the same platoon that stopped me when I entered the forest sprinted at me. "YOU!" the squadron leader screams viciously "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO OUR FOREST?" "I.... I don't know.." I cried. "YOU WILL PAY FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE" he screeched hoarsly as he tried to grab me by my arms. "DON'T TOUCH ME" I scream back as I push against him. He was hurled back as if I threw myself into him with all my might. "DON'T JUST STAND THERE! SEIZE HIM" he coughed as he was trying to get to his feet. I was very quickly surrounded on all sides by various sizes elves. They each grab hold of me trying to secure me, but I almost effortlessly shrug them off. Not knowing what is happening I start to back away. The platoon tried to stop me but try as they might they couldn't stop me from moving. As soon as I break free from their clutches I start running towards Master's shack. Knowing it's a waste of time as elves are notoriously quick and damn good trackers. After a few miles without looking back i just figured they never took chase. So I stop to think and catch my breath. As I turn around and put my hands on my knees I realize that my breaths are not heavy nor deep, in fact I feel like I haven't run at all. I look up to see viridian stone torches about a mile back. "They are chasing me... How did I... What..." I mutter under my breath, confused by my own speed, stamina, and strength. I decide it's best to talk to Master about this, nobody would know better. I sprint off towards the shack again, this time aware of my newfound abilities. As I approach the door to the shack I realize that only a single inside torch is lit. I burst through the door and start spouting words faster than even I comprehend, yet I know that Master knows the situation, even if I had said nothing. Master interrupts me "Sit." "Yes Master" I say under my breath as I slump into the chair. "I guess now is as good a time as any to explain to you the true essence of our craft." He says in a more stoic manner than usual. "I was trying to keep this from you, as it can corrupt even the most lionhearted of men. When you take the life of another living creature through the use of an incantation, you siphon the lifeforce of that being into your own. I can tell by the radiating heat and stench in the air that the forest was set ablaze during your practice." "Does that me-" I couldn't even finish my sentence. "Yes, the plethora of wildlife, gnomes, elves, and beasts in the forest that were murdered by your carelessness have made you exponentially stronger. And don't think it's just the physical aspect either." "But what does that mean for me?" I said in an excited but frightened manner. "Well, I imagine the elves will want some sort of compensation for you destroying their eternal forest. Probably your head." "ARE YOU GOING TO LET THAT HAPPEN?" I sobbed. "No, of course not. And even if I was going to let them, I doubt they could catch you." "But...." "No buts, child. Get some rest, our journey starts in the morning." end of pt1 Alright it is 6:30AM and I have not fallen asleep. This is my first ever writing prompt on Reddit and honestly the first time I've done any creative writing in over 10 years. If there's enough interest, I can pick up where I left off in the morning.	Overlooking the forest awash in flames from a distance, I stood in horror as what was supposed to come off as an attempt to get better at my skills turned into arson. This was not my intention. It never was. And yet...there something else. A surge of power coursing through my body. From a limited amount of mana, I felt like I could produce hundreds of fireballs without straining myself. This feeling was unexplainable. I wanted to start playing around with my newly learned powers but restrained myself from doing so. I opened my palm and projected a skill only masters of my expertise can do. I stared in awe as red lightning danced around my fingertips. I was speechless. With this power, I could- "Conquer the land. Yes?" I looked back to see a figure in the shadows. And since the voice was high pitched, I assumed it was a she. "Who's there!?" I responded. "Oh. Have I interrupted you from your stupor?" she said, followed by a chuckle. I perceived this as an insult. "Careful, you're one spell away from turning to a pile of ashes." I said with a hint of warning. "Young man, I did not mean to harass you. But I see what you have done. Seeing as how hundreds of elves are coming towards you, I have two choices to offer: One, forge an alliance with me, and together we shall rise above all rulers of this world. Or, the second, risk having the whole kingdom come after you. You might be overpowered, but you are not indestructible. The first seems more promising, does it not?" I may not have known the lady, but she exuded something no one did: death. And the realization hit me of who she truly was. It did not take long fo me to decide. "No thank you. I might be exiled, but I accept my mistakes and will face whatever judgement they agree on." I stopped. Of course, there was really only one reason "Besides, I don't fancy the idea of annihalating my and my wife's clan over some typical conquer the world bullshit. Leave. I wish not to see you again. I might end up killing myself, but if I have to, I'll use every ounce of my strength to destroy, or at least weaken you enough to put you to sleep for centuries to come." The figure stayed silent, but the glow around her darkened. "Very well. I await the day we meet again. I'd like to see you try your best on me." She answered before completely vanishing into the shadows. Looking back on my kinsmen, I was ready for anything. I was prepared for what was to come. This was much more bearable than the lady's offer. Had I accepted her alliance, I would've been like her. Powerful, more than I am, but corrupted. An entity that supposedly went extinct thousands of years ago. A dark elf.
[wp] you accidentally start a forest fire with a stray fireball. the forest completely burns to the ground, and your spell has resulted in the death of every monster and elf that lived in the forest. suddenly you've gone from level 1 to level 999, but now there are a whole lot of elves angry at you	Moron’s fire was a common occurrence. It was the result of an apprentice fueling too much raw mana into a spell and then trying to ignite the conflagration. It was so common that ballads were sung about the moronic explosions of mighty arch magi throughout history. Tavard of the Iron Saff. Blew up his classroom’s entire wing. Sancti the Wise. Shattered all glass within three miles. Landi of the Seas. Sunk an enemy vessel, and her own. Matthew wasn’t sure what to think. Sure he held the record for most occurrences of moron’s fire, but this was ridiculous. The fifth level firebolt skill he had learned upon reaching a 10 level apprentice, wasn’t powerful enough to actually kill anything here. It was supposed to grab the attention of the walcanis bloodhounds. The scouts of the orc army that was currently marching through the Everglen Forest. The home of the Elven Nation, the Ent Republic, and almost three dozen other minor factions. Matthew was supposed to grab their attention and lead the scouts into the kill circle. Where half a dozen proper battle mages waited. What wasn’t supposed to happen was the fire. Matthew, in his defense, saw the bloody muzzle of the war dog the size of the pony he road on the other week. The thing was a sleek, hungry, killing machine. So he panicked and put a little bit more mana into it then expected. About 1000% panicked. The last thing he remembered before passing out from mana burn was the fact that the fire was a lot bigger then what he had actually casted. It was only through sheer experience that he was able to see the formation of moron’s fire and successfully threw the ball of regret towards the center of the walcanis pack. He hoped that he didn’t cause to big of a ruckus. Matthew woke up feeling… great. He yawned and stretched, feeling better then he had ever felt before. He got out of his makeshift bed, the field hospital was no stranger to him. You cause enough moron’s fire and you would eventually wake up in the local infirmary. Matthew got dressed, and still marvelling at his great condition, exit the tent. He stopped and tried not to pee himself. Before him was the assembled elders of the Academy of the Magically Gifted. Charles, head master and arch magus of the fourth order and boasting an esteemed level of 422nd, stared at his wayward student. He smirked as he considered the coming excitement and figured that it was his due. Matthew, in one spectacular moment of moron’s fire, had caused enough of an uproar that the entire continent of Estgloria was going to be in a upheaval unseen since the Rage of Bahamut a century ago. “Elders,” Matthew greeted with a bow. “Natti,” Greg, arch magus of the third order, level 371st, greeted back. He glared at what he had once considered his greatest headache. Now it was fact and he found himself capable of further regrets. Seeing the young man’s confusion, Charles nodded to himself. “Congratulations Matthew. You won the war and brought peace back to the Alliance.” “Won? Sir?” Matthew asked as he found himself under further glares of the elders. He guessed he did survive the bloodhounds. That and his teacher Greg wouldn’t have lost that many seconds of agony over the news of his death. Charles laughed. “My boy, please check your status,” he commanded, voice filled with anticipation and mirth. Matthew furrowed his eyebrows but did as asked. Did he finally reach the 11th level and graduate into a mage class? That would be excellent! From the 11th to the 99th, he would be locked into a speciality, and only at the 100th level would he be able to branch out into a new field of magic. While he had considered enchantment and summoning, he figured that the straight forward elemental magus was his primary choice. He really wanted to stop making moron’s fire. Matthew stopped. His mind failed him as he stared at his status screen. He was a mage and his health was over 40 million points. He had more health points then he thought he would ever achieve with raw experience points. Hell, he was level. 999. Wut? His eyes scrambled across his status screen. Matthew Oland Level: 999 Class: Arcane Sovereign What the hell was Arcande Sovereign. No wait. Level 999!? Mathew returned his eyes to the headmaster and the old man chuckled. “Your,” Charles paused as his smirk glinted in the sunlight. “Spellfire lit the Everglen Forest on fire. To be honest it is a fun story.” Matthew found control of his neck, so he nodded. “You see, the fire quickly spread, it is the dry season after all. No rain until we pooled our mana together. A hundred magus of the various orders. We barely contained the flames.” That was some fire. The Everglen Forest was also huge! Twice the size of any kingdom. “Then your fires touched the grove of the Ent Republic. That wasn’t fun. You must have killed at least a hundred of their elders…” That wasn’t good! Ent elders were really revered. Really, really revered. “Which was a good thing, since they were rooting themselves to supress the necromantic horde buried in ruins of the old world. Their dying bodies changed your fire to a holy / nature flame that wiped out an evil army over a million strong.” A what? Necromantic army? Million strong? What the hell is going on! “Needless to say, this holy nature flame also swept across the forest, wiping out the invading orcs and then igniting the communals of the Elves. They are definitely not happy.” Not happy. NOT HAPPY! Evlen trees were burnt down. History has shown that it was less rude to piss onto their robes and then fling feces into their faces. “From what I hear, your bounty has reached over 1 million gold and the hand of their third princess, Arriete, or the fourth prince, Lorne. Both if they kill you within a week.” A million gold!? A million gold! Matthew knew that his own parents would turn him in for that much money. Matthew’s panic was cut short as a log smashed into him. “Which shouldn’t matter to you since, at such a level, you should be strong enough to fend off even the best of assassins.” Charles finished as he watched his troublesome student crumple under the assault. Matthew cried out, and rushed to his feet as he desperately checked his stats to see how much health he had left before he would take off. He had taken over a 10, 899 points of damage. Which was nothing. “Remember, at higher levels, you become resilient to lower forms of attack. As a magus of the 9th order, you are immune from attacks under the 4th rank.” Charles explained as if they were standing in a classroom. Matthew stared the log and then at his teacher. “Bah. Ballistae. Trebuchets are the superior siege weapon,” Charles scoffed as he motioned for Matthew to come back. “You have a lot to learn, and I can guarantee that you are not prepared.” Matthew nodded and was shaken. His old life was over. He needed to get up and running because if this wooden missile was indicating anything. It was that his problems had just begun. Matthew suddenly missed his old problems of just struggling with moron’s fire. --- Author's Corner: Thanks for the prompt! I hope you all enjoyed the read.	Overlooking the forest awash in flames from a distance, I stood in horror as what was supposed to come off as an attempt to get better at my skills turned into arson. This was not my intention. It never was. And yet...there something else. A surge of power coursing through my body. From a limited amount of mana, I felt like I could produce hundreds of fireballs without straining myself. This feeling was unexplainable. I wanted to start playing around with my newly learned powers but restrained myself from doing so. I opened my palm and projected a skill only masters of my expertise can do. I stared in awe as red lightning danced around my fingertips. I was speechless. With this power, I could- "Conquer the land. Yes?" I looked back to see a figure in the shadows. And since the voice was high pitched, I assumed it was a she. "Who's there!?" I responded. "Oh. Have I interrupted you from your stupor?" she said, followed by a chuckle. I perceived this as an insult. "Careful, you're one spell away from turning to a pile of ashes." I said with a hint of warning. "Young man, I did not mean to harass you. But I see what you have done. Seeing as how hundreds of elves are coming towards you, I have two choices to offer: One, forge an alliance with me, and together we shall rise above all rulers of this world. Or, the second, risk having the whole kingdom come after you. You might be overpowered, but you are not indestructible. The first seems more promising, does it not?" I may not have known the lady, but she exuded something no one did: death. And the realization hit me of who she truly was. It did not take long fo me to decide. "No thank you. I might be exiled, but I accept my mistakes and will face whatever judgement they agree on." I stopped. Of course, there was really only one reason "Besides, I don't fancy the idea of annihalating my and my wife's clan over some typical conquer the world bullshit. Leave. I wish not to see you again. I might end up killing myself, but if I have to, I'll use every ounce of my strength to destroy, or at least weaken you enough to put you to sleep for centuries to come." The figure stayed silent, but the glow around her darkened. "Very well. I await the day we meet again. I'd like to see you try your best on me." She answered before completely vanishing into the shadows. Looking back on my kinsmen, I was ready for anything. I was prepared for what was to come. This was much more bearable than the lady's offer. Had I accepted her alliance, I would've been like her. Powerful, more than I am, but corrupted. An entity that supposedly went extinct thousands of years ago. A dark elf.
[wp] you accidentally start a forest fire with a stray fireball. the forest completely burns to the ground, and your spell has resulted in the death of every monster and elf that lived in the forest. suddenly you've gone from level 1 to level 999, but now there are a whole lot of elves angry at you	The dense smoke filled the air, completely blotting out the high noon light of the sun and leaving only the light of the dancing flames below. Those flames, which only ten minutes ago were a failed attempt at a fireball spell by a foolish young sorcerer's apprentice. And yet the devastation was unimaginable. This forest went for such lengths that entire countries of elves lived within and housed some of the most dangerous and vicious beasts and monsters known to man. Even as the apprentice looked upon the land he could tell what was what despite the fact that the flesh was horrifically burnt and melted on each creature he saw. There was the unmistakable visage of elves, giants and hydras as he walked, even several adamantoises. The fire had burnt to hot that even monsters widely believed to be immortal had succumbed to the heat. And yet, in the completely burnt-out center of the forest the apprentice stood, both completely horrified and awed about what he saw. As well as the climbing number within his vision. 389... 436... 497... With each second the number grew higher and he felt everything hurt. Was it a punishment from the gods for his actions? 601... 678... 702... But as his body was horrifically twisted, forcing him to his knees he never felt any more incredible. 'Wh... What is this?' he cried out, his voice now far deeper than before, as if he had suddenly aged from prepubescence to adulthood. 767... 834... 888... His entire frame of body was forced outward, growing in both form and power. His loose cloak had been burnt in the fire as well to show only his near-naked form aside from a cotton cloth he had wrapped around his nethers. His giant hands swam through the ashes and dirt like water as he tried to get a grip on something, his hulking frame easily splintering both unburned and charcoaled wood with ease. 912... 945... 992... But his magical power... the power he was trying to build up, which his teacher had compared to a newborn chick against the might of a dragon... It was more than willing to force its way out of his eyes, blasting out lightning whenever they were open. His mere breaths swelled with pure, raw magic which was spreading an oasis of forest life outward and beyond. When the number reached 999, he felt that power exploding as he screamed, his body thrown upward and floating in the air. It felt like the pain was suddenly gone, a sun bursting from within his skin. As he floated down, he contemplated what to do next. 'My master will be most furious with me, won't he?' the apprentice asked himself. No doubt this devastation had caused some sort of disaster for the elves. No... That wouldn't happen, he somehow assumed. There were three primary reasons he assumed so. 1; His master hated the elves. A species of pretentious, self-serving fools he called them. They'd rather allow the humans, dwarves and other intelligent species die rather than fight against the Dark Lord who supposedly devastated the world a thousand years ago. 2; His personal manta was, "Power for Power's Sake". It made him rather unpopular with others of his caliber, to the point that he was exiled from the human's capital cities and forced to build a tower deep within the Black Forest. 3; He was probably dead by this point. The young lad, no more than twelve, had no idea what he would even do now. He had ideas, as suddenly he felt like he knew things that simply shouldn't be there. Powerful spells of all manner of effects, fighting styles with weapons he had never touched or seen before outside of a few of his master's books. But he also noticed, during his trail of thought, that the figure was still climbing and was now well over 1500. 'Well, haven't we put ourselves in a pickle,' a voice had said within his mind. He knew instantly what it was and had tried to ensnare the mind of whomever had invaded his own. 'I know where you are,' he declared. 'Show yourself.' 'Well, aren't we confident?' the stranger asked as he walked out of a portal directly before the lad. 'Xavier, right?' 'Who are you?' the boy asked. But something told him he already knew the answer, and he didn't need his impressive new seer powers or telepathy to tell him that. He was clearly a human like Xavier but was of similar size, similar power both physical and magical. 'What, did you think you were the first person who accidentally set a forest alight and massacred untold numbers of beings?' the stranger asked. 'I did it a thousand years ago.' '...You're the dark lord,' Xavier said in fear. 'A completely unjustified title, albeit not rightfully feared,' the stranger said as his adamantoise-scaled armor jostled with each of his enormous footfalls. 'But still, none had ever believed my pleas of innocent ignorance. But, child, I do not wish to be your enemy. As your level is so high you are no doubt the only other immortal being of human origin. At least I don't have to share immortality with those foolish elves.' 'Because I...' I began to say with severe regret. 'Perk up, Xavier,' he stated with a smile as he put an enormous hand upon my shoulder. 'You have surely seen that you can revive this devastated forest. The same is true of those within. I've already been casting the resurrection spells and made sure to have them follow the flames, so none of them have remained dead for long.' I merely sighed in relief. 'And my master?' 'You don't need me to tell you of that fool Balthazar,' he said. 'Sending a boy to train in fire magic in forestland... Foolish bastard.' In fact, I did know. He was perfectly fine, albeit scarred by the sensation of his death and trying to understand what had happened. And he wasn't the only one... 'An army is coming for me,' I said in shock. 'Thousands of elves.' 'Is that all?' the stranger asked in a bored voice. 'They'll not avenge their own murders, they'll simply be sending good men to die.' 'Then what am I to do?' I asked him. 'Fight them?' 'If you so choose,' the stranger said as he handed me an enormous blade. 'Or flee or... Dare I say it, enslave them by either force of will or by dominating their minds with magic. It is entirely your choice. Whatever you choose, allow me to offer you my support of friendship. You know where I live and you are always welcome.' He then disappeared through another portal as I pondered my next move. Surely this couldn't go well for anyone involved... --- Chapter 2 coming soon	Well, the elf doesn't look so amused. But i wouldn't either after my whole city burned down to some idiot who can't control this power. Well who cares, i just advanced to a level nobody has ever achieved before. I can probably kill them all with one snap. During my little thinking a whole hoard of elves has gathered around me, all waiting for the first-one to throw the stone. "Hey guys, look i know you are incredible sad and angry. But it was never my intention to ruin your lives. Let me help you to rebuild everything." "The same help you promised for your kingdom when you practiced your spell?" shouted one elf and spitted on the ground. Before i could react a young level 1 elf shoot his arrow toward my direction. My reactions were still those of a beginner so i only managed to turn my body. Wham directly into my shoulder. Ohh god, why does this hurt so much? I should be a god with this level. As i see the hoard of elves going towards me with their weapons ready to taste my blood i see a little prompt in my bottom left field of view. Unspent Skillcoins: 9980 Maybe i still have a chance to surrive
[WP] if a grave doesn't say "rest in peace" on it, then the deceased will be drafted into the skeleton war.	It was a purposeful decision - albeit one I perhaps should have rethought a few dozen times - to be drafted into the skeleton war. I prepared a gravestone almost out of paranoia, and thought to myself while making it that - well, if the rumors were true, and you were drafted, I'd live another life, and that'd be interesting enough. If the rumors were false, I would lose anything. Some variant on Pascel's Wager, I suppose - only it turned out winning was about as good as losing. I died sooner then I expected. Accidental. They stuck me in my grave, and put up the gravestone - naught more then my name, my year of birth, and a freshly carved year of death. I woke up later on - I dunno how later on - laying next to a skeleton in a bowler hat, dripping wet, and with a Tommy Gun in his bone hands. "Oh hey, you're up." Distinct New York accent, somehow - it didn't sound like he was speaking, so much as thinking, with the thoughts invading my mind as he thought them, accent and all. I tried speaking back, and got not much further then moving a jaw, again, somehow - it was clearly devoid of muscle, I could feel that in some manner, but it still moved as I willed it. "Yeah, don't try and talk like ya used to, it ain't workin'." The other one continued. I sat up, and tried a different tack. "What about thinking?" "Now ya catchin' on. We'll make a wiseguy outta ya yet." "Isn't that a bad thing?" "Means you're made. Jeeze, when'd you cark it to not know that? You middle ages?" "Nah. Recent. I think... What year is it?" "Fucked if I know, kid." The skeleton thought a laugh, dug through a bag, lit up a fairly fat and old looking cigar, and placed it into his lipless teeth. The usual puff of smoke that you'd expect didn't come, even though he seemed to relax all the same. "... Can skeletons even smoke?" "Don't rub it in, pal. It's a force'a habit." He gave a few audible puffs in my mind, though the cigar didn't so much as twitch from them, before continuing. "So what did ya in?" "Does it matter?" "Does to the Don of this place. He's big on irony or some shit. Likes to match people to their deaths. Put me in the gunners for gettin' a message job through the eye after I hit on my last Don's goomah." I didn't think the next part in a way to communitate it to him, but he laughed back all the same. "Yeah, I know, you ain't got a clue. Basically, ya flirt with someone you shouldn't, then ya get a bullet through the eye. Look, ya see?" He pointed towards one dead eyesocket, then motioned towards the other, with a bright, almost iris-white glow to it. "Godda love it. Remindin' ya where ya came from, lettin' ya keep a li'll bit of individuality if ya want it. If ya don't... Eh, ask the don. So, lemme ask again, what did ya in?" "Got run over. I imagine that's kind of boring?" "Borin'?" he thought, with an audible amount of jealousy. "Hell no, kid, that's some of the most excitin' shit! You get the vehicle division. Might even get a fuckin' tank, if ya good enough. Plus ya get to work with Major General Daniel Finch. Nice guy. Just try to not think of the mustache." "mustache? he's a skeleton." "Well he's still got a mustache, and he appreciates ya not thinkin' bout it. Or at least think of it like 'That's the finest damn mustache I ever seen on a set of bones, and I've seen a lot!' kinda deal." "Well, thanks for the advice." "Eh, no problem. Might as well help out the associates these days. Now go on, skit. You're wanted up in that big ass castle up there. Don'll wanna see ya." I looked over, peering into what first seemed like darkness, and what rapidly became something blacker then darkness, somehow, someway. The big castle was there - it wasn't so much seen as felt, somehow, but it was there, nevertheless. Even if I hadn't wanted to go, I don't think I could have resisted the compulsion. "Well, see ya then, mob guy." "Callone. Call me Callone." The skeleton responded, having started to clean his gun with his own index finger. "Ya might not see me again, kid, but if ya do, think hi, eh?" "I'll try." Thus, I set off, towards the castle, and 'The Don'.	They stand beside the grave, unmoving. The eyes they cast upon freshly laid dirt speak not of sadness, but detachment, and a weary nonchalance. "James, do we really want to do this?" Her voice is made both softer and more sympathetic from the doubt which rises within her like a fast moving tide. Despite the measured tone, he offers only a response of silence. By his sides, his fists begin to clench. The pressure turning skin a pale, milky white. "Julia." He pauses for a moment, taking a breath. "He's going where he belongs." It's a reply that has emerged from memories, Memories of constant words reminding of his worthlessness, of the belt buckles that tore open skin, of the purple bruises from raining fists. Some, he believed, were not worthy of peace. He hoped his Father stood up there now, sword in hand amongst the army of the dead. He hoped he was afraid. Afraid just like the little boy who hid in the closet in the dark, weeping. "Ok then." Julia replies, placing her hand on his back as they turned away from the grave and the tombstone, sitting blankly under the heat of a mid-July sun.
[WP] You wake up in a dirty back alley after a blackout. There is a stiched wound on your side. Deciding to check out at the doctor how many kidneys you have left, you are surprised - not only the both are left intact, but now there is a new organ in your body.	The first sensation I remember was a searing pain in my side, followed by a numbing, biting cold encompassing my entire body. I shifted, and the searing pain expanded, making the little bits of light that I could see burn red as my entire mind was hit by the explosive burst of pain. I screamed, and my limbs spasmed, making my frigid surroundings crunch. Wait, what? "Am I in... Am I in ice? Did I get drunk and fly north for snow?" I groggily tried to open the top, and after a few tries, what seemed to be a lid suddenly popped off, and light shone in. I essentially fell out of my would-be tomb, gasping in pain and relief. Everything was foggy, so I decided to simply sit on the ground until my vision returned. A couple minutes later, my vision returned, and I attempted to survey my surroundings. I was in a dark alley, in a seemingly bustling metropolis. There was a lingering smell of trash and gasoline in the air, and oddly enough, I tasted the remnants of a sickly sweet something in my mouth. On the ground in front of me was a Styrofoam box, about big enough to fit me, a 5'9 160 lb man. Ice was spilling out of the overturned vessel, and I saw a few small air holes in the lid, which explained my survival. With my vision clearing came a surprising clarity of mind as well. My mind's gears began grinding, putting the situation together. There was only really one feasible possibility for what had happened: my organs, possibly one of my kidneys, had been harvested and would never be seen again. Upon this realization, I began to vomit from the stress and sheer weirdness of the situation. After around half an hour of feeling sorry for myself and crying, I got up and stumbled out of the alleyway onto the street. Immediately, memories began to flood back to me. I was a child psychologist, in my mid forties and still single! I had gone out for a night of drinking, and I had seen a man... That MAN! I knew he had done something to my drink! Damn. I rifled through my pockets for anything, and surprisingly enough, I found my phone and a crisp, new $50 bill. I stuck my hand out for a taxi, wondering why someone would take my organs but leave my phone, and even give me some money to get home. Certainly, an odd situation... ^woop^woop^woop "Alright, man. The results are in, and I've got some real weird news for you." The doctor had a thoroughly perplexed look on his face. It had been two days since I woke up in that alley, and Doctor Mearls had just now gotten the labs back from "the loop", as he called it. Really, he just mailed an x-ray of me, a blood sample, and my vitals to some friends of his in Chicago so they could figure out what he couldn't. "Yeah, doc? What's up?" "Honestly, nobody I know has any idea." He held up his hand, gesturing for me to remain silent. I guess he saw my indignant look. "I asked my buddies in Chicago, and they asked their pals at MIT, and nobody has a clue what happened to you." He tossed some files on a table and continued. "You see, your kidneys are still present. Both of them. In fact, all of your organs are present and in functioning order." "Well, what the he-" "Aah! No questions until I'm done! Anyway, the odd thing is, you actually have something new in your body, as evident be the x-rays." I was horrified. "What is something else doing in my body? Why is it there? Who did this? Can you take it out?" The doctor looked down at a sheet of paper. "Well, we know practically nothing about the organ itself. It's not organic, but instead it seems to be composed of some sort of bio-plastic. The police found no identifying marks on the x-ray, and we cant take out this thing to examine it, sadly." I was struck by these developments on the thing in my side. "Well, why not? What's wrong with it?" "You see, it's been grafted into you. Your blood vessels have been attached to parts of it, and it seems to be leeching off of your digestive system. Specifically, according to the nutrient levels in your blood, it's making your glucose levels surprisingly, almost scarily low." "So, this thing essentially gave me diabetes?" "Kind of. Anyways, I haven't even gotten to the really anomalous properties yet." He picked up the blood sample, and poured a bit into a Petri dish. "Now, if you could come and look at this, you'd see something quite odd." I stood up and walked over to him as he set the Petri dish under a microscope. I noticed some hastily drawn chemical chains were scattered across his desk. "So, apparently, while your blood is low in glucose, it is high in some unknown, questionable substance which, under much scrutiny, appears to be entirely organic. Now, look through the microscope and tell me If you think this happens normally." I peered into the device and saw a sea of red, what I assumed was my blood. There were strange black dots floating in it. Before I had time to process that that wasn't normal, a few things happened all at once. Dr Mearls jabbed hard with a sewing needle at the sample, surprising me. What surprised me even more, however, was the black specks coalescing into a big black spot right under the needle. The needle struck the black spot, and, to my shock, the tip broke off without even penetrating the blood (if it could even be called blood at this point). I stared in shock as the doctor pulled his arm away, tossing the now useless needle in the garbage. Doctor Mearls shifted his gaze to me. "Pretty weird, huh?" "Weird doesn't even BEGIN to cover it! What in hell is this?" I yelled, in shock. "Apparently, this compound the organ seems to produce hardens immediately on contact with something that could do it harm. We really have no idea how it works, but our only real choice is to study it in you." He picked up a scalpel. "Do you mind?" My brain, overwhelmed by all of this, simply managed to get my mouth to squeak a faint "not at all", before I knew what I was agreeing to. He came for me and, before I could dodge him, he plunged the knife toward my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut before feeling a tiny twinge of pain, followed by a stream of curses from the man who stabbed me. I opened my eyes, and Doctor Mearls was picking up the pieces of scalpel from the floor. I removed my shirt and, right over my heart, there was a tiny black dot. ^woop^woop^woop So yeah. Since that day around a month, I've been mugged three times (stabbed twice, shot once), hit by a car, and attempted to stab myself with a kitchen knife countless times. I'm still alive, as is obvious. I have no idea what I can do. I don't know what I am anymore. I don't even know if this is good or bad! If anyone knows the man I saw, or what I can do, or what I am, please contact me. My phone is XXX-XXX-XXX9. My email is XXXXXXXXXXXXXX@XXXXX.com. Please. P.S. I'm actually like a young-ish dude just starting to experiment with writing. Any feedback on anything I did is welcome. P.P.S. I some inspiration from the anime Soul Eater. Upon writing this, it's midnight. It took 2 hours to write this crappy mindsplotch. Feedback please. Kthxbye Edit: formatting.	I woke up in a daze. I looked around at my surroundings and was at a loss. "How the heck did I get in this alley?!" I muttered to myself. I was on my home getting back from high school, revising all the Physics formulas in my head...then? What happened after that? I couldn't remember a single thing. I got up and felt a sharp pain at my side. I walked out of the alley into the streetlight and saw a couple of stiches. Did I just have my kidney stolen? This wasn't good. Not only that I couldn't remember a thing. A side effect of the drug maybe? I put my hand in my pocket, and surprisingly, my fingers touched my phone. Maybe the thieves weren't so bad after all? I unlocked my phone and everything looked the same. I called 911 and soon an ambulance had arrived. I also called my parents to inform them what had happened while I waited. My parents told me they'd be along to the hospital soon. After that they took me to an emergency ward. "We're gong to see if anything is... missing. Unfortunately we have to give you anesthesia again. I would have preferred to not make you unconscious again so soon, but the alternatives are even riskier. I tried to say I understood, but the void had consumed me once more. When I woke it was day-time. The first thought that popped into my head was "I have a physics test". The second was "I didn't study at all". The third was "I have a valid excuse". Finally I realised that my valid excuse may have come at quite a great price. I waited anxiously, fidgeting with my fingers. Then a nurse walked in. "How are you feeling?" She asked in a sympathic voice. "Fine, fine, when will the doctor be in?" "A couple of minutes" She hurried off a little too quickly. The doctor is also coming too fast. Hmmm. Looks like something serious has happened indeed. The doctor walked in. We exchanged pleasantries, but I could tell his heart wasn't in it. "So what is the issue? Did they take my kidney. You seem quite nervous." I asked brusquely. "Ahh.. No, they didn't... In fact.." he said in a small voice. "In fact what? You're killing me!" " They left you an extra organ" "...What?". The doctor looked toward me then at where the stiches were. He then said " There is an extra organ which function is unknown. It's bonded to both of your kidneys so we cannot remove it. We have no clue what it is. It doesn't seem to be taking any nutrients, or causing any harm. As a matter of fact you're perfectly healthy." I was stunned. "So you're telling me... that I was kidnapped and then had some type of organ implanted in me?" I asked unbelieving. "That is exactly what I am saying.. We could conduct further research, but us staff have decided to keep this under wraps. It would not be good for you if... curious people in power found out". I understood immediately, the army would be my second kidnappers, if they weren't already my first. " I'll talk to you tomorrow doc. Thanks... for everything" I said warmly. I startled awake in the dead of night. I felt energy coursing through my body. Sort of like after having the best stretch in the world. Thoughts swirled around in my head. What was in th body? Was it a tracker of some sort? An experiment from some radical group bent on taking over the world? Either way, I was up now and could not fall asleep. I reached for my phone as I felt something warm climb up my arm. I withdrew my hand in a flash. When I looked at my arm I was shocked at new levels. It was darkness. So dark I felt it was as though my eyes could not comprehend. Yet it was comforting, as though I had found a lost part of my self, trained a muscle I didn't know I had. I imagined the darkness into a claw over my hand, and then put one smoky black talon to the bedsheets. Like a warm knife through butter, I marveled. I reached for my phone once more the darkness around me. As my eyes adjusted, I saw "The Unveiling is beginning, want to join?". I grinned to myself lightly as I clicked reply. More at r/MaestroWrites
[WP] You wake up in a dirty back alley after a blackout. There is a stiched wound on your side. Deciding to check out at the doctor how many kidneys you have left, you are surprised - not only the both are left intact, but now there is a new organ in your body.	The first sensation I remember was a searing pain in my side, followed by a numbing, biting cold encompassing my entire body. I shifted, and the searing pain expanded, making the little bits of light that I could see burn red as my entire mind was hit by the explosive burst of pain. I screamed, and my limbs spasmed, making my frigid surroundings crunch. Wait, what? "Am I in... Am I in ice? Did I get drunk and fly north for snow?" I groggily tried to open the top, and after a few tries, what seemed to be a lid suddenly popped off, and light shone in. I essentially fell out of my would-be tomb, gasping in pain and relief. Everything was foggy, so I decided to simply sit on the ground until my vision returned. A couple minutes later, my vision returned, and I attempted to survey my surroundings. I was in a dark alley, in a seemingly bustling metropolis. There was a lingering smell of trash and gasoline in the air, and oddly enough, I tasted the remnants of a sickly sweet something in my mouth. On the ground in front of me was a Styrofoam box, about big enough to fit me, a 5'9 160 lb man. Ice was spilling out of the overturned vessel, and I saw a few small air holes in the lid, which explained my survival. With my vision clearing came a surprising clarity of mind as well. My mind's gears began grinding, putting the situation together. There was only really one feasible possibility for what had happened: my organs, possibly one of my kidneys, had been harvested and would never be seen again. Upon this realization, I began to vomit from the stress and sheer weirdness of the situation. After around half an hour of feeling sorry for myself and crying, I got up and stumbled out of the alleyway onto the street. Immediately, memories began to flood back to me. I was a child psychologist, in my mid forties and still single! I had gone out for a night of drinking, and I had seen a man... That MAN! I knew he had done something to my drink! Damn. I rifled through my pockets for anything, and surprisingly enough, I found my phone and a crisp, new $50 bill. I stuck my hand out for a taxi, wondering why someone would take my organs but leave my phone, and even give me some money to get home. Certainly, an odd situation... ^woop^woop^woop "Alright, man. The results are in, and I've got some real weird news for you." The doctor had a thoroughly perplexed look on his face. It had been two days since I woke up in that alley, and Doctor Mearls had just now gotten the labs back from "the loop", as he called it. Really, he just mailed an x-ray of me, a blood sample, and my vitals to some friends of his in Chicago so they could figure out what he couldn't. "Yeah, doc? What's up?" "Honestly, nobody I know has any idea." He held up his hand, gesturing for me to remain silent. I guess he saw my indignant look. "I asked my buddies in Chicago, and they asked their pals at MIT, and nobody has a clue what happened to you." He tossed some files on a table and continued. "You see, your kidneys are still present. Both of them. In fact, all of your organs are present and in functioning order." "Well, what the he-" "Aah! No questions until I'm done! Anyway, the odd thing is, you actually have something new in your body, as evident be the x-rays." I was horrified. "What is something else doing in my body? Why is it there? Who did this? Can you take it out?" The doctor looked down at a sheet of paper. "Well, we know practically nothing about the organ itself. It's not organic, but instead it seems to be composed of some sort of bio-plastic. The police found no identifying marks on the x-ray, and we cant take out this thing to examine it, sadly." I was struck by these developments on the thing in my side. "Well, why not? What's wrong with it?" "You see, it's been grafted into you. Your blood vessels have been attached to parts of it, and it seems to be leeching off of your digestive system. Specifically, according to the nutrient levels in your blood, it's making your glucose levels surprisingly, almost scarily low." "So, this thing essentially gave me diabetes?" "Kind of. Anyways, I haven't even gotten to the really anomalous properties yet." He picked up the blood sample, and poured a bit into a Petri dish. "Now, if you could come and look at this, you'd see something quite odd." I stood up and walked over to him as he set the Petri dish under a microscope. I noticed some hastily drawn chemical chains were scattered across his desk. "So, apparently, while your blood is low in glucose, it is high in some unknown, questionable substance which, under much scrutiny, appears to be entirely organic. Now, look through the microscope and tell me If you think this happens normally." I peered into the device and saw a sea of red, what I assumed was my blood. There were strange black dots floating in it. Before I had time to process that that wasn't normal, a few things happened all at once. Dr Mearls jabbed hard with a sewing needle at the sample, surprising me. What surprised me even more, however, was the black specks coalescing into a big black spot right under the needle. The needle struck the black spot, and, to my shock, the tip broke off without even penetrating the blood (if it could even be called blood at this point). I stared in shock as the doctor pulled his arm away, tossing the now useless needle in the garbage. Doctor Mearls shifted his gaze to me. "Pretty weird, huh?" "Weird doesn't even BEGIN to cover it! What in hell is this?" I yelled, in shock. "Apparently, this compound the organ seems to produce hardens immediately on contact with something that could do it harm. We really have no idea how it works, but our only real choice is to study it in you." He picked up a scalpel. "Do you mind?" My brain, overwhelmed by all of this, simply managed to get my mouth to squeak a faint "not at all", before I knew what I was agreeing to. He came for me and, before I could dodge him, he plunged the knife toward my chest. I squeezed my eyes shut before feeling a tiny twinge of pain, followed by a stream of curses from the man who stabbed me. I opened my eyes, and Doctor Mearls was picking up the pieces of scalpel from the floor. I removed my shirt and, right over my heart, there was a tiny black dot. ^woop^woop^woop So yeah. Since that day around a month, I've been mugged three times (stabbed twice, shot once), hit by a car, and attempted to stab myself with a kitchen knife countless times. I'm still alive, as is obvious. I have no idea what I can do. I don't know what I am anymore. I don't even know if this is good or bad! If anyone knows the man I saw, or what I can do, or what I am, please contact me. My phone is XXX-XXX-XXX9. My email is XXXXXXXXXXXXXX@XXXXX.com. Please. P.S. I'm actually like a young-ish dude just starting to experiment with writing. Any feedback on anything I did is welcome. P.P.S. I some inspiration from the anime Soul Eater. Upon writing this, it's midnight. It took 2 hours to write this crappy mindsplotch. Feedback please. Kthxbye Edit: formatting.	Ok I definitely have 8 new diseases now. What the fuck is this scar? Jagged, raised, and still stinging like a bitch. Why would anyone even want my kidney? Warm brown liquor swirling down my throat. At least they didn't take my flask. Doctor commented that I look a little sloshy. Prick. Never would last a day in my shoes. "Sir! Wake up." I heard being shouted from my front door. The door burst open regardless of my response. Three grizzled men in Black suits and my doctor stomped in. "Sir, you have been infected with something... for no better word, alien," A man with beady eyes declared, "You are coming with us, to an area you may have heard of." I could not swallow. What was happening? Infected? Alien? I am being taken to an area... 51!? "There has to be some mistake. Some junkie just stole my kidney right?" I practically cried. "Sir, we have to get this alien baby out of you for the safety of all mankind." I'm going to need another drink.

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