Billy no longer had reason to hide his dread. He wore it out in the open like a cheap and shiny sheriff's badge, the kind he used to get from Handy Andy's toy section when he was a kid. He spent most days at work dutifully entering invoices into the company's requisition software. He had quota to meet but he usually managed to squirrel away a few minutes everyday for some unapproved personal usage of the internet. Today he watched a video blog post about the desks of creative people. The sprightly blond in the video chirped over shots of sharply designed work spaces. There were some mid-century modern designs, contemporary industrial pieces, and some molded plastic, eggy looking jobs. They failed to show anything that exemplified the early nineteen nineties office furniture design aesthetic. But Billy was already familiar with that. His surroundings awash in yellowed beige and dirty shades of grays. He finished another batch of invoices to be forwarded to accounts payable and sent them on their way.

Billy stood and shuffled out of his cubicle. He failed to wipe away that morning's blueberry muffin crumbs from his lap. The greasy little morsels were making tiny stains on his ill-fitting, pleated khakis. His co-workers would not notice. They didn't care. Billy wasn't hated at the office but he wasn't liked either. He was just a fixture, like the printers, fax machines, and water coolers. He was 45, oafish, and balding-- just like every other guy at the office. Today's the day, he thought, I'm going to do something crazy and then walk out this stinking job.

Billy made his way down the long hallway that lead to copy room to the percussive sounds of his pant thighs rubbing together. He reached into his pocket and grasped his cigarette lighter. His heart begin to race as little drops of sweat formed on his upper lip. So much paper in there, he thought. Billy turned the corner and stepped into the copy room. He was surprised to see Jim from receivables standing at the old paper cutter. The two men shared the same build. Jim had on an argyle sweater vest he'd owned for fifteen years, a blue polo, and also a pair of ill-fitting pleated khakis.

Before Billy could utter a word Jim slammed the cutter's heavy hinged blade down on his own pinkie. He then let out a horrendous scream followed by maniacal laughter and spurting blood. Five minutes earlier Jim had decided that today would be his day.