I Quit My Job Today: a Dramatization

8 05 2008

I’m standing at the urinal at work today, when the Big Boss comes walking through the door all in a huff.

“Thompson!” he yells, clearly meaning me, even though my name isn’t Thompson.

“Yes, boss?” I reply politely while trying whole-heartedly not to piss all over the floor.

“What the hell is all that–Jesus God!” he exclaims, pointing at my crotch. “What the Holy Mary is that thing? Did the Salvation Army have a closeout sale on artificial limbs?” 

“Well, yes they did, actually,” I answer sheepishly.

“Jesus man, put that thing away! I need to speak to you.”

“Okay boss,” I comply, turning to speak to him while pissing all over the floor. “What is it?”

Ack!”  he screams, jumping back. “You idiot, you’ve pissed all over the floor!”

“I see,” I say. I’m still not sure where he’s going with all of this.

“Anyway, I need to ask about what Little Boss told me earlier. Are you really quitting?”

“Why, yes sir, I–”

Before I can finish, he jumps on me and begins pounding me about the face and head with a hammer I did not notice him holding. As it punches neat little divets into my face, I can see with my good eye that it says “The Defector Defeater” along its handle. “Defector”… That’s me.

Later on, once the beating has ceased, he’s walking me back to my station, where I will sit, politely silent, until and only until he says that I can go. Along the way, I slyly pick up a long sharp piece of steel laying on the floor.

“Alright Johnson, you’ll stand right here until, and only until, I say you can go. Is that clear?”

“Yes b–”

“Goddamn it! You’ll be quiet when I’m talking!” Several quick blows from The Defeater remind me who’s in charge. “Davis, I’ve been pretty lenient on you so far, but if you don’t shape up, I’m taking you to see Big Big Boss.”

I nod, blood dripping from pretty much every square centimeter of my face, and wait for him to come to the point.

“And the point of this little exercise, Mabutu, has been–ACK!”

He finds it somewhat difficult to speak with ten inches of steel driven upward through his soft pallet.

“Yes, boss?” I ask quietly.

He doesn’t answer, only meekly swings the Defector Defeater at my face. I deftly snatch it from his hand and drive another piece of sharp metal through his face, just for good measure.

Later on, as I’m signing my letter of resignation, I pause to reflect on how poorly the day has gone. Big Boss didn’t have to die, but he forced my hand. Further, I didn’t have to urinate all over his bleeding face while he lay gasping on the floor, but again with the hand-forcing. The stapled eyelids may have been my fault entirely.

Just as I walk out the door on the last day of my employment, a tall blonde secretary runs up and exposes her enormous breasts to me in a gesture of friendship. I’m not buying it.

“You tell Big Big Boss that I’m not falling for his tricks anymore!” I tell her quietly as I beat her about the face and breasts with my artificial arm. “You tell him!”

The last thing I see as I drive away from the building is Big Big Boss stepping out of his blonde ladysuit, shaking his fists at me and swearing: “I’ll get you, Thompson!” 

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