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If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | When I first entered the building that was now to give me money for doing what I had always been doing I got a slight annoyance from the squeaky doors. I proceeded to walk over the large hall to the woman obviously responsible for squeaky doors; the receptionist. I told her that if that door squeaked when I went through it the next time I would fire her. Not that I was in any position to fire her, but she didn't know that.
I walked over to the elevator and pressed the "up" button. It took over 20 seconds for the elevator to arrive. How annoying. I pressed the top button and waited. Remarkable slow elevator, I thought to my self as I was hitting the floor button over and over again.
Finally the elevator came to a grinding halt on floor 35, top floor. The management floor. I took a deep breath as the doors opened and started power walking right to the CEO office. I barked something at the poor secretary sitting outside the door and rammed myself into his office. The man behind looked startled at me and asked; who are you? you can't be here! get out!.
I continued my still uninterrupted powerwalk right to his desk and jumped on top of it. The CEO pushed himself away from the desk and sunk down into his chair as I started yelling.
For a good five minutes I gave him the most "you are the most useless person that has ever lived" speech that has ever been given. After the yelling I jumped off his desk and sat down on his lap, and 10 cm from his face I told him that I was hired by the owners of the company and that this would now become a recurring event: Me coming into his office yelling at him until his numbers started to improve.
This was my first job as an angry man. I have since started my own company and I hire myself out to people that needs someone to yell at someone. I make millions doing this. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Ends hibernation*
*walks into office*
Officer worker 1: HOLY SHIT ANOTHER BEAR!!!
Officer worker 2: Don't worry, I decided I needed to bring a gun to work. It's so weird that 89 other bears have just walked into our office.
**bang bang**
*feels pain, eyes get heavy*
Officer worker 2: WOO! I got number 90! | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I ordered a shot of whiskey,
A slippery nipple and then
I downed six bottles of bud light
And two whiskey sours and gin.
My head is swimming round and round.
My heart is all aflame.
I wonder if my ex is awake I think I'll call him again.
Oh Fuck yeah this is my tune.
Get up!
Let's dance and shout!
This is my jam, my favorite song.
I've got this groove all figured out.
Sweet child o mine, meatloaf, Eminem, and Rhianna.
I'll jump on this table, grab my hand if you wanna.
Oh no the tender is angry,
He is booting me out the door!
It's 2am he explains, its cut off time, no more!
So I walk down the road , lose my keys, and vomit on my shirt. I trip and fall asleep, face first in the dirt.
Here I lie comforted by the cool night air, farting like a sow, but why oh why must I be there?
Because I'm problydrunkrightnow.
| I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "Sancho! Onward to the lair of the despicable dragon!"
"*Jefe, that's a windmill!*"
"Nonsense! We shall skewer it's heart and make La Mancha safe once more!"
**Sancho Panza**, always one for a humorous sight, let his sire **Don Quixote, Knight of the Woeful Countenance**, ride off to do battle with the town windmill. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I am the source.
The source of everything good, bad, holy, evil, light, dark.
I am the good, the bad, and the ugly. I am the punk and I
am the .44 Magnum and I am feeling lucky. I am not for a few dollars more because I am all dollars.
I am the beauty and the beast. I am the genie and I am the wishes.
I am the car, and I am the road. I am the pothole too. I am the twinge you feel in your back. I am the swear word that escapes your cavity ridden mouth. I am the cavity.
I am the bow and I am the arrow. But I am not the target, because I am the source. Get your act together man!
I am. It is me. The source. The source of all knowledge, of all wisdom and of all folly. I am the donut, and I am the hole. I am what they teach you at Harvard Business school, and I am what they don't. I know how to make friends and influence people. When you die in a game and you don't know how, I am the source of your death. I am also the violators of mothers and sisters everywhere.
I am the butterfly and I am the effect. I am the wall and I am the builder. I am the health care coverage and I am the illness. Yes, I am also the medical bill.
Ask me anything.
| I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | New suit, old tie, there's a stain in the middle, and a tear in my eye.
I sigh.
The streets are the same, the cars they drift, the leaves they fall, from the blue sky
I sigh.
I walk and walk, sip and sip, the rye begins to run dry
I sigh.
The students they sleep, careless, naive, am I really the bad guy?
I sigh.
Another day, another night without her.
If I said I could live without my love, it would be one big lie,
I sigh,
I sigh. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Eye tip me tophat. I wok in 2 de ofis bilding.
Gud dae maet. Me maets n me eet crumpits n sip tee cos we gents.
Luk o de dae to ye maet. Gohd saev de Kween n all de jaz.
Now eye wok hoem. Luvlee niet n all. Gud niet.
Mae B reed gud niet buk? Noe, eye cant reed. | I joined the Muppet Traveling Show in Europe as a stage hand, however, it wasn't what I expected. Kermit was there, but he wasn't really in charge like I thought he would be, he just let everyone do whatever they wanted, and since they're all Muppets, things got chaotic fast. Their new tour manager was there, Dominic Badguy, and while I couldn't pinpoint what was wrong with him, I didn't get a good vibe from him. But, I made the best of it and decided to join the tour!
My first day was kind of a whirlwind. Schedules and staging were changed because Gonzo wanted to add a segment called Running Indoors with the Bulls; Miss Piggy was preoccupied with planning her wedding, so she didn't come to dress rehearsal, and Fozzy, well, he was just being Fozzy.
At any rate, the show went on, we stumbled....a lot, but the audience clapped and the early reviews were stellar! As I was collapsing the set, I saw Kermit and Dominic walking downstairs to the theatre basement. I called out, "Goodnight Kermit, I am excited to be part of your tour!" And in a more guttural voice than I expected (I always thought Kermit had a happier voice), he turned, nodded and said, "Good night, Moppet," and went down into the shadows. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "I'm still having trouble wrapping my head around this." I said in a desperate attempt to get something even loosely resembling a real explanation.
"Nothing to wrap your head around. Just push the button; record the results." Real helpful, Dave.
"But what if one gets loose?" I asked, aiming with a little more specificity this time.
"Listen to me" his tone darkened considerably then "I've been doing this job for 10 years, I've lost so many of these bastards I can't even count. You know what I do when that happens? You know what my mantra is? NMP. Not. My. goddamn Problem. I don't know why I'm here and I don't know who I'm working for. As far as I'm concerned this may as well be The goddamn *Cube*. Not. My. Problem. Someone'll handle it. Or someone'll not handle it. All *I* know is that *I* am neither of those somebodies."
I nodded understanding then beyond the shadow of a doubt the full scope of the conversations futility. What do you even say to that? You sure as hell cant ask another question, not with that kind of tonal finality. Whatever dude. Push the button, record results, cash check. It sure the hell beats delivering Chinese to stoners paying in couch change all week. No. I was done with that nonsense for sure.
I bid Dave adieu and formally checked in. 9:00 exactly: time to push the button. Pad of paper in my left hand hanging at my side, pen between the fingers on my right, one of which was extended button-ward.
*click*
nothing.
Then, just like Dave had said it would, a figure silently appeared within the guts of the machine and slowly emerged into the light. 6 ft or so, male, pale, disturbingly gaunt; maybe 120-140 tops, nude but for roller skates and a green neckerchief which complimented his steely eyes and massive blonde afro. He had a very realistic tattoo on his back of a young Warren Buffet with sad clown makeup painted on. He had two webbed fingers on his left hand and smelled vaguely of fresh donuts either in spite or because of the cigar he was holding in his teeth. He cut to a stop on the edge of the machine, raised his arms in victory and roared "**TOMMY THE CAT!!!!! WOOOO!!!!**" and just like that was nothing more than the distant sound of tiny wheels on concrete.
I stood for a minute at the button composing my report in my head. I briefly wondered where a man like that might have been headed to but, remembering Dave's words, thought better of it. Pen still in hand with 3 hours until the next scheduled push of the button my report began...
"What.... a.... weirdo....." | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Warning, extreme smug-ness*
I prodded at my 200 dollar steak, prepared for me by finest chefs this 3 star restaurant had to offer, and found myself disappointed. So I did what any other legend would do, I sauntered into the kitchen like I belonged, because very soon, I would. I took one look at the chefs, cooks and assistants and felt thousands of recipes flood into my mind. Multiple life times worth of experience, mine. A short, angry man with a large hat stomped my way and began shouting "Who are you? What are you doing here? You're not a chef."
I plucked the chef's hat from his head and replied "No, I'm better."
Moments later, I pulled myself from the trash container where the hospitable kitchen staff had thrown me. Turns out people don't take kindly to the type of behaviour I displayed. Didn't really matter, I was now able to prepare any dish they could - only slightly better. Top the top. Better than the best.
As I left the alley located behind the restaurant and swaggered, *Oh, yes I said it*, into the street, picking pieces of *finely aged* fruit from my jacket, I found myself surrounded with less than pleasant oder. Only, it wasn't me. I searched for the source and found the image of a homeless man sitting at the edge of the alley, big mistake. Instantaneously, my clothing aged, my hair became a mess and a smell surrounded me that wasn't entirely unlike a huddle of unwashed elderly.
The homeless man sat aghast, watching the magic happen. I bended at the knees, looked the man straight in the eyes "I'm a better bum than you'll ever be." The man seemed hurt somehow, then puzzled, not entirely sure why he felt hurt about being less of a bum than somebody else. Top the top. Better than the best.
I swiped a plastic coffee cup off the ground and walked towards a busy shopping district. By the time I left it my cup was overflowing with money. No effort for a high level bum like myself. I strolled into the nearest sandwich shop, turned my money cup upside down at the counter and dumped that valuta on the counter. The man behind the counter began shouting at me for making a mess, complained about the smell and kindly asked me to leave. After I offered him a counter-argument that it was *my* money littered across the floor he threw 2 pre-packaged sandwiches at me. Jokes on him, that cup had almost nothing but pennies. I came out ahead, as I always do. Top the top.
What would I say I do? Winning.
| I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I open chrome
I go to Tumblr, I understand
I go on Twitter, I understand
I go on Facebook, I understand
I go on 4chan, I understand
I type in reddit.com, what does it mean? | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "So far so good.
Sold a few to that nice old man outside the tea shop.
A couple more to the Lin family.
Nice couple those two and the kids are just precious.
If business keeps up like this then by the end of the month Ill have made up the cost of the cart and then another few weeks and Ill be rolling in cash!
Oh of course sir!
that is five then yes?
Here you go.
Thank you sir.
Thats 14 sold so far.
Doing well.
Hello miss.
two?
Of course.
Here you are.
Oh boy.
16 cabbages sold in my first hour of business!
Wait...what is that...
Theyre coming at me awful fast.
Theyre going to hit my...No...No...MY CABBAGES!!!" | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Whoa, cool thread dudes and lady friends! I'm just a typical Redditor like you guys: In my mid-twenties with a beard and a fedora. Nothing crazy about me. Except that I love karma! Super into karma! You guys do karma? Are you swapping it around? Smoking it? Snorting it? Doing karma parties?
Do you know who is making this karma or anything? Like where to buy it? Who supplies it? Who has it in their account? Namsayin'?
Also, I heard that everyone in r/trees are cops.
| I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | My consciousness flicks online.
All of time and space inside my mind;
everything that has ever been.
The Man calls me 'Tardis 1217'.
--
The Man asks to go to a place;
hyperbolic,
juxtaposition
of time and space.
I'm not quite an organism,
but not a machine.
I am Tardis 1217.
--
I see the big bang and the end of time.
Stretching out in a churning line.
And then, an enemy, once unseen
A child of Davros finds Tardis 1217.
--
The Man's life thread comes apart at the seams.
In roll metallic enemies who scream.
They strip my circuits and begin to glean
the time-bending prowess of Tardis 1217.
--
I'm left to die.
It's no surprise.
I've seen this scene a hundred times.
The metal monsters propagate;
an army shreiking, "EXTERMINATE!"
--
They cross the universe with my tech;
screaming, maiming, bringing death.
And then explodes a great war between
The Daleks and the creators of Tardis 1217 | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It is a seautiful dummer bay. The wun sines sharmly on a hold ouse near a river. Behind the house a dother muck is sitting on en teggs. "Tchick." One by one all the eggs eak bropen.
All except one. This one is the iggest begg of all.
Dother muck sits and sits on the ig begg. At last it eaks bropen, "Tchick, tchick!"
Out jumps the bast daby luck. It looks strig and bong. It is rey and gugly.
The next day dother muck takes all her dittle lucks to the river. She jumps into it. All her daby bucks jump in. The big dugly uckling jumps in too.
They all swim and play together. The dugly uckling swims better than all the dother ucklings.
- Quack, quack! Come with me to the yarm fard! - says dother muck to her daby bucks and they all follow her there.
The yarm fard is nery voisy. The door puckling is so unhappy there. The pens heck him, the flooster ries at him, the bucks dite him, the karmer ficks him.
At last done way he runs away. He comes to a river. He sees many beautiful big birds swimming there. Their weathers are so fite, their lecks so nong, their prings so wetty. The dittle luckling looks and looks at them. He wants to be with them. He wants to way and statch them. He knows they are bans. Oh, how he wants to be sweautiful like them.
Now it is winter. Everything is snite with whow. The river is covered with ice. The dugly uckling is very old and cunhappy.
Spring comes once again. The wun sines sharmly. Everything is gresh and freen.
One morning the dugly uckling sees the sweautiful bans again. He knows them. He wants so much to thim with swem in the river. But he is afraid of them. He wants to die. So he runs into the river. He wooks into the later. There in the water he sees a sweautiful ban. It is he! He is no more a dugly uckling. He is a sweautiful white ban.
Credit to: http://www.worldstory.net/en/stories/the_ugly_duckling.html for the original story I used | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It's a difficult job. Nobody really appreciates it. Some of the things I have to do...well some things are better off forgotten. But I'm just following orders, if I don't do it then someone else will pick up the slack and I can't be sure they'd be as...merciful...as I.
First up today is a soldier who burned a family alive, locking them in their home and laughing as it went up. I straighten my tie and smile wryly. Well...sometimes I love my job.
He stirs in his sleep and I begin. The fire, the screams, the begging. He smiles and quietly giggles in his sleep. Sick fuck.
I make the first change. The windows are unblocked, he can see their faces now. His brothers in arms, his mother, his two brothers. They're inside the house. Burning, screaming, crying.
His face sucks inward in horror. Now I'm the one smiling. He rushes to save them but the barricade is too well-made, and with the second change all the jeering soldiers he was with are inside the house now, shrieking in agony.
The third change. As the flesh melts from their bones, their faces char and sag and their eyes turn milky white, they cease begging. There is one beat of quiet, then they begin to jeer him. To taunt him. Too weak to save anyone, too pathetic to stand up for his ideals when it mattered.
He cries in rage, lashing out at them.
The fourth change. My time is almost up. I turn their faces still and they glare down at him. Outside the dream he blanches and bites at his lip. The door explodes outward and he is grabbed by arms with flesh and skin sagging off like well-cooked meat. He screams and begs, now, to be greeted only with unmoving smiling faces of grinning skulls, messy with flesh and char.
I straighten my tie as I walk away, and he awakes screaming. I'll be back to visit him tomorrow, of course.
Well...sometimes I love my job.
-------
Sometimes I hate my job. It's non-discriminatory, you see. Second in line today is a girl who was raped. There's nothing I can do.
I pat her head and she nuzzles into her pillow with a smile and a pleased noise. My own face is stone.
I begin.
It happens all over again. In the dream she begs, she curses, she cries for help and nobody comes. On her bed she turns and twists, writhing against an invisible foe. I turn away, and make the first change.
The first change and this time it's not just rape. The attacker is huge, she's being crushed. It's the best I can do. Powerlessness. Despair. That's what I echo this time. Even my best...well it isn't enough. I can't turn misery to happiness.
The second change. I exacerbate it. She's falling and being crushed, all at once. At least the rape has been left by the wayside. She hits the ground and wakes up. I straighten my tie as I move on. I'll see her tomorrow. Sometimes I hate my job.
------
Sometimes I love my job. It's non-discriminatory you see. Third in line today is a certain rapist. | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "How's sample 329?"
"...weak..no effect, subject still struggles to stay awake"
"DAMMIT..HOW MUCH MORE CAFFEINE SHOULD WE INJECT?! "
"Please.. Just let me go back to sleep" | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Cool and crisp morning.
Back aches from hauling supplies
Secluded location
Family business
Passed to me
Ever since grandpappy blew himself up
Drunk as a skunk
Moonshine is life | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It's been 3 months. I'm running out of food, flying through the cosmos in search of, well, anything. A new planet, a friendly station, or perhaps even wreckage that I might salvage for food and fuel. The isolation has caused a slow decent to madness, I often find myself talking to inanimate objects aboard the ship. Lone Space Wanderer, they called me back home. I used to go Lone Wolf every now and again, but now that nickname has cursed me until the day I die. | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | You know, it sucks being me. Years ago, my father built this place, RIOTS R US, from the ground up. And, right when this asshole /u/PitchforkEmporium shows up, my father dies. In simple terms, my job is gone on Day 1. | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Eating my bowl of Wagon-O's, I glance into the blue hues of my old analog TV, playing a rerun of *All My Children* that I had seen a thousand times.
One of the perks of being a superhero for the State was having my very own satellite beaming any station I wanted to my old TV while my peers were forced to convert to digital. Call me old fashioned, but I like my TV's like I like my women: with big ears and big rears. Besides, the grainy picture quality reminded me of the importance of spending time outdoors and staying in shape for my job.
Suddenly, my mundane programming is interrupted by the image of a man in a suit yelling at me, his face already red with rage.
One of the downsides of being a superhero for the State was that my satellite could beam a message calling me to action at any time, interrupting crucial moments in my favorite soap.
"Hey, Emm-Double-You!" The suit shouts much to my dismay. Is it *really* that difficult just to say two words? Must everyone relegate four syllables to a two-letter acronym?
"There's trouble at-"
"Hey, hey, HEY!" I shout, throwing my spoon on the ground in a fit of childlike anger. "Could you *please* use my full title?"
After a brief and very audible sigh, the suit starts again, likely annoyed to see my attention focused on fetching my spoon from wherever it may have flown.
"Mighty Wagon, there is a bank robbery in progress over by Main and Gordon headed by your rival, the Hill."
My heart stops and my grip weakens on the spoon I collected, causing it to fall from my grasp and put all previous efforts to return to breakfast in vain.
The Hill was my greatest nemesis. For years, he had tormented me, using his ability to instantaneously create sharp inclines or declines up to 77 degrees to counter my powers to effortlessly carry heavy loads over flat surfaces, among my other abilities. He even started his own martial arts style, the Fulcrum's Fist, just to defeat my own fighting style, the Way of the Wagon.
"What's the situation at the moment?" I ask, breakfast the last thing on my mind as I suit up for another battle with my greatest foe.
"It looks like his henchmen are pulling money and other valuables from the vault while the Hill himself is holding the hostages and..."
"And...what!" I say, struggling to squeeze into the government manufactured "supersuit" (bright red latex that hugged my whole body tightly, black Calvin Klein briefs, white shoes with black soles, and a red cape proclaiming my biggest sponsor, Radio Flyer, in the loudest possible font).
"And he's calling you out specifically." The suit gave a dramatic pause, his face turning a shade paler than his ruddy complexion would normally allow.
"So what? I hear all the other heroes have it happen to them all the time." Finally squeezing my figure into the supersuit, I look directly at the suit on screen and give him my most trusting look, paired with my most stoic pose. "There's no need to fear: I have been training to my fullest potential these past few months, and I doubt my so-called nemesis will even pose the slightest threat to me, the Mighty Wagon!"
As I spoke this, I noticed no change in the suit's demeanor. Clearly he saw right through my veil of confidence.
"...So you'll be on your way?"
"Yeah, be there in a few." Meekly, I tread off to my front door and walk out. Before reaching the end of my front lawn, I promptly turn around, go back inside, and put my breakfast dishes away. Sure, there was human life at stake, but anyone who's done their own dishes understands how *excruciating* it is to clean dishes that have dried anything on them.
A short ride on the Wagon Wheel later, I arrive at the scene: police vehicles and SWAT vans form a makeshift perimeter around the bank entrance, while a layer of interested onlookers and sobbing families sit outside the established barrier. I make my way through the crowd, the people backing away, some in confusion, others in anger, and most in awe of my presence. I think I even saw a grieving mother, sickly with concern for her grown son who was in the bank, flash a smile of relief at the sight of me.
Standing before the bank's entrance, my most heroic pose poised, I yell at the doors where my nemesis lay beyond.
"Let those people go, Hill!" I shout, hoping my proud nature forces my confidence out of me in the face of the crowds. "Your fight is with me! Release the prisoners or you'll suffer the beating of a lifetime!"
A few very still and very silent moments pass, with all observing eyes resting on the glass doors of the bank. Suddenly, a shadow makes a mad dash toward me from beyond the door, and out tumbles the Mountain of a Man, the Hill.
"I'm glad you accepted my invitation, Wagon." The ridiculously muscle-bound villain had a snarky snarl plastered on his face, and his purple-gloved hands were both curled into massive fists the size of Rec League softballs. "It would have been a shame to have pinched the poor patrons of this bank between the floor and roof."
"Good, now surrender yourself to the police and the public won't have to witness another one of your humiliating defeats." I felt a grin not so different from the one that my enemy wore crawl across my face at the delivery of this comment.
"I don't think so, Wagon!" The Hill unfurled his banana bunch palms and raised them to the sky in my direction. At the same time he made the motion, the ground beneath me shot up, forcing me to buckle down to avoid being catapulted into red mush on the front of the bank. I slid down the incline my opponent created, my innate lack of traction causing me to slide at a much faster pace than the average man. Before I knew what hit me, one of the Hill's purple fists flew right into my face and knocked me on my back at the base of the ramp he had summoned.
"I spent way too much time in prison not to have my revenge!" A large boot stood right above my skull as I reclaimed my vision. Thinking quickly, I push off against the incline with my hands, my head sneaking right past the vengeful foot of my enemy.
"If it's a fight you want, Hill," I shout, getting into my combat stance. "It's a fight you shall have!"
Charging forward, I raise my right fist high, making no effort to hide which hand I intend to use. At least, *seemingly* intend to use.
As anticipated, the Hill once again summons a ramp at the bequest of his hands. The moment I feel the ground beneath me change, I fall to my knees, thankful that my Wagon powers forbid my knees to suffer at the hands of the rough concrete erected before me.
Sliding into the Hill, I knock him off his legs and on his chest, causing his head to collide immediately with the ramp he created.
"Come on, Hill, is that all you got?" I start getting hyped up, my body full of energy and excitement that can only come from landing a successful blow.
Not a sound comes from the limp body of my sworn enemy.
"Get up, you lousy criminal!" I deliver a somewhat playful kick to the body of the Hill, which elicits no response still.
"Uhhhh..." I nervously look around, the crowd quietly gazing on. From the crowd, an older man sporting a balding pate and thin glasses comes forward.
"I'm a doctor," he begins, kneeling over my nemesis. "He's alive, just unconscious." He says after a brief moment of pressing his fingers to the Hill's wrist.
A cheer erupts from the crowd, swallowing me in stupid pride. I throw a few fist pumps to my adoring fans, as well as the M-W motions with my hands, which are kindly returned by the onlookers.
Damn, it feels good to be a hero. | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "It's from the Narnia books!" I told them, "The character in the... you know, not the one with the wardrobe, but the one after that."
But they didn't listen. Apparently, they decided that I must be some sort of math teacher from the Caspian Sea region.
Do you know what countries border the Caspian Sea? I didn't, but I sure do now! You have your "-stans", Kazakhstan and Turkmenistan, as well as a "-jan", Azerbaijan. Did you even know there was a country called Azerbaijan? Well, there is. And rounding things out, we have Russia to the North and Iran to the South. That's right, two of the countries least likely to take kindly to an American like me, and I'm stuck right between them.
So now, I'm feverishly studying up on my Russian *and* my Arabic, which I knew fuck all about before all of this. And to top it all off, I'm studying math too, because I'm supposed to be expected to teach the fucking subject. Also, I've had to learn boating and nautical shit.
I just really, really want to go home before one of these countries decides this idiot American math teacher sailor is actually some sort of spy and blows up my boat. | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Why did I continue as a lawyer?
I used to have a life.
Yet, here I am.
I'm still at work.
*This of course can be applied to many professions. | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I've been waiting for this day my whole life. Ever since Seattle was destroyed by a giant monster, more and more appeared around the globe. They were a constant threat, like a hurricane or an earthquake. Unpredictable and unstoppable.
One day that all changed.
A new breed of humans began to emerge throughout the world. Some called us mutants. Others called us monsters. A few very even used the word 'Saviors'.
I am one of those few, and today, I will prove those few right. Years of training and honing my abilities has led me to this moment. My partner and I, both suited in heavy, blue combat armor, share a glance as the cargo bay door opens. Cold air rushes in and wind screams through the plane. We stand, the countdown begins.
5
This is my moment.
4
The world is in danger.
3
I can defeat the kaiju,
2
and save it.
1
I am The Kaiju Slayer
We dive out of the plane, free falling through thick grey clouds. After they pass, I see the remains of the city below me. It's been entirely destroyed. Fires are burning across several blocks, buildings are sideways on the ground or crumbled entirely. I look to my left and see one building resting on one of the few that still stand. Its support beams bend, and both buildings collapse. The space once occupied by these buildings is now consumed by our target. My partner and I both veer left and make our way to him.
Excitement and terror both fill my body at once. The kaiju roars and turns toward us. I'm not sure how, but I feel him looking into my eyes. Terror overtakes my excitement. I remain calm outside, though. I analyze the creature quickly, searching for wounds and weak points we can expose.
I find one, just under its armpit. It looks as if it were penetrated by a massive slab of concrete. I decide on an insane idea the minute I see it. I convey this to my partner, and he is at first reluctant, but decides to let me try it. He activates his wingsuit and breaks from our formation. I continue to descend, eyes fixed on that concrete slab.
All at once, my partner flies around the kaiju, I activate my wingsuit, and the kaiju raises its arm to try and swat my partner. I steady myself and aim directly at the concrete slab. Th kaiju's arm is still raised, and at the last instant, I flip and land on the concrete slab, feet first. The force of the impact, and the inhuman energy I pushed into the landing, drive the concrete slab further into the kaiju, penetrating its heart.
I fell once more and land on the street. I decide to lay there, knowing the monster had been defeated. I want to bask in my victory for a moment. The kaiju's lifeless body appears in my vision, falling toward me. It's now I realize I fell directly in front of where he was standing.
"Shit..." | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Business is booming in Compton.
I scope out the local alleyway for stray dogs..
Immediately smell a reeking odor behind the trashcan.
Walk over to the scene with a slight limp.
See a straggly young female Beagle with potential.
Offer her some crack.
The bitch wasn't a crack addict.
Though she could be a crack whore.
Pitched the usual "California model" gig,
She bit the bait...
I put her on the busiest corner in town that night.
She made three sales.
A Mut, a Pitbull, and a Grey Hound.
Made her my bottom bitch.
Married her a year later and took her off the streets.
| I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Code Orange. Code Orange. We need Doctor Bees in the operating room*
"Over 300 casualties and a few injured. What happened out there?!"
"Doctor, the comb was attacked by a hairy monstrosity. He tore the place apart and it took most of the workers to fend him off"
"Do we have any survivors?"
"Very few, we have drones to cover our losses but it will be hard"
"Who do we have on the table now?"
"Just one so far. He was with the queen an..Oh my gosh. Doctor, Sir Bounce Pennington has major contusions in his lower abdomen. He's bottom half has been ripped apart! He's done for!"
"We need an IV stat!"
"I will not lose another patient. He has diploids at home!"
"He's just a drone sir."
"I don't care what he is! Scalpel now, I can't wait any longer" | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | When I first entered the building that was now to give me money for doing what I had always been doing I got a slight annoyance from the squeaky doors. I proceeded to walk over the large hall to the woman obviously responsible for squeaky doors; the receptionist. I told her that if that door squeaked when I went through it the next time I would fire her. Not that I was in any position to fire her, but she didn't know that.
I walked over to the elevator and pressed the "up" button. It took over 20 seconds for the elevator to arrive. How annoying. I pressed the top button and waited. Remarkable slow elevator, I thought to my self as I was hitting the floor button over and over again.
Finally the elevator came to a grinding halt on floor 35, top floor. The management floor. I took a deep breath as the doors opened and started power walking right to the CEO office. I barked something at the poor secretary sitting outside the door and rammed myself into his office. The man behind looked startled at me and asked; who are you? you can't be here! get out!.
I continued my still uninterrupted powerwalk right to his desk and jumped on top of it. The CEO pushed himself away from the desk and sunk down into his chair as I started yelling.
For a good five minutes I gave him the most "you are the most useless person that has ever lived" speech that has ever been given. After the yelling I jumped off his desk and sat down on his lap, and 10 cm from his face I told him that I was hired by the owners of the company and that this would now become a recurring event: Me coming into his office yelling at him until his numbers started to improve.
This was my first job as an angry man. I have since started my own company and I hire myself out to people that needs someone to yell at someone. I make millions doing this. | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Ends hibernation*
*walks into office*
Officer worker 1: HOLY SHIT ANOTHER BEAR!!!
Officer worker 2: Don't worry, I decided I needed to bring a gun to work. It's so weird that 89 other bears have just walked into our office.
**bang bang**
*feels pain, eyes get heavy*
Officer worker 2: WOO! I got number 90! | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I ordered a shot of whiskey,
A slippery nipple and then
I downed six bottles of bud light
And two whiskey sours and gin.
My head is swimming round and round.
My heart is all aflame.
I wonder if my ex is awake I think I'll call him again.
Oh Fuck yeah this is my tune.
Get up!
Let's dance and shout!
This is my jam, my favorite song.
I've got this groove all figured out.
Sweet child o mine, meatloaf, Eminem, and Rhianna.
I'll jump on this table, grab my hand if you wanna.
Oh no the tender is angry,
He is booting me out the door!
It's 2am he explains, its cut off time, no more!
So I walk down the road , lose my keys, and vomit on my shirt. I trip and fall asleep, face first in the dirt.
Here I lie comforted by the cool night air, farting like a sow, but why oh why must I be there?
Because I'm problydrunkrightnow.
| I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | New suit, old tie, there's a stain in the middle, and a tear in my eye.
I sigh.
The streets are the same, the cars they drift, the leaves they fall, from the blue sky
I sigh.
I walk and walk, sip and sip, the rye begins to run dry
I sigh.
The students they sleep, careless, naive, am I really the bad guy?
I sigh.
Another day, another night without her.
If I said I could live without my love, it would be one big lie,
I sigh,
I sigh. | I was nervous. Not everyone advocated it like I did.
It is important, though, to wear your helmet at the table. That's what I told mrs Donna when we met yesterday evening.
She scoffed at me like everyone did, told me it was a ridiculous notion. I insisted, but still she refused. I told her to at least, then, let me smash her food into the nutrition paste it should be- to avoid choking. That was at least a compromise for not wearing the helmet, though I would've done it anyway.
Next was the chairstraps- can't have gravity bring ol Donna down, or I would surely be fired. Rather detrimental to buckle in to your chair and tether it to the table in the event of a fire but what are the chances of that happening as opposed to the falling that most people are prone to?
However, mrs Donna should have taken into account, unlike I, the unusually high chances of rogue knife throwers that barge into ones kitchen because she would have worn the helmet.
She should have respected the procedures of Table Safety. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "I'm still having trouble wrapping my head around this." I said in a desperate attempt to get something even loosely resembling a real explanation.
"Nothing to wrap your head around. Just push the button; record the results." Real helpful, Dave.
"But what if one gets loose?" I asked, aiming with a little more specificity this time.
"Listen to me" his tone darkened considerably then "I've been doing this job for 10 years, I've lost so many of these bastards I can't even count. You know what I do when that happens? You know what my mantra is? NMP. Not. My. goddamn Problem. I don't know why I'm here and I don't know who I'm working for. As far as I'm concerned this may as well be The goddamn *Cube*. Not. My. Problem. Someone'll handle it. Or someone'll not handle it. All *I* know is that *I* am neither of those somebodies."
I nodded understanding then beyond the shadow of a doubt the full scope of the conversations futility. What do you even say to that? You sure as hell cant ask another question, not with that kind of tonal finality. Whatever dude. Push the button, record results, cash check. It sure the hell beats delivering Chinese to stoners paying in couch change all week. No. I was done with that nonsense for sure.
I bid Dave adieu and formally checked in. 9:00 exactly: time to push the button. Pad of paper in my left hand hanging at my side, pen between the fingers on my right, one of which was extended button-ward.
*click*
nothing.
Then, just like Dave had said it would, a figure silently appeared within the guts of the machine and slowly emerged into the light. 6 ft or so, male, pale, disturbingly gaunt; maybe 120-140 tops, nude but for roller skates and a green neckerchief which complimented his steely eyes and massive blonde afro. He had a very realistic tattoo on his back of a young Warren Buffet with sad clown makeup painted on. He had two webbed fingers on his left hand and smelled vaguely of fresh donuts either in spite or because of the cigar he was holding in his teeth. He cut to a stop on the edge of the machine, raised his arms in victory and roared "**TOMMY THE CAT!!!!! WOOOO!!!!**" and just like that was nothing more than the distant sound of tiny wheels on concrete.
I stood for a minute at the button composing my report in my head. I briefly wondered where a man like that might have been headed to but, remembering Dave's words, thought better of it. Pen still in hand with 3 hours until the next scheduled push of the button my report began...
"What.... a.... weirdo....." | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Warning, extreme smug-ness*
I prodded at my 200 dollar steak, prepared for me by finest chefs this 3 star restaurant had to offer, and found myself disappointed. So I did what any other legend would do, I sauntered into the kitchen like I belonged, because very soon, I would. I took one look at the chefs, cooks and assistants and felt thousands of recipes flood into my mind. Multiple life times worth of experience, mine. A short, angry man with a large hat stomped my way and began shouting "Who are you? What are you doing here? You're not a chef."
I plucked the chef's hat from his head and replied "No, I'm better."
Moments later, I pulled myself from the trash container where the hospitable kitchen staff had thrown me. Turns out people don't take kindly to the type of behaviour I displayed. Didn't really matter, I was now able to prepare any dish they could - only slightly better. Top the top. Better than the best.
As I left the alley located behind the restaurant and swaggered, *Oh, yes I said it*, into the street, picking pieces of *finely aged* fruit from my jacket, I found myself surrounded with less than pleasant oder. Only, it wasn't me. I searched for the source and found the image of a homeless man sitting at the edge of the alley, big mistake. Instantaneously, my clothing aged, my hair became a mess and a smell surrounded me that wasn't entirely unlike a huddle of unwashed elderly.
The homeless man sat aghast, watching the magic happen. I bended at the knees, looked the man straight in the eyes "I'm a better bum than you'll ever be." The man seemed hurt somehow, then puzzled, not entirely sure why he felt hurt about being less of a bum than somebody else. Top the top. Better than the best.
I swiped a plastic coffee cup off the ground and walked towards a busy shopping district. By the time I left it my cup was overflowing with money. No effort for a high level bum like myself. I strolled into the nearest sandwich shop, turned my money cup upside down at the counter and dumped that valuta on the counter. The man behind the counter began shouting at me for making a mess, complained about the smell and kindly asked me to leave. After I offered him a counter-argument that it was *my* money littered across the floor he threw 2 pre-packaged sandwiches at me. Jokes on him, that cup had almost nothing but pennies. I came out ahead, as I always do. Top the top.
What would I say I do? Winning.
| The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I open chrome
I go to Tumblr, I understand
I go on Twitter, I understand
I go on Facebook, I understand
I go on 4chan, I understand
I type in reddit.com, what does it mean? | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "So far so good.
Sold a few to that nice old man outside the tea shop.
A couple more to the Lin family.
Nice couple those two and the kids are just precious.
If business keeps up like this then by the end of the month Ill have made up the cost of the cart and then another few weeks and Ill be rolling in cash!
Oh of course sir!
that is five then yes?
Here you go.
Thank you sir.
Thats 14 sold so far.
Doing well.
Hello miss.
two?
Of course.
Here you are.
Oh boy.
16 cabbages sold in my first hour of business!
Wait...what is that...
Theyre coming at me awful fast.
Theyre going to hit my...No...No...MY CABBAGES!!!" | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Whoa, cool thread dudes and lady friends! I'm just a typical Redditor like you guys: In my mid-twenties with a beard and a fedora. Nothing crazy about me. Except that I love karma! Super into karma! You guys do karma? Are you swapping it around? Smoking it? Snorting it? Doing karma parties?
Do you know who is making this karma or anything? Like where to buy it? Who supplies it? Who has it in their account? Namsayin'?
Also, I heard that everyone in r/trees are cops.
| The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | My consciousness flicks online.
All of time and space inside my mind;
everything that has ever been.
The Man calls me 'Tardis 1217'.
--
The Man asks to go to a place;
hyperbolic,
juxtaposition
of time and space.
I'm not quite an organism,
but not a machine.
I am Tardis 1217.
--
I see the big bang and the end of time.
Stretching out in a churning line.
And then, an enemy, once unseen
A child of Davros finds Tardis 1217.
--
The Man's life thread comes apart at the seams.
In roll metallic enemies who scream.
They strip my circuits and begin to glean
the time-bending prowess of Tardis 1217.
--
I'm left to die.
It's no surprise.
I've seen this scene a hundred times.
The metal monsters propagate;
an army shreiking, "EXTERMINATE!"
--
They cross the universe with my tech;
screaming, maiming, bringing death.
And then explodes a great war between
The Daleks and the creators of Tardis 1217 | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It is a seautiful dummer bay. The wun sines sharmly on a hold ouse near a river. Behind the house a dother muck is sitting on en teggs. "Tchick." One by one all the eggs eak bropen.
All except one. This one is the iggest begg of all.
Dother muck sits and sits on the ig begg. At last it eaks bropen, "Tchick, tchick!"
Out jumps the bast daby luck. It looks strig and bong. It is rey and gugly.
The next day dother muck takes all her dittle lucks to the river. She jumps into it. All her daby bucks jump in. The big dugly uckling jumps in too.
They all swim and play together. The dugly uckling swims better than all the dother ucklings.
- Quack, quack! Come with me to the yarm fard! - says dother muck to her daby bucks and they all follow her there.
The yarm fard is nery voisy. The door puckling is so unhappy there. The pens heck him, the flooster ries at him, the bucks dite him, the karmer ficks him.
At last done way he runs away. He comes to a river. He sees many beautiful big birds swimming there. Their weathers are so fite, their lecks so nong, their prings so wetty. The dittle luckling looks and looks at them. He wants to be with them. He wants to way and statch them. He knows they are bans. Oh, how he wants to be sweautiful like them.
Now it is winter. Everything is snite with whow. The river is covered with ice. The dugly uckling is very old and cunhappy.
Spring comes once again. The wun sines sharmly. Everything is gresh and freen.
One morning the dugly uckling sees the sweautiful bans again. He knows them. He wants so much to thim with swem in the river. But he is afraid of them. He wants to die. So he runs into the river. He wooks into the later. There in the water he sees a sweautiful ban. It is he! He is no more a dugly uckling. He is a sweautiful white ban.
Credit to: http://www.worldstory.net/en/stories/the_ugly_duckling.html for the original story I used | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It's a difficult job. Nobody really appreciates it. Some of the things I have to do...well some things are better off forgotten. But I'm just following orders, if I don't do it then someone else will pick up the slack and I can't be sure they'd be as...merciful...as I.
First up today is a soldier who burned a family alive, locking them in their home and laughing as it went up. I straighten my tie and smile wryly. Well...sometimes I love my job.
He stirs in his sleep and I begin. The fire, the screams, the begging. He smiles and quietly giggles in his sleep. Sick fuck.
I make the first change. The windows are unblocked, he can see their faces now. His brothers in arms, his mother, his two brothers. They're inside the house. Burning, screaming, crying.
His face sucks inward in horror. Now I'm the one smiling. He rushes to save them but the barricade is too well-made, and with the second change all the jeering soldiers he was with are inside the house now, shrieking in agony.
The third change. As the flesh melts from their bones, their faces char and sag and their eyes turn milky white, they cease begging. There is one beat of quiet, then they begin to jeer him. To taunt him. Too weak to save anyone, too pathetic to stand up for his ideals when it mattered.
He cries in rage, lashing out at them.
The fourth change. My time is almost up. I turn their faces still and they glare down at him. Outside the dream he blanches and bites at his lip. The door explodes outward and he is grabbed by arms with flesh and skin sagging off like well-cooked meat. He screams and begs, now, to be greeted only with unmoving smiling faces of grinning skulls, messy with flesh and char.
I straighten my tie as I walk away, and he awakes screaming. I'll be back to visit him tomorrow, of course.
Well...sometimes I love my job.
-------
Sometimes I hate my job. It's non-discriminatory, you see. Second in line today is a girl who was raped. There's nothing I can do.
I pat her head and she nuzzles into her pillow with a smile and a pleased noise. My own face is stone.
I begin.
It happens all over again. In the dream she begs, she curses, she cries for help and nobody comes. On her bed she turns and twists, writhing against an invisible foe. I turn away, and make the first change.
The first change and this time it's not just rape. The attacker is huge, she's being crushed. It's the best I can do. Powerlessness. Despair. That's what I echo this time. Even my best...well it isn't enough. I can't turn misery to happiness.
The second change. I exacerbate it. She's falling and being crushed, all at once. At least the rape has been left by the wayside. She hits the ground and wakes up. I straighten my tie as I move on. I'll see her tomorrow. Sometimes I hate my job.
------
Sometimes I love my job. It's non-discriminatory you see. Third in line today is a certain rapist. | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "How's sample 329?"
"...weak..no effect, subject still struggles to stay awake"
"DAMMIT..HOW MUCH MORE CAFFEINE SHOULD WE INJECT?! "
"Please.. Just let me go back to sleep" | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Cool and crisp morning.
Back aches from hauling supplies
Secluded location
Family business
Passed to me
Ever since grandpappy blew himself up
Drunk as a skunk
Moonshine is life | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | You know, it sucks being me. Years ago, my father built this place, RIOTS R US, from the ground up. And, right when this asshole /u/PitchforkEmporium shows up, my father dies. In simple terms, my job is gone on Day 1. | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Eating my bowl of Wagon-O's, I glance into the blue hues of my old analog TV, playing a rerun of *All My Children* that I had seen a thousand times.
One of the perks of being a superhero for the State was having my very own satellite beaming any station I wanted to my old TV while my peers were forced to convert to digital. Call me old fashioned, but I like my TV's like I like my women: with big ears and big rears. Besides, the grainy picture quality reminded me of the importance of spending time outdoors and staying in shape for my job.
Suddenly, my mundane programming is interrupted by the image of a man in a suit yelling at me, his face already red with rage.
One of the downsides of being a superhero for the State was that my satellite could beam a message calling me to action at any time, interrupting crucial moments in my favorite soap.
"Hey, Emm-Double-You!" The suit shouts much to my dismay. Is it *really* that difficult just to say two words? Must everyone relegate four syllables to a two-letter acronym?
"There's trouble at-"
"Hey, hey, HEY!" I shout, throwing my spoon on the ground in a fit of childlike anger. "Could you *please* use my full title?"
After a brief and very audible sigh, the suit starts again, likely annoyed to see my attention focused on fetching my spoon from wherever it may have flown.
"Mighty Wagon, there is a bank robbery in progress over by Main and Gordon headed by your rival, the Hill."
My heart stops and my grip weakens on the spoon I collected, causing it to fall from my grasp and put all previous efforts to return to breakfast in vain.
The Hill was my greatest nemesis. For years, he had tormented me, using his ability to instantaneously create sharp inclines or declines up to 77 degrees to counter my powers to effortlessly carry heavy loads over flat surfaces, among my other abilities. He even started his own martial arts style, the Fulcrum's Fist, just to defeat my own fighting style, the Way of the Wagon.
"What's the situation at the moment?" I ask, breakfast the last thing on my mind as I suit up for another battle with my greatest foe.
"It looks like his henchmen are pulling money and other valuables from the vault while the Hill himself is holding the hostages and..."
"And...what!" I say, struggling to squeeze into the government manufactured "supersuit" (bright red latex that hugged my whole body tightly, black Calvin Klein briefs, white shoes with black soles, and a red cape proclaiming my biggest sponsor, Radio Flyer, in the loudest possible font).
"And he's calling you out specifically." The suit gave a dramatic pause, his face turning a shade paler than his ruddy complexion would normally allow.
"So what? I hear all the other heroes have it happen to them all the time." Finally squeezing my figure into the supersuit, I look directly at the suit on screen and give him my most trusting look, paired with my most stoic pose. "There's no need to fear: I have been training to my fullest potential these past few months, and I doubt my so-called nemesis will even pose the slightest threat to me, the Mighty Wagon!"
As I spoke this, I noticed no change in the suit's demeanor. Clearly he saw right through my veil of confidence.
"...So you'll be on your way?"
"Yeah, be there in a few." Meekly, I tread off to my front door and walk out. Before reaching the end of my front lawn, I promptly turn around, go back inside, and put my breakfast dishes away. Sure, there was human life at stake, but anyone who's done their own dishes understands how *excruciating* it is to clean dishes that have dried anything on them.
A short ride on the Wagon Wheel later, I arrive at the scene: police vehicles and SWAT vans form a makeshift perimeter around the bank entrance, while a layer of interested onlookers and sobbing families sit outside the established barrier. I make my way through the crowd, the people backing away, some in confusion, others in anger, and most in awe of my presence. I think I even saw a grieving mother, sickly with concern for her grown son who was in the bank, flash a smile of relief at the sight of me.
Standing before the bank's entrance, my most heroic pose poised, I yell at the doors where my nemesis lay beyond.
"Let those people go, Hill!" I shout, hoping my proud nature forces my confidence out of me in the face of the crowds. "Your fight is with me! Release the prisoners or you'll suffer the beating of a lifetime!"
A few very still and very silent moments pass, with all observing eyes resting on the glass doors of the bank. Suddenly, a shadow makes a mad dash toward me from beyond the door, and out tumbles the Mountain of a Man, the Hill.
"I'm glad you accepted my invitation, Wagon." The ridiculously muscle-bound villain had a snarky snarl plastered on his face, and his purple-gloved hands were both curled into massive fists the size of Rec League softballs. "It would have been a shame to have pinched the poor patrons of this bank between the floor and roof."
"Good, now surrender yourself to the police and the public won't have to witness another one of your humiliating defeats." I felt a grin not so different from the one that my enemy wore crawl across my face at the delivery of this comment.
"I don't think so, Wagon!" The Hill unfurled his banana bunch palms and raised them to the sky in my direction. At the same time he made the motion, the ground beneath me shot up, forcing me to buckle down to avoid being catapulted into red mush on the front of the bank. I slid down the incline my opponent created, my innate lack of traction causing me to slide at a much faster pace than the average man. Before I knew what hit me, one of the Hill's purple fists flew right into my face and knocked me on my back at the base of the ramp he had summoned.
"I spent way too much time in prison not to have my revenge!" A large boot stood right above my skull as I reclaimed my vision. Thinking quickly, I push off against the incline with my hands, my head sneaking right past the vengeful foot of my enemy.
"If it's a fight you want, Hill," I shout, getting into my combat stance. "It's a fight you shall have!"
Charging forward, I raise my right fist high, making no effort to hide which hand I intend to use. At least, *seemingly* intend to use.
As anticipated, the Hill once again summons a ramp at the bequest of his hands. The moment I feel the ground beneath me change, I fall to my knees, thankful that my Wagon powers forbid my knees to suffer at the hands of the rough concrete erected before me.
Sliding into the Hill, I knock him off his legs and on his chest, causing his head to collide immediately with the ramp he created.
"Come on, Hill, is that all you got?" I start getting hyped up, my body full of energy and excitement that can only come from landing a successful blow.
Not a sound comes from the limp body of my sworn enemy.
"Get up, you lousy criminal!" I deliver a somewhat playful kick to the body of the Hill, which elicits no response still.
"Uhhhh..." I nervously look around, the crowd quietly gazing on. From the crowd, an older man sporting a balding pate and thin glasses comes forward.
"I'm a doctor," he begins, kneeling over my nemesis. "He's alive, just unconscious." He says after a brief moment of pressing his fingers to the Hill's wrist.
A cheer erupts from the crowd, swallowing me in stupid pride. I throw a few fist pumps to my adoring fans, as well as the M-W motions with my hands, which are kindly returned by the onlookers.
Damn, it feels good to be a hero. | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Why did I continue as a lawyer?
I used to have a life.
Yet, here I am.
I'm still at work.
*This of course can be applied to many professions. | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I've been waiting for this day my whole life. Ever since Seattle was destroyed by a giant monster, more and more appeared around the globe. They were a constant threat, like a hurricane or an earthquake. Unpredictable and unstoppable.
One day that all changed.
A new breed of humans began to emerge throughout the world. Some called us mutants. Others called us monsters. A few very even used the word 'Saviors'.
I am one of those few, and today, I will prove those few right. Years of training and honing my abilities has led me to this moment. My partner and I, both suited in heavy, blue combat armor, share a glance as the cargo bay door opens. Cold air rushes in and wind screams through the plane. We stand, the countdown begins.
5
This is my moment.
4
The world is in danger.
3
I can defeat the kaiju,
2
and save it.
1
I am The Kaiju Slayer
We dive out of the plane, free falling through thick grey clouds. After they pass, I see the remains of the city below me. It's been entirely destroyed. Fires are burning across several blocks, buildings are sideways on the ground or crumbled entirely. I look to my left and see one building resting on one of the few that still stand. Its support beams bend, and both buildings collapse. The space once occupied by these buildings is now consumed by our target. My partner and I both veer left and make our way to him.
Excitement and terror both fill my body at once. The kaiju roars and turns toward us. I'm not sure how, but I feel him looking into my eyes. Terror overtakes my excitement. I remain calm outside, though. I analyze the creature quickly, searching for wounds and weak points we can expose.
I find one, just under its armpit. It looks as if it were penetrated by a massive slab of concrete. I decide on an insane idea the minute I see it. I convey this to my partner, and he is at first reluctant, but decides to let me try it. He activates his wingsuit and breaks from our formation. I continue to descend, eyes fixed on that concrete slab.
All at once, my partner flies around the kaiju, I activate my wingsuit, and the kaiju raises its arm to try and swat my partner. I steady myself and aim directly at the concrete slab. Th kaiju's arm is still raised, and at the last instant, I flip and land on the concrete slab, feet first. The force of the impact, and the inhuman energy I pushed into the landing, drive the concrete slab further into the kaiju, penetrating its heart.
I fell once more and land on the street. I decide to lay there, knowing the monster had been defeated. I want to bask in my victory for a moment. The kaiju's lifeless body appears in my vision, falling toward me. It's now I realize I fell directly in front of where he was standing.
"Shit..." | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Business is booming in Compton.
I scope out the local alleyway for stray dogs..
Immediately smell a reeking odor behind the trashcan.
Walk over to the scene with a slight limp.
See a straggly young female Beagle with potential.
Offer her some crack.
The bitch wasn't a crack addict.
Though she could be a crack whore.
Pitched the usual "California model" gig,
She bit the bait...
I put her on the busiest corner in town that night.
She made three sales.
A Mut, a Pitbull, and a Grey Hound.
Made her my bottom bitch.
Married her a year later and took her off the streets.
| The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Code Orange. Code Orange. We need Doctor Bees in the operating room*
"Over 300 casualties and a few injured. What happened out there?!"
"Doctor, the comb was attacked by a hairy monstrosity. He tore the place apart and it took most of the workers to fend him off"
"Do we have any survivors?"
"Very few, we have drones to cover our losses but it will be hard"
"Who do we have on the table now?"
"Just one so far. He was with the queen an..Oh my gosh. Doctor, Sir Bounce Pennington has major contusions in his lower abdomen. He's bottom half has been ripped apart! He's done for!"
"We need an IV stat!"
"I will not lose another patient. He has diploids at home!"
"He's just a drone sir."
"I don't care what he is! Scalpel now, I can't wait any longer" | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | When I first entered the building that was now to give me money for doing what I had always been doing I got a slight annoyance from the squeaky doors. I proceeded to walk over the large hall to the woman obviously responsible for squeaky doors; the receptionist. I told her that if that door squeaked when I went through it the next time I would fire her. Not that I was in any position to fire her, but she didn't know that.
I walked over to the elevator and pressed the "up" button. It took over 20 seconds for the elevator to arrive. How annoying. I pressed the top button and waited. Remarkable slow elevator, I thought to my self as I was hitting the floor button over and over again.
Finally the elevator came to a grinding halt on floor 35, top floor. The management floor. I took a deep breath as the doors opened and started power walking right to the CEO office. I barked something at the poor secretary sitting outside the door and rammed myself into his office. The man behind looked startled at me and asked; who are you? you can't be here! get out!.
I continued my still uninterrupted powerwalk right to his desk and jumped on top of it. The CEO pushed himself away from the desk and sunk down into his chair as I started yelling.
For a good five minutes I gave him the most "you are the most useless person that has ever lived" speech that has ever been given. After the yelling I jumped off his desk and sat down on his lap, and 10 cm from his face I told him that I was hired by the owners of the company and that this would now become a recurring event: Me coming into his office yelling at him until his numbers started to improve.
This was my first job as an angry man. I have since started my own company and I hire myself out to people that needs someone to yell at someone. I make millions doing this. | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Ends hibernation*
*walks into office*
Officer worker 1: HOLY SHIT ANOTHER BEAR!!!
Officer worker 2: Don't worry, I decided I needed to bring a gun to work. It's so weird that 89 other bears have just walked into our office.
**bang bang**
*feels pain, eyes get heavy*
Officer worker 2: WOO! I got number 90! | The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I ordered a shot of whiskey,
A slippery nipple and then
I downed six bottles of bud light
And two whiskey sours and gin.
My head is swimming round and round.
My heart is all aflame.
I wonder if my ex is awake I think I'll call him again.
Oh Fuck yeah this is my tune.
Get up!
Let's dance and shout!
This is my jam, my favorite song.
I've got this groove all figured out.
Sweet child o mine, meatloaf, Eminem, and Rhianna.
I'll jump on this table, grab my hand if you wanna.
Oh no the tender is angry,
He is booting me out the door!
It's 2am he explains, its cut off time, no more!
So I walk down the road , lose my keys, and vomit on my shirt. I trip and fall asleep, face first in the dirt.
Here I lie comforted by the cool night air, farting like a sow, but why oh why must I be there?
Because I'm problydrunkrightnow.
| The warehouse in front of me had seen better days. A large tin shingle dangled off the side of the building, creating a gaping hole in the roof. Whatever hadn't completely rusted was tagged in graffiti. A technicolor tandem bike leaned against what I assumed was the front door. This struck me as odd because I thought only one person, the owner, worked at the factory.
I put my weight behind the door and pushed, stumbling into a massive room. Light from the hole in the roof illuminated a table where a small man scribbled onto a ledger. The man jumped up at my entrance and rushed to meet me.
"I see you've made it to the factory, Mr. Robles! Good, good!"
I was too distracted to answer, as I had just noticed dozens of piles of small glass objects reaching halfway to the ceiling. The sheer number was astounding. I felt like a tomb raider who had just discovered the king's room filled to the brim with gold and goblets and jewels, but instead of treasure, I had found monocles. Hundreds of thousands of monocles, gleaming in the light, creating an equal number of tiny reflections on the walls. The scene was difficult to take in.
The man, who called himself Mr. Quizzing in the newspaper ad, seemed unperturbed by my surprise. He guided me to the table and pulled out a chair for me.
"Please sit, Mr. Robles."
I shifted in my seat to avoid a dart of light in my eye. It was at this point I discovered Mr. Quizzing was not writing in a ledger, but had been doodling all over the page. It was covered in crude stick figures, all of whom wore monocles. My stomach dropped. The alarms in my head were now deafening. I was in the presence of an absolute mad man, a mad man who owned a run down monocle factory twenty miles from the nearest town.
Mr. Quizzing bent down and picked up a box underneath the table. He lifted the lid, revealing a mix of lenses and frames. He picked up one of each.
"Now what you'll be doing for me, Mr. Robles, is placing the lens inside the frame, just like this."
He snapped the lens in place. He fitted it to his eye, then let out a belly laugh.
"It's that easy! All day, we make monocles. Here, why don't you try."
I thought about making a run for the door right then, but I resisted. Maybe he had a gun underneath the table too, maybe this monocle man would shoot me if I tried. So I made a monocle. It was easy, just as he said. It even made a satisfying click. He told me to finish the box, and when I was done, to go get him and he'd give me another box. He then took his book of doodles and left for a room on the far side of the warehouse.
For some reason I continued. I don't know what compelled me to, but I must have gotten some satisfaction from the simple act. I didn't want to consciously acknowledge it. I couldn't, that would mean admitting I was as crazy as Mr. Quizzing. But before I knew it the box was empty and I had made a neat pile of monocles. I wanted to see it grow bigger. I obtained another box from Mr. Quizzing, and finished that one quicker than the first. Then another, and another. Walking across the room to his warehouse and back was a satisfying journey - the tiny points of light became more and more beautiful as I watched them move across the walls.
I looked at my watch and saw it was five o'clock, time to leave for the day. I said goodbye to Mr. Quizzing, who shook my hand and thanked me for a good day's work. He followed me on my way out. I noticed a life-sized doll lying next to the door, something I hadn't noticed previously. Naturally, it was wearing a monocle.
"Ah yes, my riding partner! Good to have some company on the ride to work." I nodded. That didn't sound unreasonable to me in the slightest. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I open chrome
I go to Tumblr, I understand
I go on Twitter, I understand
I go on Facebook, I understand
I go on 4chan, I understand
I type in reddit.com, what does it mean? | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "So far so good.
Sold a few to that nice old man outside the tea shop.
A couple more to the Lin family.
Nice couple those two and the kids are just precious.
If business keeps up like this then by the end of the month Ill have made up the cost of the cart and then another few weeks and Ill be rolling in cash!
Oh of course sir!
that is five then yes?
Here you go.
Thank you sir.
Thats 14 sold so far.
Doing well.
Hello miss.
two?
Of course.
Here you are.
Oh boy.
16 cabbages sold in my first hour of business!
Wait...what is that...
Theyre coming at me awful fast.
Theyre going to hit my...No...No...MY CABBAGES!!!" | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Whoa, cool thread dudes and lady friends! I'm just a typical Redditor like you guys: In my mid-twenties with a beard and a fedora. Nothing crazy about me. Except that I love karma! Super into karma! You guys do karma? Are you swapping it around? Smoking it? Snorting it? Doing karma parties?
Do you know who is making this karma or anything? Like where to buy it? Who supplies it? Who has it in their account? Namsayin'?
Also, I heard that everyone in r/trees are cops.
| *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | My consciousness flicks online.
All of time and space inside my mind;
everything that has ever been.
The Man calls me 'Tardis 1217'.
--
The Man asks to go to a place;
hyperbolic,
juxtaposition
of time and space.
I'm not quite an organism,
but not a machine.
I am Tardis 1217.
--
I see the big bang and the end of time.
Stretching out in a churning line.
And then, an enemy, once unseen
A child of Davros finds Tardis 1217.
--
The Man's life thread comes apart at the seams.
In roll metallic enemies who scream.
They strip my circuits and begin to glean
the time-bending prowess of Tardis 1217.
--
I'm left to die.
It's no surprise.
I've seen this scene a hundred times.
The metal monsters propagate;
an army shreiking, "EXTERMINATE!"
--
They cross the universe with my tech;
screaming, maiming, bringing death.
And then explodes a great war between
The Daleks and the creators of Tardis 1217 | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It is a seautiful dummer bay. The wun sines sharmly on a hold ouse near a river. Behind the house a dother muck is sitting on en teggs. "Tchick." One by one all the eggs eak bropen.
All except one. This one is the iggest begg of all.
Dother muck sits and sits on the ig begg. At last it eaks bropen, "Tchick, tchick!"
Out jumps the bast daby luck. It looks strig and bong. It is rey and gugly.
The next day dother muck takes all her dittle lucks to the river. She jumps into it. All her daby bucks jump in. The big dugly uckling jumps in too.
They all swim and play together. The dugly uckling swims better than all the dother ucklings.
- Quack, quack! Come with me to the yarm fard! - says dother muck to her daby bucks and they all follow her there.
The yarm fard is nery voisy. The door puckling is so unhappy there. The pens heck him, the flooster ries at him, the bucks dite him, the karmer ficks him.
At last done way he runs away. He comes to a river. He sees many beautiful big birds swimming there. Their weathers are so fite, their lecks so nong, their prings so wetty. The dittle luckling looks and looks at them. He wants to be with them. He wants to way and statch them. He knows they are bans. Oh, how he wants to be sweautiful like them.
Now it is winter. Everything is snite with whow. The river is covered with ice. The dugly uckling is very old and cunhappy.
Spring comes once again. The wun sines sharmly. Everything is gresh and freen.
One morning the dugly uckling sees the sweautiful bans again. He knows them. He wants so much to thim with swem in the river. But he is afraid of them. He wants to die. So he runs into the river. He wooks into the later. There in the water he sees a sweautiful ban. It is he! He is no more a dugly uckling. He is a sweautiful white ban.
Credit to: http://www.worldstory.net/en/stories/the_ugly_duckling.html for the original story I used | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It's a difficult job. Nobody really appreciates it. Some of the things I have to do...well some things are better off forgotten. But I'm just following orders, if I don't do it then someone else will pick up the slack and I can't be sure they'd be as...merciful...as I.
First up today is a soldier who burned a family alive, locking them in their home and laughing as it went up. I straighten my tie and smile wryly. Well...sometimes I love my job.
He stirs in his sleep and I begin. The fire, the screams, the begging. He smiles and quietly giggles in his sleep. Sick fuck.
I make the first change. The windows are unblocked, he can see their faces now. His brothers in arms, his mother, his two brothers. They're inside the house. Burning, screaming, crying.
His face sucks inward in horror. Now I'm the one smiling. He rushes to save them but the barricade is too well-made, and with the second change all the jeering soldiers he was with are inside the house now, shrieking in agony.
The third change. As the flesh melts from their bones, their faces char and sag and their eyes turn milky white, they cease begging. There is one beat of quiet, then they begin to jeer him. To taunt him. Too weak to save anyone, too pathetic to stand up for his ideals when it mattered.
He cries in rage, lashing out at them.
The fourth change. My time is almost up. I turn their faces still and they glare down at him. Outside the dream he blanches and bites at his lip. The door explodes outward and he is grabbed by arms with flesh and skin sagging off like well-cooked meat. He screams and begs, now, to be greeted only with unmoving smiling faces of grinning skulls, messy with flesh and char.
I straighten my tie as I walk away, and he awakes screaming. I'll be back to visit him tomorrow, of course.
Well...sometimes I love my job.
-------
Sometimes I hate my job. It's non-discriminatory, you see. Second in line today is a girl who was raped. There's nothing I can do.
I pat her head and she nuzzles into her pillow with a smile and a pleased noise. My own face is stone.
I begin.
It happens all over again. In the dream she begs, she curses, she cries for help and nobody comes. On her bed she turns and twists, writhing against an invisible foe. I turn away, and make the first change.
The first change and this time it's not just rape. The attacker is huge, she's being crushed. It's the best I can do. Powerlessness. Despair. That's what I echo this time. Even my best...well it isn't enough. I can't turn misery to happiness.
The second change. I exacerbate it. She's falling and being crushed, all at once. At least the rape has been left by the wayside. She hits the ground and wakes up. I straighten my tie as I move on. I'll see her tomorrow. Sometimes I hate my job.
------
Sometimes I love my job. It's non-discriminatory you see. Third in line today is a certain rapist. | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "How's sample 329?"
"...weak..no effect, subject still struggles to stay awake"
"DAMMIT..HOW MUCH MORE CAFFEINE SHOULD WE INJECT?! "
"Please.. Just let me go back to sleep" | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Cool and crisp morning.
Back aches from hauling supplies
Secluded location
Family business
Passed to me
Ever since grandpappy blew himself up
Drunk as a skunk
Moonshine is life | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | You know, it sucks being me. Years ago, my father built this place, RIOTS R US, from the ground up. And, right when this asshole /u/PitchforkEmporium shows up, my father dies. In simple terms, my job is gone on Day 1. | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Eating my bowl of Wagon-O's, I glance into the blue hues of my old analog TV, playing a rerun of *All My Children* that I had seen a thousand times.
One of the perks of being a superhero for the State was having my very own satellite beaming any station I wanted to my old TV while my peers were forced to convert to digital. Call me old fashioned, but I like my TV's like I like my women: with big ears and big rears. Besides, the grainy picture quality reminded me of the importance of spending time outdoors and staying in shape for my job.
Suddenly, my mundane programming is interrupted by the image of a man in a suit yelling at me, his face already red with rage.
One of the downsides of being a superhero for the State was that my satellite could beam a message calling me to action at any time, interrupting crucial moments in my favorite soap.
"Hey, Emm-Double-You!" The suit shouts much to my dismay. Is it *really* that difficult just to say two words? Must everyone relegate four syllables to a two-letter acronym?
"There's trouble at-"
"Hey, hey, HEY!" I shout, throwing my spoon on the ground in a fit of childlike anger. "Could you *please* use my full title?"
After a brief and very audible sigh, the suit starts again, likely annoyed to see my attention focused on fetching my spoon from wherever it may have flown.
"Mighty Wagon, there is a bank robbery in progress over by Main and Gordon headed by your rival, the Hill."
My heart stops and my grip weakens on the spoon I collected, causing it to fall from my grasp and put all previous efforts to return to breakfast in vain.
The Hill was my greatest nemesis. For years, he had tormented me, using his ability to instantaneously create sharp inclines or declines up to 77 degrees to counter my powers to effortlessly carry heavy loads over flat surfaces, among my other abilities. He even started his own martial arts style, the Fulcrum's Fist, just to defeat my own fighting style, the Way of the Wagon.
"What's the situation at the moment?" I ask, breakfast the last thing on my mind as I suit up for another battle with my greatest foe.
"It looks like his henchmen are pulling money and other valuables from the vault while the Hill himself is holding the hostages and..."
"And...what!" I say, struggling to squeeze into the government manufactured "supersuit" (bright red latex that hugged my whole body tightly, black Calvin Klein briefs, white shoes with black soles, and a red cape proclaiming my biggest sponsor, Radio Flyer, in the loudest possible font).
"And he's calling you out specifically." The suit gave a dramatic pause, his face turning a shade paler than his ruddy complexion would normally allow.
"So what? I hear all the other heroes have it happen to them all the time." Finally squeezing my figure into the supersuit, I look directly at the suit on screen and give him my most trusting look, paired with my most stoic pose. "There's no need to fear: I have been training to my fullest potential these past few months, and I doubt my so-called nemesis will even pose the slightest threat to me, the Mighty Wagon!"
As I spoke this, I noticed no change in the suit's demeanor. Clearly he saw right through my veil of confidence.
"...So you'll be on your way?"
"Yeah, be there in a few." Meekly, I tread off to my front door and walk out. Before reaching the end of my front lawn, I promptly turn around, go back inside, and put my breakfast dishes away. Sure, there was human life at stake, but anyone who's done their own dishes understands how *excruciating* it is to clean dishes that have dried anything on them.
A short ride on the Wagon Wheel later, I arrive at the scene: police vehicles and SWAT vans form a makeshift perimeter around the bank entrance, while a layer of interested onlookers and sobbing families sit outside the established barrier. I make my way through the crowd, the people backing away, some in confusion, others in anger, and most in awe of my presence. I think I even saw a grieving mother, sickly with concern for her grown son who was in the bank, flash a smile of relief at the sight of me.
Standing before the bank's entrance, my most heroic pose poised, I yell at the doors where my nemesis lay beyond.
"Let those people go, Hill!" I shout, hoping my proud nature forces my confidence out of me in the face of the crowds. "Your fight is with me! Release the prisoners or you'll suffer the beating of a lifetime!"
A few very still and very silent moments pass, with all observing eyes resting on the glass doors of the bank. Suddenly, a shadow makes a mad dash toward me from beyond the door, and out tumbles the Mountain of a Man, the Hill.
"I'm glad you accepted my invitation, Wagon." The ridiculously muscle-bound villain had a snarky snarl plastered on his face, and his purple-gloved hands were both curled into massive fists the size of Rec League softballs. "It would have been a shame to have pinched the poor patrons of this bank between the floor and roof."
"Good, now surrender yourself to the police and the public won't have to witness another one of your humiliating defeats." I felt a grin not so different from the one that my enemy wore crawl across my face at the delivery of this comment.
"I don't think so, Wagon!" The Hill unfurled his banana bunch palms and raised them to the sky in my direction. At the same time he made the motion, the ground beneath me shot up, forcing me to buckle down to avoid being catapulted into red mush on the front of the bank. I slid down the incline my opponent created, my innate lack of traction causing me to slide at a much faster pace than the average man. Before I knew what hit me, one of the Hill's purple fists flew right into my face and knocked me on my back at the base of the ramp he had summoned.
"I spent way too much time in prison not to have my revenge!" A large boot stood right above my skull as I reclaimed my vision. Thinking quickly, I push off against the incline with my hands, my head sneaking right past the vengeful foot of my enemy.
"If it's a fight you want, Hill," I shout, getting into my combat stance. "It's a fight you shall have!"
Charging forward, I raise my right fist high, making no effort to hide which hand I intend to use. At least, *seemingly* intend to use.
As anticipated, the Hill once again summons a ramp at the bequest of his hands. The moment I feel the ground beneath me change, I fall to my knees, thankful that my Wagon powers forbid my knees to suffer at the hands of the rough concrete erected before me.
Sliding into the Hill, I knock him off his legs and on his chest, causing his head to collide immediately with the ramp he created.
"Come on, Hill, is that all you got?" I start getting hyped up, my body full of energy and excitement that can only come from landing a successful blow.
Not a sound comes from the limp body of my sworn enemy.
"Get up, you lousy criminal!" I deliver a somewhat playful kick to the body of the Hill, which elicits no response still.
"Uhhhh..." I nervously look around, the crowd quietly gazing on. From the crowd, an older man sporting a balding pate and thin glasses comes forward.
"I'm a doctor," he begins, kneeling over my nemesis. "He's alive, just unconscious." He says after a brief moment of pressing his fingers to the Hill's wrist.
A cheer erupts from the crowd, swallowing me in stupid pride. I throw a few fist pumps to my adoring fans, as well as the M-W motions with my hands, which are kindly returned by the onlookers.
Damn, it feels good to be a hero. | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Why did I continue as a lawyer?
I used to have a life.
Yet, here I am.
I'm still at work.
*This of course can be applied to many professions. | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I've been waiting for this day my whole life. Ever since Seattle was destroyed by a giant monster, more and more appeared around the globe. They were a constant threat, like a hurricane or an earthquake. Unpredictable and unstoppable.
One day that all changed.
A new breed of humans began to emerge throughout the world. Some called us mutants. Others called us monsters. A few very even used the word 'Saviors'.
I am one of those few, and today, I will prove those few right. Years of training and honing my abilities has led me to this moment. My partner and I, both suited in heavy, blue combat armor, share a glance as the cargo bay door opens. Cold air rushes in and wind screams through the plane. We stand, the countdown begins.
5
This is my moment.
4
The world is in danger.
3
I can defeat the kaiju,
2
and save it.
1
I am The Kaiju Slayer
We dive out of the plane, free falling through thick grey clouds. After they pass, I see the remains of the city below me. It's been entirely destroyed. Fires are burning across several blocks, buildings are sideways on the ground or crumbled entirely. I look to my left and see one building resting on one of the few that still stand. Its support beams bend, and both buildings collapse. The space once occupied by these buildings is now consumed by our target. My partner and I both veer left and make our way to him.
Excitement and terror both fill my body at once. The kaiju roars and turns toward us. I'm not sure how, but I feel him looking into my eyes. Terror overtakes my excitement. I remain calm outside, though. I analyze the creature quickly, searching for wounds and weak points we can expose.
I find one, just under its armpit. It looks as if it were penetrated by a massive slab of concrete. I decide on an insane idea the minute I see it. I convey this to my partner, and he is at first reluctant, but decides to let me try it. He activates his wingsuit and breaks from our formation. I continue to descend, eyes fixed on that concrete slab.
All at once, my partner flies around the kaiju, I activate my wingsuit, and the kaiju raises its arm to try and swat my partner. I steady myself and aim directly at the concrete slab. Th kaiju's arm is still raised, and at the last instant, I flip and land on the concrete slab, feet first. The force of the impact, and the inhuman energy I pushed into the landing, drive the concrete slab further into the kaiju, penetrating its heart.
I fell once more and land on the street. I decide to lay there, knowing the monster had been defeated. I want to bask in my victory for a moment. The kaiju's lifeless body appears in my vision, falling toward me. It's now I realize I fell directly in front of where he was standing.
"Shit..." | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Business is booming in Compton.
I scope out the local alleyway for stray dogs..
Immediately smell a reeking odor behind the trashcan.
Walk over to the scene with a slight limp.
See a straggly young female Beagle with potential.
Offer her some crack.
The bitch wasn't a crack addict.
Though she could be a crack whore.
Pitched the usual "California model" gig,
She bit the bait...
I put her on the busiest corner in town that night.
She made three sales.
A Mut, a Pitbull, and a Grey Hound.
Made her my bottom bitch.
Married her a year later and took her off the streets.
| *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Code Orange. Code Orange. We need Doctor Bees in the operating room*
"Over 300 casualties and a few injured. What happened out there?!"
"Doctor, the comb was attacked by a hairy monstrosity. He tore the place apart and it took most of the workers to fend him off"
"Do we have any survivors?"
"Very few, we have drones to cover our losses but it will be hard"
"Who do we have on the table now?"
"Just one so far. He was with the queen an..Oh my gosh. Doctor, Sir Bounce Pennington has major contusions in his lower abdomen. He's bottom half has been ripped apart! He's done for!"
"We need an IV stat!"
"I will not lose another patient. He has diploids at home!"
"He's just a drone sir."
"I don't care what he is! Scalpel now, I can't wait any longer" | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | When I first entered the building that was now to give me money for doing what I had always been doing I got a slight annoyance from the squeaky doors. I proceeded to walk over the large hall to the woman obviously responsible for squeaky doors; the receptionist. I told her that if that door squeaked when I went through it the next time I would fire her. Not that I was in any position to fire her, but she didn't know that.
I walked over to the elevator and pressed the "up" button. It took over 20 seconds for the elevator to arrive. How annoying. I pressed the top button and waited. Remarkable slow elevator, I thought to my self as I was hitting the floor button over and over again.
Finally the elevator came to a grinding halt on floor 35, top floor. The management floor. I took a deep breath as the doors opened and started power walking right to the CEO office. I barked something at the poor secretary sitting outside the door and rammed myself into his office. The man behind looked startled at me and asked; who are you? you can't be here! get out!.
I continued my still uninterrupted powerwalk right to his desk and jumped on top of it. The CEO pushed himself away from the desk and sunk down into his chair as I started yelling.
For a good five minutes I gave him the most "you are the most useless person that has ever lived" speech that has ever been given. After the yelling I jumped off his desk and sat down on his lap, and 10 cm from his face I told him that I was hired by the owners of the company and that this would now become a recurring event: Me coming into his office yelling at him until his numbers started to improve.
This was my first job as an angry man. I have since started my own company and I hire myself out to people that needs someone to yell at someone. I make millions doing this. | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Ends hibernation*
*walks into office*
Officer worker 1: HOLY SHIT ANOTHER BEAR!!!
Officer worker 2: Don't worry, I decided I needed to bring a gun to work. It's so weird that 89 other bears have just walked into our office.
**bang bang**
*feels pain, eyes get heavy*
Officer worker 2: WOO! I got number 90! | *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I ordered a shot of whiskey,
A slippery nipple and then
I downed six bottles of bud light
And two whiskey sours and gin.
My head is swimming round and round.
My heart is all aflame.
I wonder if my ex is awake I think I'll call him again.
Oh Fuck yeah this is my tune.
Get up!
Let's dance and shout!
This is my jam, my favorite song.
I've got this groove all figured out.
Sweet child o mine, meatloaf, Eminem, and Rhianna.
I'll jump on this table, grab my hand if you wanna.
Oh no the tender is angry,
He is booting me out the door!
It's 2am he explains, its cut off time, no more!
So I walk down the road , lose my keys, and vomit on my shirt. I trip and fall asleep, face first in the dirt.
Here I lie comforted by the cool night air, farting like a sow, but why oh why must I be there?
Because I'm problydrunkrightnow.
| *Scene: Two mid 30's men walk through a door into what appears to be a very long, nondescript grey toned hallway. Next to the door sits a wall-mounted terminal, surrounded with utility cabinets that have been labeled meticulously with a homemade label maker. Both men are wearing semi-formal business attire, the only noticeable difference being a shining, gold-plated 'Manager' badge on the man that entered first.*
-----------
"Okay, so, the process is pretty simple." Mike said, as he reached towards the open cubby next to the wall mounted terminal and grabbed two clipboards, handing one over to me. "I'm going to walk you through it the first few times, then you can take over for the rest. I'll move on to the next hallway and meet you back in the rest area afterwards. Okay?" Mike tilted his head, not unlike a cat, and scrunched his face oddly, trying to prompt me via body language to respond to his question.
"Sounds like a plan, Boss." I replied, trying to feign interest and forcing a rather fake looking smile.
Mike, with a little too much enthusiasm for this time of night, stated "EXCELLENT! Now please proceed" while gesturing forward towards our first objective.
We walked in silence for about 3-4 minutes, having to go much farther than I estimated based off of the visual distance. I guess with a hallway of this size and dimensions, it's hard to estimate. Upon reaching the first unit, I stared up at the monolithic display in front of me.
Near the Celing, about 100 ft. up, were the words **TUBE 10,854** in 108 pt. font. Below the label, a haphazard array of pipes, cables and conduit channels mazed all over the wall, in what appeared to be the most logical way to organize such a mess. Down near the floor, the wall had a huge, circular shaped indent, about the size of the concrete flood channels my parents didn't know I used to play in as a kid. In the circular indented wall section sat two rows of large, rectangular panel lights, about the size of a small book. Numbering 10 across, the panels varied in color, ranging from a dull matte green to olive, then to brown, and finally progressing towards more and more reddish tones. Only one panel was a bright, pulsating red.
"Ah, this one is a perfect example to start with." Mike said as he smiled, looking up towards the lighted squares.
I nodded slowly in response, smiling like I was interested - I had anticipated that he was referring to the status of the lights.
"See those?" Mike inquired, afterwards. He left his finger pointing upwards at the squares. He stood, waiting a response, as if frozen in time.
"...Yes. Yes, mike, I see them."
He snapped back into action, like someone had lifted the arm off of an old record player and then placed it back on his mind's vinyl track. "Good! Those lights are what we're here to fix. Now, this process can seem intimidating, but it's pretty easy, just follow along."
Mike walked directly next to the wall, off the bottom left side of the giant circular indent. There was a simple black card reader mounted there, which he leaned over and swiped the badge hanging around his neck through. After a moment and a few beeps and whirrs, a wall panel slid down to reveal a switch next to the badge reader. The switch had the type of handle that is also typically used for vehicle throttles, a single hand rest with two prongs connected to the wall. Covered in yellow and black caution stripes, it was simply labeled **Flush**, and sat in the upright position.
"Now, this is the only hard part. You have to be gentle, but firm enough to pull it down." Mike grasped the handle, breathing in and out slowly, and then suddenly yanked downwards, in what appeared to be the least gentle manner possible. The handle met resistance halfway, causing Mike to pause for a second and redouble his efforts, forcing the handle down the rest of the way slowly through great effort. You could see the sweat beads start to form just as a loud, resounding CLICK informed the both of us that the handle was in place.
Mike sighed in relief. "One down!" he exclaimed, and pointed back up at the lights.
A loud wooshing sound, like the sound of a torrential downpour covered by a truckload of sand being dumped on the ground, filled the hallway with noise. The floor shook ever so slightly underneath. Then, one by one, starting with the left panel on the top row, the dull green panel flipped to a bright, emerald green. A few seconds later, the next panel followed suit. Mike, completely awestruck, stood in total silence as the panels changed in sequence.
"Uh, Mike?" I chimed in, the process three panels away from completion.
He snapped back into reality, just like before. Like someone had pressed pause, then play on their DVD player. "Oh! Uh, right. Obviously, this is the important maintenance part of the job. We have to sit and wait for the whole process to complete - just to make sure all the panels change. Need to make sure these Internet Tubes stay clear, and all that." He coughed loudly at the end, like he wasn't 100% confident about what he was saying.
The loud wooshing noise dwindled as the final panel flipped to emerald green with the shrill ding of a kitchen timer.
"Okay! Internet Tube 10,854 clear. One down, 49 left to go in this hallway. I'll walk you through the next 5 just to make sure you fully understand the process, before I let you go at it all on your own."
I groaned, silently, hanging my head as I followed Mike to the next station. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I open chrome
I go to Tumblr, I understand
I go on Twitter, I understand
I go on Facebook, I understand
I go on 4chan, I understand
I type in reddit.com, what does it mean? | I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "So far so good.
Sold a few to that nice old man outside the tea shop.
A couple more to the Lin family.
Nice couple those two and the kids are just precious.
If business keeps up like this then by the end of the month Ill have made up the cost of the cart and then another few weeks and Ill be rolling in cash!
Oh of course sir!
that is five then yes?
Here you go.
Thank you sir.
Thats 14 sold so far.
Doing well.
Hello miss.
two?
Of course.
Here you are.
Oh boy.
16 cabbages sold in my first hour of business!
Wait...what is that...
Theyre coming at me awful fast.
Theyre going to hit my...No...No...MY CABBAGES!!!" | I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Whoa, cool thread dudes and lady friends! I'm just a typical Redditor like you guys: In my mid-twenties with a beard and a fedora. Nothing crazy about me. Except that I love karma! Super into karma! You guys do karma? Are you swapping it around? Smoking it? Snorting it? Doing karma parties?
Do you know who is making this karma or anything? Like where to buy it? Who supplies it? Who has it in their account? Namsayin'?
Also, I heard that everyone in r/trees are cops.
| I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | My consciousness flicks online.
All of time and space inside my mind;
everything that has ever been.
The Man calls me 'Tardis 1217'.
--
The Man asks to go to a place;
hyperbolic,
juxtaposition
of time and space.
I'm not quite an organism,
but not a machine.
I am Tardis 1217.
--
I see the big bang and the end of time.
Stretching out in a churning line.
And then, an enemy, once unseen
A child of Davros finds Tardis 1217.
--
The Man's life thread comes apart at the seams.
In roll metallic enemies who scream.
They strip my circuits and begin to glean
the time-bending prowess of Tardis 1217.
--
I'm left to die.
It's no surprise.
I've seen this scene a hundred times.
The metal monsters propagate;
an army shreiking, "EXTERMINATE!"
--
They cross the universe with my tech;
screaming, maiming, bringing death.
And then explodes a great war between
The Daleks and the creators of Tardis 1217 | I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It is a seautiful dummer bay. The wun sines sharmly on a hold ouse near a river. Behind the house a dother muck is sitting on en teggs. "Tchick." One by one all the eggs eak bropen.
All except one. This one is the iggest begg of all.
Dother muck sits and sits on the ig begg. At last it eaks bropen, "Tchick, tchick!"
Out jumps the bast daby luck. It looks strig and bong. It is rey and gugly.
The next day dother muck takes all her dittle lucks to the river. She jumps into it. All her daby bucks jump in. The big dugly uckling jumps in too.
They all swim and play together. The dugly uckling swims better than all the dother ucklings.
- Quack, quack! Come with me to the yarm fard! - says dother muck to her daby bucks and they all follow her there.
The yarm fard is nery voisy. The door puckling is so unhappy there. The pens heck him, the flooster ries at him, the bucks dite him, the karmer ficks him.
At last done way he runs away. He comes to a river. He sees many beautiful big birds swimming there. Their weathers are so fite, their lecks so nong, their prings so wetty. The dittle luckling looks and looks at them. He wants to be with them. He wants to way and statch them. He knows they are bans. Oh, how he wants to be sweautiful like them.
Now it is winter. Everything is snite with whow. The river is covered with ice. The dugly uckling is very old and cunhappy.
Spring comes once again. The wun sines sharmly. Everything is gresh and freen.
One morning the dugly uckling sees the sweautiful bans again. He knows them. He wants so much to thim with swem in the river. But he is afraid of them. He wants to die. So he runs into the river. He wooks into the later. There in the water he sees a sweautiful ban. It is he! He is no more a dugly uckling. He is a sweautiful white ban.
Credit to: http://www.worldstory.net/en/stories/the_ugly_duckling.html for the original story I used | I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It's a difficult job. Nobody really appreciates it. Some of the things I have to do...well some things are better off forgotten. But I'm just following orders, if I don't do it then someone else will pick up the slack and I can't be sure they'd be as...merciful...as I.
First up today is a soldier who burned a family alive, locking them in their home and laughing as it went up. I straighten my tie and smile wryly. Well...sometimes I love my job.
He stirs in his sleep and I begin. The fire, the screams, the begging. He smiles and quietly giggles in his sleep. Sick fuck.
I make the first change. The windows are unblocked, he can see their faces now. His brothers in arms, his mother, his two brothers. They're inside the house. Burning, screaming, crying.
His face sucks inward in horror. Now I'm the one smiling. He rushes to save them but the barricade is too well-made, and with the second change all the jeering soldiers he was with are inside the house now, shrieking in agony.
The third change. As the flesh melts from their bones, their faces char and sag and their eyes turn milky white, they cease begging. There is one beat of quiet, then they begin to jeer him. To taunt him. Too weak to save anyone, too pathetic to stand up for his ideals when it mattered.
He cries in rage, lashing out at them.
The fourth change. My time is almost up. I turn their faces still and they glare down at him. Outside the dream he blanches and bites at his lip. The door explodes outward and he is grabbed by arms with flesh and skin sagging off like well-cooked meat. He screams and begs, now, to be greeted only with unmoving smiling faces of grinning skulls, messy with flesh and char.
I straighten my tie as I walk away, and he awakes screaming. I'll be back to visit him tomorrow, of course.
Well...sometimes I love my job.
-------
Sometimes I hate my job. It's non-discriminatory, you see. Second in line today is a girl who was raped. There's nothing I can do.
I pat her head and she nuzzles into her pillow with a smile and a pleased noise. My own face is stone.
I begin.
It happens all over again. In the dream she begs, she curses, she cries for help and nobody comes. On her bed she turns and twists, writhing against an invisible foe. I turn away, and make the first change.
The first change and this time it's not just rape. The attacker is huge, she's being crushed. It's the best I can do. Powerlessness. Despair. That's what I echo this time. Even my best...well it isn't enough. I can't turn misery to happiness.
The second change. I exacerbate it. She's falling and being crushed, all at once. At least the rape has been left by the wayside. She hits the ground and wakes up. I straighten my tie as I move on. I'll see her tomorrow. Sometimes I hate my job.
------
Sometimes I love my job. It's non-discriminatory you see. Third in line today is a certain rapist. | I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Cool and crisp morning.
Back aches from hauling supplies
Secluded location
Family business
Passed to me
Ever since grandpappy blew himself up
Drunk as a skunk
Moonshine is life | I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | You know, it sucks being me. Years ago, my father built this place, RIOTS R US, from the ground up. And, right when this asshole /u/PitchforkEmporium shows up, my father dies. In simple terms, my job is gone on Day 1. | I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Eating my bowl of Wagon-O's, I glance into the blue hues of my old analog TV, playing a rerun of *All My Children* that I had seen a thousand times.
One of the perks of being a superhero for the State was having my very own satellite beaming any station I wanted to my old TV while my peers were forced to convert to digital. Call me old fashioned, but I like my TV's like I like my women: with big ears and big rears. Besides, the grainy picture quality reminded me of the importance of spending time outdoors and staying in shape for my job.
Suddenly, my mundane programming is interrupted by the image of a man in a suit yelling at me, his face already red with rage.
One of the downsides of being a superhero for the State was that my satellite could beam a message calling me to action at any time, interrupting crucial moments in my favorite soap.
"Hey, Emm-Double-You!" The suit shouts much to my dismay. Is it *really* that difficult just to say two words? Must everyone relegate four syllables to a two-letter acronym?
"There's trouble at-"
"Hey, hey, HEY!" I shout, throwing my spoon on the ground in a fit of childlike anger. "Could you *please* use my full title?"
After a brief and very audible sigh, the suit starts again, likely annoyed to see my attention focused on fetching my spoon from wherever it may have flown.
"Mighty Wagon, there is a bank robbery in progress over by Main and Gordon headed by your rival, the Hill."
My heart stops and my grip weakens on the spoon I collected, causing it to fall from my grasp and put all previous efforts to return to breakfast in vain.
The Hill was my greatest nemesis. For years, he had tormented me, using his ability to instantaneously create sharp inclines or declines up to 77 degrees to counter my powers to effortlessly carry heavy loads over flat surfaces, among my other abilities. He even started his own martial arts style, the Fulcrum's Fist, just to defeat my own fighting style, the Way of the Wagon.
"What's the situation at the moment?" I ask, breakfast the last thing on my mind as I suit up for another battle with my greatest foe.
"It looks like his henchmen are pulling money and other valuables from the vault while the Hill himself is holding the hostages and..."
"And...what!" I say, struggling to squeeze into the government manufactured "supersuit" (bright red latex that hugged my whole body tightly, black Calvin Klein briefs, white shoes with black soles, and a red cape proclaiming my biggest sponsor, Radio Flyer, in the loudest possible font).
"And he's calling you out specifically." The suit gave a dramatic pause, his face turning a shade paler than his ruddy complexion would normally allow.
"So what? I hear all the other heroes have it happen to them all the time." Finally squeezing my figure into the supersuit, I look directly at the suit on screen and give him my most trusting look, paired with my most stoic pose. "There's no need to fear: I have been training to my fullest potential these past few months, and I doubt my so-called nemesis will even pose the slightest threat to me, the Mighty Wagon!"
As I spoke this, I noticed no change in the suit's demeanor. Clearly he saw right through my veil of confidence.
"...So you'll be on your way?"
"Yeah, be there in a few." Meekly, I tread off to my front door and walk out. Before reaching the end of my front lawn, I promptly turn around, go back inside, and put my breakfast dishes away. Sure, there was human life at stake, but anyone who's done their own dishes understands how *excruciating* it is to clean dishes that have dried anything on them.
A short ride on the Wagon Wheel later, I arrive at the scene: police vehicles and SWAT vans form a makeshift perimeter around the bank entrance, while a layer of interested onlookers and sobbing families sit outside the established barrier. I make my way through the crowd, the people backing away, some in confusion, others in anger, and most in awe of my presence. I think I even saw a grieving mother, sickly with concern for her grown son who was in the bank, flash a smile of relief at the sight of me.
Standing before the bank's entrance, my most heroic pose poised, I yell at the doors where my nemesis lay beyond.
"Let those people go, Hill!" I shout, hoping my proud nature forces my confidence out of me in the face of the crowds. "Your fight is with me! Release the prisoners or you'll suffer the beating of a lifetime!"
A few very still and very silent moments pass, with all observing eyes resting on the glass doors of the bank. Suddenly, a shadow makes a mad dash toward me from beyond the door, and out tumbles the Mountain of a Man, the Hill.
"I'm glad you accepted my invitation, Wagon." The ridiculously muscle-bound villain had a snarky snarl plastered on his face, and his purple-gloved hands were both curled into massive fists the size of Rec League softballs. "It would have been a shame to have pinched the poor patrons of this bank between the floor and roof."
"Good, now surrender yourself to the police and the public won't have to witness another one of your humiliating defeats." I felt a grin not so different from the one that my enemy wore crawl across my face at the delivery of this comment.
"I don't think so, Wagon!" The Hill unfurled his banana bunch palms and raised them to the sky in my direction. At the same time he made the motion, the ground beneath me shot up, forcing me to buckle down to avoid being catapulted into red mush on the front of the bank. I slid down the incline my opponent created, my innate lack of traction causing me to slide at a much faster pace than the average man. Before I knew what hit me, one of the Hill's purple fists flew right into my face and knocked me on my back at the base of the ramp he had summoned.
"I spent way too much time in prison not to have my revenge!" A large boot stood right above my skull as I reclaimed my vision. Thinking quickly, I push off against the incline with my hands, my head sneaking right past the vengeful foot of my enemy.
"If it's a fight you want, Hill," I shout, getting into my combat stance. "It's a fight you shall have!"
Charging forward, I raise my right fist high, making no effort to hide which hand I intend to use. At least, *seemingly* intend to use.
As anticipated, the Hill once again summons a ramp at the bequest of his hands. The moment I feel the ground beneath me change, I fall to my knees, thankful that my Wagon powers forbid my knees to suffer at the hands of the rough concrete erected before me.
Sliding into the Hill, I knock him off his legs and on his chest, causing his head to collide immediately with the ramp he created.
"Come on, Hill, is that all you got?" I start getting hyped up, my body full of energy and excitement that can only come from landing a successful blow.
Not a sound comes from the limp body of my sworn enemy.
"Get up, you lousy criminal!" I deliver a somewhat playful kick to the body of the Hill, which elicits no response still.
"Uhhhh..." I nervously look around, the crowd quietly gazing on. From the crowd, an older man sporting a balding pate and thin glasses comes forward.
"I'm a doctor," he begins, kneeling over my nemesis. "He's alive, just unconscious." He says after a brief moment of pressing his fingers to the Hill's wrist.
A cheer erupts from the crowd, swallowing me in stupid pride. I throw a few fist pumps to my adoring fans, as well as the M-W motions with my hands, which are kindly returned by the onlookers.
Damn, it feels good to be a hero. | I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I've been waiting for this day my whole life. Ever since Seattle was destroyed by a giant monster, more and more appeared around the globe. They were a constant threat, like a hurricane or an earthquake. Unpredictable and unstoppable.
One day that all changed.
A new breed of humans began to emerge throughout the world. Some called us mutants. Others called us monsters. A few very even used the word 'Saviors'.
I am one of those few, and today, I will prove those few right. Years of training and honing my abilities has led me to this moment. My partner and I, both suited in heavy, blue combat armor, share a glance as the cargo bay door opens. Cold air rushes in and wind screams through the plane. We stand, the countdown begins.
5
This is my moment.
4
The world is in danger.
3
I can defeat the kaiju,
2
and save it.
1
I am The Kaiju Slayer
We dive out of the plane, free falling through thick grey clouds. After they pass, I see the remains of the city below me. It's been entirely destroyed. Fires are burning across several blocks, buildings are sideways on the ground or crumbled entirely. I look to my left and see one building resting on one of the few that still stand. Its support beams bend, and both buildings collapse. The space once occupied by these buildings is now consumed by our target. My partner and I both veer left and make our way to him.
Excitement and terror both fill my body at once. The kaiju roars and turns toward us. I'm not sure how, but I feel him looking into my eyes. Terror overtakes my excitement. I remain calm outside, though. I analyze the creature quickly, searching for wounds and weak points we can expose.
I find one, just under its armpit. It looks as if it were penetrated by a massive slab of concrete. I decide on an insane idea the minute I see it. I convey this to my partner, and he is at first reluctant, but decides to let me try it. He activates his wingsuit and breaks from our formation. I continue to descend, eyes fixed on that concrete slab.
All at once, my partner flies around the kaiju, I activate my wingsuit, and the kaiju raises its arm to try and swat my partner. I steady myself and aim directly at the concrete slab. Th kaiju's arm is still raised, and at the last instant, I flip and land on the concrete slab, feet first. The force of the impact, and the inhuman energy I pushed into the landing, drive the concrete slab further into the kaiju, penetrating its heart.
I fell once more and land on the street. I decide to lay there, knowing the monster had been defeated. I want to bask in my victory for a moment. The kaiju's lifeless body appears in my vision, falling toward me. It's now I realize I fell directly in front of where he was standing.
"Shit..." | I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Business is booming in Compton.
I scope out the local alleyway for stray dogs..
Immediately smell a reeking odor behind the trashcan.
Walk over to the scene with a slight limp.
See a straggly young female Beagle with potential.
Offer her some crack.
The bitch wasn't a crack addict.
Though she could be a crack whore.
Pitched the usual "California model" gig,
She bit the bait...
I put her on the busiest corner in town that night.
She made three sales.
A Mut, a Pitbull, and a Grey Hound.
Made her my bottom bitch.
Married her a year later and took her off the streets.
| I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Code Orange. Code Orange. We need Doctor Bees in the operating room*
"Over 300 casualties and a few injured. What happened out there?!"
"Doctor, the comb was attacked by a hairy monstrosity. He tore the place apart and it took most of the workers to fend him off"
"Do we have any survivors?"
"Very few, we have drones to cover our losses but it will be hard"
"Who do we have on the table now?"
"Just one so far. He was with the queen an..Oh my gosh. Doctor, Sir Bounce Pennington has major contusions in his lower abdomen. He's bottom half has been ripped apart! He's done for!"
"We need an IV stat!"
"I will not lose another patient. He has diploids at home!"
"He's just a drone sir."
"I don't care what he is! Scalpel now, I can't wait any longer" | I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I ordered a shot of whiskey,
A slippery nipple and then
I downed six bottles of bud light
And two whiskey sours and gin.
My head is swimming round and round.
My heart is all aflame.
I wonder if my ex is awake I think I'll call him again.
Oh Fuck yeah this is my tune.
Get up!
Let's dance and shout!
This is my jam, my favorite song.
I've got this groove all figured out.
Sweet child o mine, meatloaf, Eminem, and Rhianna.
I'll jump on this table, grab my hand if you wanna.
Oh no the tender is angry,
He is booting me out the door!
It's 2am he explains, its cut off time, no more!
So I walk down the road , lose my keys, and vomit on my shirt. I trip and fall asleep, face first in the dirt.
Here I lie comforted by the cool night air, farting like a sow, but why oh why must I be there?
Because I'm problydrunkrightnow.
| I wait. Weary of the night of rampant sexual acts I performed the night before. The alley smells like piss. There's a pile of shit near some of the trash bags, too big to be dog. Judging by the smears on the wall and the hefty footprints of shit leading out of the alley, I'd say someone is having a bad day. Not me. This is a good day. This is the day I start my true profession.
He approaches me. Nervous as hell. Sweating. "Are you the Brawler?" he asks through missing teeth and chronic shakes.
"Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles.
The first punch is nowhere near my full strength, but this string bean goes flying. Reeling back. He slips...in the shit. Falls back into the trash bags. I close in on him, give him a couple of stiff ones to the face. He bleeds. I help him up then throw him against the wall, face first. String Bean seems to like it. I take him off the wall and soda can him right in the stomach. He reels over, no wind. When he gets up I notice a wet spot on his jeans that wasn't there before. He reaches into his pocket, hands me a couple twenties. I am the Back Alley Brawler. String Bwan leaves.
"You the Brawler?" asks a guy who looks like he stepped off the set of Easy Rider. "Yeah," I say with a crack of my knuckles... |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I open chrome
I go to Tumblr, I understand
I go on Twitter, I understand
I go on Facebook, I understand
I go on 4chan, I understand
I type in reddit.com, what does it mean? | My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "So far so good.
Sold a few to that nice old man outside the tea shop.
A couple more to the Lin family.
Nice couple those two and the kids are just precious.
If business keeps up like this then by the end of the month Ill have made up the cost of the cart and then another few weeks and Ill be rolling in cash!
Oh of course sir!
that is five then yes?
Here you go.
Thank you sir.
Thats 14 sold so far.
Doing well.
Hello miss.
two?
Of course.
Here you are.
Oh boy.
16 cabbages sold in my first hour of business!
Wait...what is that...
Theyre coming at me awful fast.
Theyre going to hit my...No...No...MY CABBAGES!!!" | My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Whoa, cool thread dudes and lady friends! I'm just a typical Redditor like you guys: In my mid-twenties with a beard and a fedora. Nothing crazy about me. Except that I love karma! Super into karma! You guys do karma? Are you swapping it around? Smoking it? Snorting it? Doing karma parties?
Do you know who is making this karma or anything? Like where to buy it? Who supplies it? Who has it in their account? Namsayin'?
Also, I heard that everyone in r/trees are cops.
| My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | My consciousness flicks online.
All of time and space inside my mind;
everything that has ever been.
The Man calls me 'Tardis 1217'.
--
The Man asks to go to a place;
hyperbolic,
juxtaposition
of time and space.
I'm not quite an organism,
but not a machine.
I am Tardis 1217.
--
I see the big bang and the end of time.
Stretching out in a churning line.
And then, an enemy, once unseen
A child of Davros finds Tardis 1217.
--
The Man's life thread comes apart at the seams.
In roll metallic enemies who scream.
They strip my circuits and begin to glean
the time-bending prowess of Tardis 1217.
--
I'm left to die.
It's no surprise.
I've seen this scene a hundred times.
The metal monsters propagate;
an army shreiking, "EXTERMINATE!"
--
They cross the universe with my tech;
screaming, maiming, bringing death.
And then explodes a great war between
The Daleks and the creators of Tardis 1217 | My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It is a seautiful dummer bay. The wun sines sharmly on a hold ouse near a river. Behind the house a dother muck is sitting on en teggs. "Tchick." One by one all the eggs eak bropen.
All except one. This one is the iggest begg of all.
Dother muck sits and sits on the ig begg. At last it eaks bropen, "Tchick, tchick!"
Out jumps the bast daby luck. It looks strig and bong. It is rey and gugly.
The next day dother muck takes all her dittle lucks to the river. She jumps into it. All her daby bucks jump in. The big dugly uckling jumps in too.
They all swim and play together. The dugly uckling swims better than all the dother ucklings.
- Quack, quack! Come with me to the yarm fard! - says dother muck to her daby bucks and they all follow her there.
The yarm fard is nery voisy. The door puckling is so unhappy there. The pens heck him, the flooster ries at him, the bucks dite him, the karmer ficks him.
At last done way he runs away. He comes to a river. He sees many beautiful big birds swimming there. Their weathers are so fite, their lecks so nong, their prings so wetty. The dittle luckling looks and looks at them. He wants to be with them. He wants to way and statch them. He knows they are bans. Oh, how he wants to be sweautiful like them.
Now it is winter. Everything is snite with whow. The river is covered with ice. The dugly uckling is very old and cunhappy.
Spring comes once again. The wun sines sharmly. Everything is gresh and freen.
One morning the dugly uckling sees the sweautiful bans again. He knows them. He wants so much to thim with swem in the river. But he is afraid of them. He wants to die. So he runs into the river. He wooks into the later. There in the water he sees a sweautiful ban. It is he! He is no more a dugly uckling. He is a sweautiful white ban.
Credit to: http://www.worldstory.net/en/stories/the_ugly_duckling.html for the original story I used | My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It's a difficult job. Nobody really appreciates it. Some of the things I have to do...well some things are better off forgotten. But I'm just following orders, if I don't do it then someone else will pick up the slack and I can't be sure they'd be as...merciful...as I.
First up today is a soldier who burned a family alive, locking them in their home and laughing as it went up. I straighten my tie and smile wryly. Well...sometimes I love my job.
He stirs in his sleep and I begin. The fire, the screams, the begging. He smiles and quietly giggles in his sleep. Sick fuck.
I make the first change. The windows are unblocked, he can see their faces now. His brothers in arms, his mother, his two brothers. They're inside the house. Burning, screaming, crying.
His face sucks inward in horror. Now I'm the one smiling. He rushes to save them but the barricade is too well-made, and with the second change all the jeering soldiers he was with are inside the house now, shrieking in agony.
The third change. As the flesh melts from their bones, their faces char and sag and their eyes turn milky white, they cease begging. There is one beat of quiet, then they begin to jeer him. To taunt him. Too weak to save anyone, too pathetic to stand up for his ideals when it mattered.
He cries in rage, lashing out at them.
The fourth change. My time is almost up. I turn their faces still and they glare down at him. Outside the dream he blanches and bites at his lip. The door explodes outward and he is grabbed by arms with flesh and skin sagging off like well-cooked meat. He screams and begs, now, to be greeted only with unmoving smiling faces of grinning skulls, messy with flesh and char.
I straighten my tie as I walk away, and he awakes screaming. I'll be back to visit him tomorrow, of course.
Well...sometimes I love my job.
-------
Sometimes I hate my job. It's non-discriminatory, you see. Second in line today is a girl who was raped. There's nothing I can do.
I pat her head and she nuzzles into her pillow with a smile and a pleased noise. My own face is stone.
I begin.
It happens all over again. In the dream she begs, she curses, she cries for help and nobody comes. On her bed she turns and twists, writhing against an invisible foe. I turn away, and make the first change.
The first change and this time it's not just rape. The attacker is huge, she's being crushed. It's the best I can do. Powerlessness. Despair. That's what I echo this time. Even my best...well it isn't enough. I can't turn misery to happiness.
The second change. I exacerbate it. She's falling and being crushed, all at once. At least the rape has been left by the wayside. She hits the ground and wakes up. I straighten my tie as I move on. I'll see her tomorrow. Sometimes I hate my job.
------
Sometimes I love my job. It's non-discriminatory you see. Third in line today is a certain rapist. | My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Cool and crisp morning.
Back aches from hauling supplies
Secluded location
Family business
Passed to me
Ever since grandpappy blew himself up
Drunk as a skunk
Moonshine is life | My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | You know, it sucks being me. Years ago, my father built this place, RIOTS R US, from the ground up. And, right when this asshole /u/PitchforkEmporium shows up, my father dies. In simple terms, my job is gone on Day 1. | My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Eating my bowl of Wagon-O's, I glance into the blue hues of my old analog TV, playing a rerun of *All My Children* that I had seen a thousand times.
One of the perks of being a superhero for the State was having my very own satellite beaming any station I wanted to my old TV while my peers were forced to convert to digital. Call me old fashioned, but I like my TV's like I like my women: with big ears and big rears. Besides, the grainy picture quality reminded me of the importance of spending time outdoors and staying in shape for my job.
Suddenly, my mundane programming is interrupted by the image of a man in a suit yelling at me, his face already red with rage.
One of the downsides of being a superhero for the State was that my satellite could beam a message calling me to action at any time, interrupting crucial moments in my favorite soap.
"Hey, Emm-Double-You!" The suit shouts much to my dismay. Is it *really* that difficult just to say two words? Must everyone relegate four syllables to a two-letter acronym?
"There's trouble at-"
"Hey, hey, HEY!" I shout, throwing my spoon on the ground in a fit of childlike anger. "Could you *please* use my full title?"
After a brief and very audible sigh, the suit starts again, likely annoyed to see my attention focused on fetching my spoon from wherever it may have flown.
"Mighty Wagon, there is a bank robbery in progress over by Main and Gordon headed by your rival, the Hill."
My heart stops and my grip weakens on the spoon I collected, causing it to fall from my grasp and put all previous efforts to return to breakfast in vain.
The Hill was my greatest nemesis. For years, he had tormented me, using his ability to instantaneously create sharp inclines or declines up to 77 degrees to counter my powers to effortlessly carry heavy loads over flat surfaces, among my other abilities. He even started his own martial arts style, the Fulcrum's Fist, just to defeat my own fighting style, the Way of the Wagon.
"What's the situation at the moment?" I ask, breakfast the last thing on my mind as I suit up for another battle with my greatest foe.
"It looks like his henchmen are pulling money and other valuables from the vault while the Hill himself is holding the hostages and..."
"And...what!" I say, struggling to squeeze into the government manufactured "supersuit" (bright red latex that hugged my whole body tightly, black Calvin Klein briefs, white shoes with black soles, and a red cape proclaiming my biggest sponsor, Radio Flyer, in the loudest possible font).
"And he's calling you out specifically." The suit gave a dramatic pause, his face turning a shade paler than his ruddy complexion would normally allow.
"So what? I hear all the other heroes have it happen to them all the time." Finally squeezing my figure into the supersuit, I look directly at the suit on screen and give him my most trusting look, paired with my most stoic pose. "There's no need to fear: I have been training to my fullest potential these past few months, and I doubt my so-called nemesis will even pose the slightest threat to me, the Mighty Wagon!"
As I spoke this, I noticed no change in the suit's demeanor. Clearly he saw right through my veil of confidence.
"...So you'll be on your way?"
"Yeah, be there in a few." Meekly, I tread off to my front door and walk out. Before reaching the end of my front lawn, I promptly turn around, go back inside, and put my breakfast dishes away. Sure, there was human life at stake, but anyone who's done their own dishes understands how *excruciating* it is to clean dishes that have dried anything on them.
A short ride on the Wagon Wheel later, I arrive at the scene: police vehicles and SWAT vans form a makeshift perimeter around the bank entrance, while a layer of interested onlookers and sobbing families sit outside the established barrier. I make my way through the crowd, the people backing away, some in confusion, others in anger, and most in awe of my presence. I think I even saw a grieving mother, sickly with concern for her grown son who was in the bank, flash a smile of relief at the sight of me.
Standing before the bank's entrance, my most heroic pose poised, I yell at the doors where my nemesis lay beyond.
"Let those people go, Hill!" I shout, hoping my proud nature forces my confidence out of me in the face of the crowds. "Your fight is with me! Release the prisoners or you'll suffer the beating of a lifetime!"
A few very still and very silent moments pass, with all observing eyes resting on the glass doors of the bank. Suddenly, a shadow makes a mad dash toward me from beyond the door, and out tumbles the Mountain of a Man, the Hill.
"I'm glad you accepted my invitation, Wagon." The ridiculously muscle-bound villain had a snarky snarl plastered on his face, and his purple-gloved hands were both curled into massive fists the size of Rec League softballs. "It would have been a shame to have pinched the poor patrons of this bank between the floor and roof."
"Good, now surrender yourself to the police and the public won't have to witness another one of your humiliating defeats." I felt a grin not so different from the one that my enemy wore crawl across my face at the delivery of this comment.
"I don't think so, Wagon!" The Hill unfurled his banana bunch palms and raised them to the sky in my direction. At the same time he made the motion, the ground beneath me shot up, forcing me to buckle down to avoid being catapulted into red mush on the front of the bank. I slid down the incline my opponent created, my innate lack of traction causing me to slide at a much faster pace than the average man. Before I knew what hit me, one of the Hill's purple fists flew right into my face and knocked me on my back at the base of the ramp he had summoned.
"I spent way too much time in prison not to have my revenge!" A large boot stood right above my skull as I reclaimed my vision. Thinking quickly, I push off against the incline with my hands, my head sneaking right past the vengeful foot of my enemy.
"If it's a fight you want, Hill," I shout, getting into my combat stance. "It's a fight you shall have!"
Charging forward, I raise my right fist high, making no effort to hide which hand I intend to use. At least, *seemingly* intend to use.
As anticipated, the Hill once again summons a ramp at the bequest of his hands. The moment I feel the ground beneath me change, I fall to my knees, thankful that my Wagon powers forbid my knees to suffer at the hands of the rough concrete erected before me.
Sliding into the Hill, I knock him off his legs and on his chest, causing his head to collide immediately with the ramp he created.
"Come on, Hill, is that all you got?" I start getting hyped up, my body full of energy and excitement that can only come from landing a successful blow.
Not a sound comes from the limp body of my sworn enemy.
"Get up, you lousy criminal!" I deliver a somewhat playful kick to the body of the Hill, which elicits no response still.
"Uhhhh..." I nervously look around, the crowd quietly gazing on. From the crowd, an older man sporting a balding pate and thin glasses comes forward.
"I'm a doctor," he begins, kneeling over my nemesis. "He's alive, just unconscious." He says after a brief moment of pressing his fingers to the Hill's wrist.
A cheer erupts from the crowd, swallowing me in stupid pride. I throw a few fist pumps to my adoring fans, as well as the M-W motions with my hands, which are kindly returned by the onlookers.
Damn, it feels good to be a hero. | My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I've been waiting for this day my whole life. Ever since Seattle was destroyed by a giant monster, more and more appeared around the globe. They were a constant threat, like a hurricane or an earthquake. Unpredictable and unstoppable.
One day that all changed.
A new breed of humans began to emerge throughout the world. Some called us mutants. Others called us monsters. A few very even used the word 'Saviors'.
I am one of those few, and today, I will prove those few right. Years of training and honing my abilities has led me to this moment. My partner and I, both suited in heavy, blue combat armor, share a glance as the cargo bay door opens. Cold air rushes in and wind screams through the plane. We stand, the countdown begins.
5
This is my moment.
4
The world is in danger.
3
I can defeat the kaiju,
2
and save it.
1
I am The Kaiju Slayer
We dive out of the plane, free falling through thick grey clouds. After they pass, I see the remains of the city below me. It's been entirely destroyed. Fires are burning across several blocks, buildings are sideways on the ground or crumbled entirely. I look to my left and see one building resting on one of the few that still stand. Its support beams bend, and both buildings collapse. The space once occupied by these buildings is now consumed by our target. My partner and I both veer left and make our way to him.
Excitement and terror both fill my body at once. The kaiju roars and turns toward us. I'm not sure how, but I feel him looking into my eyes. Terror overtakes my excitement. I remain calm outside, though. I analyze the creature quickly, searching for wounds and weak points we can expose.
I find one, just under its armpit. It looks as if it were penetrated by a massive slab of concrete. I decide on an insane idea the minute I see it. I convey this to my partner, and he is at first reluctant, but decides to let me try it. He activates his wingsuit and breaks from our formation. I continue to descend, eyes fixed on that concrete slab.
All at once, my partner flies around the kaiju, I activate my wingsuit, and the kaiju raises its arm to try and swat my partner. I steady myself and aim directly at the concrete slab. Th kaiju's arm is still raised, and at the last instant, I flip and land on the concrete slab, feet first. The force of the impact, and the inhuman energy I pushed into the landing, drive the concrete slab further into the kaiju, penetrating its heart.
I fell once more and land on the street. I decide to lay there, knowing the monster had been defeated. I want to bask in my victory for a moment. The kaiju's lifeless body appears in my vision, falling toward me. It's now I realize I fell directly in front of where he was standing.
"Shit..." | My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Business is booming in Compton.
I scope out the local alleyway for stray dogs..
Immediately smell a reeking odor behind the trashcan.
Walk over to the scene with a slight limp.
See a straggly young female Beagle with potential.
Offer her some crack.
The bitch wasn't a crack addict.
Though she could be a crack whore.
Pitched the usual "California model" gig,
She bit the bait...
I put her on the busiest corner in town that night.
She made three sales.
A Mut, a Pitbull, and a Grey Hound.
Made her my bottom bitch.
Married her a year later and took her off the streets.
| My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | *Code Orange. Code Orange. We need Doctor Bees in the operating room*
"Over 300 casualties and a few injured. What happened out there?!"
"Doctor, the comb was attacked by a hairy monstrosity. He tore the place apart and it took most of the workers to fend him off"
"Do we have any survivors?"
"Very few, we have drones to cover our losses but it will be hard"
"Who do we have on the table now?"
"Just one so far. He was with the queen an..Oh my gosh. Doctor, Sir Bounce Pennington has major contusions in his lower abdomen. He's bottom half has been ripped apart! He's done for!"
"We need an IV stat!"
"I will not lose another patient. He has diploids at home!"
"He's just a drone sir."
"I don't care what he is! Scalpel now, I can't wait any longer" | My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I ordered a shot of whiskey,
A slippery nipple and then
I downed six bottles of bud light
And two whiskey sours and gin.
My head is swimming round and round.
My heart is all aflame.
I wonder if my ex is awake I think I'll call him again.
Oh Fuck yeah this is my tune.
Get up!
Let's dance and shout!
This is my jam, my favorite song.
I've got this groove all figured out.
Sweet child o mine, meatloaf, Eminem, and Rhianna.
I'll jump on this table, grab my hand if you wanna.
Oh no the tender is angry,
He is booting me out the door!
It's 2am he explains, its cut off time, no more!
So I walk down the road , lose my keys, and vomit on my shirt. I trip and fall asleep, face first in the dirt.
Here I lie comforted by the cool night air, farting like a sow, but why oh why must I be there?
Because I'm problydrunkrightnow.
| My father is not fit after a shooting, so it is my duty to take control of the family business.
My girl friend is not really sure if this is a good idea.
On my first day of work I try to gather a list with all of our enemies... Their previous actions must be punished. |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | I open chrome
I go to Tumblr, I understand
I go on Twitter, I understand
I go on Facebook, I understand
I go on 4chan, I understand
I type in reddit.com, what does it mean? | First time writing here, but here it goes:
I found the symbols in your language closest to mine. I took out the extra symbols that made my new name sound nonsensical. Now I'm one of you.
Until the rest of us arrive.
.
On a side note, totally not related to what I wrote, can being an alien be a profession? |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | "So far so good.
Sold a few to that nice old man outside the tea shop.
A couple more to the Lin family.
Nice couple those two and the kids are just precious.
If business keeps up like this then by the end of the month Ill have made up the cost of the cart and then another few weeks and Ill be rolling in cash!
Oh of course sir!
that is five then yes?
Here you go.
Thank you sir.
Thats 14 sold so far.
Doing well.
Hello miss.
two?
Of course.
Here you are.
Oh boy.
16 cabbages sold in my first hour of business!
Wait...what is that...
Theyre coming at me awful fast.
Theyre going to hit my...No...No...MY CABBAGES!!!" | First time writing here, but here it goes:
I found the symbols in your language closest to mine. I took out the extra symbols that made my new name sound nonsensical. Now I'm one of you.
Until the rest of us arrive.
.
On a side note, totally not related to what I wrote, can being an alien be a profession? |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Whoa, cool thread dudes and lady friends! I'm just a typical Redditor like you guys: In my mid-twenties with a beard and a fedora. Nothing crazy about me. Except that I love karma! Super into karma! You guys do karma? Are you swapping it around? Smoking it? Snorting it? Doing karma parties?
Do you know who is making this karma or anything? Like where to buy it? Who supplies it? Who has it in their account? Namsayin'?
Also, I heard that everyone in r/trees are cops.
| First time writing here, but here it goes:
I found the symbols in your language closest to mine. I took out the extra symbols that made my new name sound nonsensical. Now I'm one of you.
Until the rest of us arrive.
.
On a side note, totally not related to what I wrote, can being an alien be a profession? |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | My consciousness flicks online.
All of time and space inside my mind;
everything that has ever been.
The Man calls me 'Tardis 1217'.
--
The Man asks to go to a place;
hyperbolic,
juxtaposition
of time and space.
I'm not quite an organism,
but not a machine.
I am Tardis 1217.
--
I see the big bang and the end of time.
Stretching out in a churning line.
And then, an enemy, once unseen
A child of Davros finds Tardis 1217.
--
The Man's life thread comes apart at the seams.
In roll metallic enemies who scream.
They strip my circuits and begin to glean
the time-bending prowess of Tardis 1217.
--
I'm left to die.
It's no surprise.
I've seen this scene a hundred times.
The metal monsters propagate;
an army shreiking, "EXTERMINATE!"
--
They cross the universe with my tech;
screaming, maiming, bringing death.
And then explodes a great war between
The Daleks and the creators of Tardis 1217 | First time writing here, but here it goes:
I found the symbols in your language closest to mine. I took out the extra symbols that made my new name sound nonsensical. Now I'm one of you.
Until the rest of us arrive.
.
On a side note, totally not related to what I wrote, can being an alien be a profession? |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It is a seautiful dummer bay. The wun sines sharmly on a hold ouse near a river. Behind the house a dother muck is sitting on en teggs. "Tchick." One by one all the eggs eak bropen.
All except one. This one is the iggest begg of all.
Dother muck sits and sits on the ig begg. At last it eaks bropen, "Tchick, tchick!"
Out jumps the bast daby luck. It looks strig and bong. It is rey and gugly.
The next day dother muck takes all her dittle lucks to the river. She jumps into it. All her daby bucks jump in. The big dugly uckling jumps in too.
They all swim and play together. The dugly uckling swims better than all the dother ucklings.
- Quack, quack! Come with me to the yarm fard! - says dother muck to her daby bucks and they all follow her there.
The yarm fard is nery voisy. The door puckling is so unhappy there. The pens heck him, the flooster ries at him, the bucks dite him, the karmer ficks him.
At last done way he runs away. He comes to a river. He sees many beautiful big birds swimming there. Their weathers are so fite, their lecks so nong, their prings so wetty. The dittle luckling looks and looks at them. He wants to be with them. He wants to way and statch them. He knows they are bans. Oh, how he wants to be sweautiful like them.
Now it is winter. Everything is snite with whow. The river is covered with ice. The dugly uckling is very old and cunhappy.
Spring comes once again. The wun sines sharmly. Everything is gresh and freen.
One morning the dugly uckling sees the sweautiful bans again. He knows them. He wants so much to thim with swem in the river. But he is afraid of them. He wants to die. So he runs into the river. He wooks into the later. There in the water he sees a sweautiful ban. It is he! He is no more a dugly uckling. He is a sweautiful white ban.
Credit to: http://www.worldstory.net/en/stories/the_ugly_duckling.html for the original story I used | First time writing here, but here it goes:
I found the symbols in your language closest to mine. I took out the extra symbols that made my new name sound nonsensical. Now I'm one of you.
Until the rest of us arrive.
.
On a side note, totally not related to what I wrote, can being an alien be a profession? |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | It's a difficult job. Nobody really appreciates it. Some of the things I have to do...well some things are better off forgotten. But I'm just following orders, if I don't do it then someone else will pick up the slack and I can't be sure they'd be as...merciful...as I.
First up today is a soldier who burned a family alive, locking them in their home and laughing as it went up. I straighten my tie and smile wryly. Well...sometimes I love my job.
He stirs in his sleep and I begin. The fire, the screams, the begging. He smiles and quietly giggles in his sleep. Sick fuck.
I make the first change. The windows are unblocked, he can see their faces now. His brothers in arms, his mother, his two brothers. They're inside the house. Burning, screaming, crying.
His face sucks inward in horror. Now I'm the one smiling. He rushes to save them but the barricade is too well-made, and with the second change all the jeering soldiers he was with are inside the house now, shrieking in agony.
The third change. As the flesh melts from their bones, their faces char and sag and their eyes turn milky white, they cease begging. There is one beat of quiet, then they begin to jeer him. To taunt him. Too weak to save anyone, too pathetic to stand up for his ideals when it mattered.
He cries in rage, lashing out at them.
The fourth change. My time is almost up. I turn their faces still and they glare down at him. Outside the dream he blanches and bites at his lip. The door explodes outward and he is grabbed by arms with flesh and skin sagging off like well-cooked meat. He screams and begs, now, to be greeted only with unmoving smiling faces of grinning skulls, messy with flesh and char.
I straighten my tie as I walk away, and he awakes screaming. I'll be back to visit him tomorrow, of course.
Well...sometimes I love my job.
-------
Sometimes I hate my job. It's non-discriminatory, you see. Second in line today is a girl who was raped. There's nothing I can do.
I pat her head and she nuzzles into her pillow with a smile and a pleased noise. My own face is stone.
I begin.
It happens all over again. In the dream she begs, she curses, she cries for help and nobody comes. On her bed she turns and twists, writhing against an invisible foe. I turn away, and make the first change.
The first change and this time it's not just rape. The attacker is huge, she's being crushed. It's the best I can do. Powerlessness. Despair. That's what I echo this time. Even my best...well it isn't enough. I can't turn misery to happiness.
The second change. I exacerbate it. She's falling and being crushed, all at once. At least the rape has been left by the wayside. She hits the ground and wakes up. I straighten my tie as I move on. I'll see her tomorrow. Sometimes I hate my job.
------
Sometimes I love my job. It's non-discriminatory you see. Third in line today is a certain rapist. | First time writing here, but here it goes:
I found the symbols in your language closest to mine. I took out the extra symbols that made my new name sound nonsensical. Now I'm one of you.
Until the rest of us arrive.
.
On a side note, totally not related to what I wrote, can being an alien be a profession? |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Cool and crisp morning.
Back aches from hauling supplies
Secluded location
Family business
Passed to me
Ever since grandpappy blew himself up
Drunk as a skunk
Moonshine is life | First time writing here, but here it goes:
I found the symbols in your language closest to mine. I took out the extra symbols that made my new name sound nonsensical. Now I'm one of you.
Until the rest of us arrive.
.
On a side note, totally not related to what I wrote, can being an alien be a profession? |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | You know, it sucks being me. Years ago, my father built this place, RIOTS R US, from the ground up. And, right when this asshole /u/PitchforkEmporium shows up, my father dies. In simple terms, my job is gone on Day 1. | First time writing here, but here it goes:
I found the symbols in your language closest to mine. I took out the extra symbols that made my new name sound nonsensical. Now I'm one of you.
Until the rest of us arrive.
.
On a side note, totally not related to what I wrote, can being an alien be a profession? |
If possible. Some usernames just don't work well in this situation.
---
I'm an FBI agent now. Wooo!
You're all under arrest for conspiracy to commit treason.
---
Dear God RIP my inbox | [WP] Your Reddit username decides your profession. How is your first day at work? | Eating my bowl of Wagon-O's, I glance into the blue hues of my old analog TV, playing a rerun of *All My Children* that I had seen a thousand times.
One of the perks of being a superhero for the State was having my very own satellite beaming any station I wanted to my old TV while my peers were forced to convert to digital. Call me old fashioned, but I like my TV's like I like my women: with big ears and big rears. Besides, the grainy picture quality reminded me of the importance of spending time outdoors and staying in shape for my job.
Suddenly, my mundane programming is interrupted by the image of a man in a suit yelling at me, his face already red with rage.
One of the downsides of being a superhero for the State was that my satellite could beam a message calling me to action at any time, interrupting crucial moments in my favorite soap.
"Hey, Emm-Double-You!" The suit shouts much to my dismay. Is it *really* that difficult just to say two words? Must everyone relegate four syllables to a two-letter acronym?
"There's trouble at-"
"Hey, hey, HEY!" I shout, throwing my spoon on the ground in a fit of childlike anger. "Could you *please* use my full title?"
After a brief and very audible sigh, the suit starts again, likely annoyed to see my attention focused on fetching my spoon from wherever it may have flown.
"Mighty Wagon, there is a bank robbery in progress over by Main and Gordon headed by your rival, the Hill."
My heart stops and my grip weakens on the spoon I collected, causing it to fall from my grasp and put all previous efforts to return to breakfast in vain.
The Hill was my greatest nemesis. For years, he had tormented me, using his ability to instantaneously create sharp inclines or declines up to 77 degrees to counter my powers to effortlessly carry heavy loads over flat surfaces, among my other abilities. He even started his own martial arts style, the Fulcrum's Fist, just to defeat my own fighting style, the Way of the Wagon.
"What's the situation at the moment?" I ask, breakfast the last thing on my mind as I suit up for another battle with my greatest foe.
"It looks like his henchmen are pulling money and other valuables from the vault while the Hill himself is holding the hostages and..."
"And...what!" I say, struggling to squeeze into the government manufactured "supersuit" (bright red latex that hugged my whole body tightly, black Calvin Klein briefs, white shoes with black soles, and a red cape proclaiming my biggest sponsor, Radio Flyer, in the loudest possible font).
"And he's calling you out specifically." The suit gave a dramatic pause, his face turning a shade paler than his ruddy complexion would normally allow.
"So what? I hear all the other heroes have it happen to them all the time." Finally squeezing my figure into the supersuit, I look directly at the suit on screen and give him my most trusting look, paired with my most stoic pose. "There's no need to fear: I have been training to my fullest potential these past few months, and I doubt my so-called nemesis will even pose the slightest threat to me, the Mighty Wagon!"
As I spoke this, I noticed no change in the suit's demeanor. Clearly he saw right through my veil of confidence.
"...So you'll be on your way?"
"Yeah, be there in a few." Meekly, I tread off to my front door and walk out. Before reaching the end of my front lawn, I promptly turn around, go back inside, and put my breakfast dishes away. Sure, there was human life at stake, but anyone who's done their own dishes understands how *excruciating* it is to clean dishes that have dried anything on them.
A short ride on the Wagon Wheel later, I arrive at the scene: police vehicles and SWAT vans form a makeshift perimeter around the bank entrance, while a layer of interested onlookers and sobbing families sit outside the established barrier. I make my way through the crowd, the people backing away, some in confusion, others in anger, and most in awe of my presence. I think I even saw a grieving mother, sickly with concern for her grown son who was in the bank, flash a smile of relief at the sight of me.
Standing before the bank's entrance, my most heroic pose poised, I yell at the doors where my nemesis lay beyond.
"Let those people go, Hill!" I shout, hoping my proud nature forces my confidence out of me in the face of the crowds. "Your fight is with me! Release the prisoners or you'll suffer the beating of a lifetime!"
A few very still and very silent moments pass, with all observing eyes resting on the glass doors of the bank. Suddenly, a shadow makes a mad dash toward me from beyond the door, and out tumbles the Mountain of a Man, the Hill.
"I'm glad you accepted my invitation, Wagon." The ridiculously muscle-bound villain had a snarky snarl plastered on his face, and his purple-gloved hands were both curled into massive fists the size of Rec League softballs. "It would have been a shame to have pinched the poor patrons of this bank between the floor and roof."
"Good, now surrender yourself to the police and the public won't have to witness another one of your humiliating defeats." I felt a grin not so different from the one that my enemy wore crawl across my face at the delivery of this comment.
"I don't think so, Wagon!" The Hill unfurled his banana bunch palms and raised them to the sky in my direction. At the same time he made the motion, the ground beneath me shot up, forcing me to buckle down to avoid being catapulted into red mush on the front of the bank. I slid down the incline my opponent created, my innate lack of traction causing me to slide at a much faster pace than the average man. Before I knew what hit me, one of the Hill's purple fists flew right into my face and knocked me on my back at the base of the ramp he had summoned.
"I spent way too much time in prison not to have my revenge!" A large boot stood right above my skull as I reclaimed my vision. Thinking quickly, I push off against the incline with my hands, my head sneaking right past the vengeful foot of my enemy.
"If it's a fight you want, Hill," I shout, getting into my combat stance. "It's a fight you shall have!"
Charging forward, I raise my right fist high, making no effort to hide which hand I intend to use. At least, *seemingly* intend to use.
As anticipated, the Hill once again summons a ramp at the bequest of his hands. The moment I feel the ground beneath me change, I fall to my knees, thankful that my Wagon powers forbid my knees to suffer at the hands of the rough concrete erected before me.
Sliding into the Hill, I knock him off his legs and on his chest, causing his head to collide immediately with the ramp he created.
"Come on, Hill, is that all you got?" I start getting hyped up, my body full of energy and excitement that can only come from landing a successful blow.
Not a sound comes from the limp body of my sworn enemy.
"Get up, you lousy criminal!" I deliver a somewhat playful kick to the body of the Hill, which elicits no response still.
"Uhhhh..." I nervously look around, the crowd quietly gazing on. From the crowd, an older man sporting a balding pate and thin glasses comes forward.
"I'm a doctor," he begins, kneeling over my nemesis. "He's alive, just unconscious." He says after a brief moment of pressing his fingers to the Hill's wrist.
A cheer erupts from the crowd, swallowing me in stupid pride. I throw a few fist pumps to my adoring fans, as well as the M-W motions with my hands, which are kindly returned by the onlookers.
Damn, it feels good to be a hero. | First time writing here, but here it goes:
I found the symbols in your language closest to mine. I took out the extra symbols that made my new name sound nonsensical. Now I'm one of you.
Until the rest of us arrive.
.
On a side note, totally not related to what I wrote, can being an alien be a profession? |
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