The Cubicle of Death (Part 2)

 

It seems that the gatekeeper has invested in a thousand year old jukebox- one that which plays tunes to keep the workers’ minds off of the grudging task at hand and instead more emphasis on getting work done.

This music acts as an opium as the mind drifts into thoughts accordingly with the music. For instance, when a sad tune plays, the worker begins to unconsciously think of sad times in their own lives and work harder. On the other side of the coin, a happy tune allows a worker to work happily. This investment of a music box is genius and subtle.

“As each shift grows slightly harder and more demanding, the stress is numbed by this opiate effect produced by the music box.”

As Shit-tits huffs and puffs a dust cloud of tremendous depression and filth from too many cheese fries, she makes her way to expel her routinely spaced intervals of massive dumps in the junkyard toilet. Tim wipes his snot from his almost maddeningly red eyes then proceeds to chew through his strawberry-maggot-jam pastries. Half-brain-dead and now drooling profusely, Tim smashes away at the keyboards with his swollen fingers and nearly chokes on his tongue from great effort.

Jobo, the sanitation enforcer, makes his way into the cemetery as he chews on onion peels and mumbles to himself while gagging on his own breath of plaque. Nobody understands what Jobo is saying. frankly, neither does Jobo. Margaret, the sanitation’s secretary, swallows doughnuts whole, goes on a narcissistic rage while swinging around her pot belly of gelatin fat, then crashes into a sobbing depression like a forever replaying drama. Ishy, the sanitation’s assistant boy, resembles a tan Keebler-elf with the boyish habit of springing around on his toes as if trying to peer over cubicles. Ishy, like the rest of the sanitation department, is trapped here forever and sadly cannot imagine another life outside these walls.

Each week, this group of strange nincompoops are paid a small lump sum of golden tickets. With these golden tickets, one can take them to the magic shop where you can purchase either a delicious meal with the most sought after desserts to follow, or one can purchase a meal along with one page from the book of longevity.

“Can Shit Tits come to the realization that her looks are horrendous? Will Tim ever decide to wake up from his trance? Will Jobo brush his teeth and learn to speak clearly? Can Margaret just stop being a fat-ass? Will somebody just smack Ishy on the back the head with enough force to give him a whiplash.”

The Magnificent Breath Of Shit Tits

Bananas, Coffee, and rancid asshole breath that filters through garlic and too many sour patch kids in one-sitting is a description that falls short of doing justice when it comes to Shit Tit’s breath.

The Lord knows, Satan’s minions could hardly withstand such an extreme barrel-sauna of a mouth cave thus, those that misbehave are banished to the under-bite chamber of horror.

The Encounter

I make sure to keep busy and appear both frustrated and way-too focused on the task at hand, or this monitor, rather. In order to avoid “the encounter.” The onslaught of horrendous fumes that can be seen from my post. Right over this wooden divider is death in a suffering swivel chair, a pile of blistered flesh with pink splotches of pig skin-type tuffs of perfume drenched hair- no matter how attentively dressed up to look, it always results as the same appearance, a boar with beautifully braided hair.

One day, I miscalculated the speed at which Shit Tits bounces her momentum off the chair. Simultaneously, she glanced over in my direction to heave her sack of potatoes to her next location.. at me! Unfortunately for me I was researching articles on the web. Shit Tits slugged her way over like a massive bear and exploded her entire held breath from ass-bounce-off-the-chair-to-belly-thrust-to-abrupt-jiggle-park right next to me, all in one almost-athletic flow! Instantly my head began to dizzy and a green fog clung to the edge of my eyes. I felt my breakfast begin to rise and my ears begin to melt or spew. I gasped for air and managed to scream out a useless yelp. I somehow managed to grab a fresh invoice copy off the Xerox and brought it to my face so fast, my nose started to bleed. I held on for dear life; later I would find that my fingernails etched into the wooden desk.

Shit Tits began to speak.  Barely able to think consciously, I received a spray of acidic saliva and the odor of possibly the nastiest feces output from the most rotten bowels, straight into my nostrils. The only words that I could make out were, “jarbh, jokkhock!” In an attempt to save my life and my breakfast, I pleaded to be excused to the lavatory. Shit Tits mumbled something and proceeded to speak in a loud protruding voice. I excused myself abruptly and was conscious enough to avoid brushing against any exposed skin as an extra precaution, so as not to catch the fatty disease (originally from America)

The experience forever shook me to the core. I lost a significant amount of weight trying to recover from the fact that I almost lost my life. To lose my life in a place like this and from a thing like that would be the worst thing ever.

Since then, my mother packs me a gas mask in my lunchbox along with an apple juice to make things alright again. My mother thinks that I’m still at “that age.” But a monster to a child appears vastly different from the jaded lens of an adult.

“It’s so strange,” I say to myself, as I watch Tim speak at close proximity to Shit Tits. Tim whistles while he works as if he just discovered the amazing sound of whistling for the first time and whistles to tunes in his own head but never to the jukebox. Tim buys sweet little treats and chocolates for Shit Tits, to which she reacts with a jolly-fat-bouncing and hee-haw giggling. Shortly after, Shit Tits kicks Tim around like a piece of dry turd. To which Tim’s eyes would sadden and for a moment he thinks he feels true love.

As my eyes begin to glaze over while thumbing through miles of paperwork, I notice that the world outside these walls are changing. I need to find a way to build a vehicle as an exit strategy. That’s it! I now find myself using my freetime to invest in a vehicle that will get me out of here for good.

Till next time,

L5 Vertebrah

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5 thoughts on “The Cubicle of Death (Part 2)

    1. It’s funny to think back about how my environment inspired me to write this post, during the time it was therapeutical and I was able to break the depressive mood that lingered there, it’s real (you’re right!) 🙂 I just don’t think the office life was for me, and this specific office had a particular gloom and doom feel to it, everyone there was miserable.

      Liked by 1 person

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