So last Thursday, I'm sitting in my workstation, minding what has to be

my own Gjoddamn business (I mean, really, who else's business would I be minding?) when I heard them. Voices. And not your ordinary, run of the mill "Sweet fucking Mary, mother of mercy, what in the name of Tap Class are you doing with 40 hours of your life per week," kind of voices, either. These voices were attached to bodies. Tiny, growing bodies. One might even be inclined to call these bodies children. Indeed, last Thursday was "Bring your child to work" day. Or as I call it, "Bring your kid to work so that he/she can see the very cube-tombs wherein they'll live purgatory filled lives loaded with broken dreams" day. What's worse, if memory serves, I do believe I was as hungover as the homeless that day (hence, I didn't post about it that day) and in no mood for the noise being brought by these nosepickers, or "kids." "Fuck this," I remember myself saying to myself, "if these kids want a war, they've got a war." As I smeared greasepaint on my face, I muttered, "It's on. It's on like prom chiffon." At this point, I turned around and one of these kids was standing right there. She was selling Girl Scout cookies. Tag-a-longs. Nature's perfect cookie. I bought a box. She was cute......But it was still on, make no mistake......

One of these noisemakers set up base camp in the cube directly across from me. He was loud. Unbridled. You couldn't stop this little bastard, you could only hope to contain him. Like all kids, though, he slipped up. He revealed something about himself. "Big mistake, Chief," I silently found myself laughing to myself, "That's gonna cost you."

I grabbed my coat to walk out to lunch, but I made sure I walked passed Chief. Chief wasn't his name, or anything, at least not to his parents or anyone else who knew him. To me, however, he was Chief. Chief Didn'tSeeThisOneComing.

"So," I said trying to contain my excitement over how clever I am, "You like Batman, huh?"
"Yes," he replied as he looked at the floor and shuffled his feet. (Look who's all quiet and shy NOW)
"Well, what would you say if I told you I was personal friends with Batman and was gonna go to lunch with him today? Would you like me to get you an autograph?"
"YES!" he said, his eyes lighting up.
"Then it sounds like today's your lucky day, kid," I said, "I'll see you in an hour," and I strode out of the building.

After the agonizing hour passed, I walked back to my building, mustered up the saddest face I could and found my way back to my cloth-lined, short walled gravesite. As soon as I sat down, I sighed loud enough so that Chief could hear I had returned. Predictably, he raced right over.

"Did you get it? Did you get Batman's autograph?" he squealed.
I took a dramatic pause and looked square in Chief's eyes and said, "No, little buddy. No I didn't. You see, Batman never made it to lunch. He was killed fighting crime 45 minutes ago."
The kid wailed. Hard. Loud. Wailing. When his wailing reached a fevered pitch, I couldn't take it anymore. I said, "Leave it to a kid to be selfish enough to get upset over not getting an autograph. I mean, Batman's dead for Chrissakes and all you can think about is how you didn't get your precious autograph! Get out of my sight! You sicken me." I knew that his reason for crying wasn't because he didn't get the autograph. I knew he was crying because Batman had passed, but that wasn't the point. The point was, I wanted to give the appearance of his childish selfishness. Hey, anyone who's ever lived knows life is all about appearances.

Later, I gathered all the children in the conference room, shut off the lights and locked them in there. It was a game I called "Corporate Downsizing." I don't think they liked me much, but when asked by the police for statements, not one of them could say they hadn't learned anything. At the end of the day, isn't that all that matters?