Dennis looked thoughtful for a moment. The idea was a bit …unnerving. He liked it.
"More recreational writing, Ender? I'm going to look at your screen in a second, and if I don't see a spreadsheet with numbers, I'm going to rip you a new one." That was Harold Pitchman, Dennis Ender's immediate superior. He spoke so eloquently.

Dennis pressed his usual "boss" key, which switched from his writing to his spreadsheet instantly. An apparently ancient, rudimentary program that one of his coworkers gave to him in sympathy for his constant scenes with Pitchman.

Pitchman gazed at the screen. He gave Dennis a mean eye. "I'm waiting, Ender. Waiting for you to screw up again. I love it when you screw up. Just another step until I get your bony ass out of here." He marched off through the cubicles.

It was out of a damn comic. Harry Pitchman was a medium-raw class A prick. Did people like this really exist? I mean, what boss walks around offering to rip you a new one?

Pitchman's hole-ripper was a man named Croder Watchfield. The man was so old he couldn't keep his pitbull on its leash, let alone discipline him. Pitchman probably just wandered in now and then, shook him awake, told him the numbers, smiled (if that was possible for Pitchman), said "Yes, sir!" and marched off to yell at Dennis. Not that he was very nice to anyone else.

Dennis did not like this job. Who would? He was a data entry jockey with TruBind, Inc. It was actually a sister company to Quinn Medical Accessories, probably a much better venue. QMA made lots of gadgets and things for the medical field. TruBind was partnered with it to process and produce its famed medical textbooks. Hence the theme for today's prose.

He had never been in QMA building before. He had seen it, of course, and it was much more impressive than the dungeon-like TruBind, which was like a sweltering prison-turned-low-grade-company.

Dennis decided to take a walk. He rose and walked towards the coffee grinder. Two of his coworkers, Rudy Pollack and Jim Davison, were hanging out there, poking at the crumbs of the empty donut box.

"Hey Ender," Jim said.

"Good morning, punk." Rudy stammered.

Dennis shrugged. As far as these guys were concerned — well — they were asskissers and phony jerks. Truly less evolved humans. They just seemed to sit at the coffee table all day long, chattering like crickets.

"Yeah." Dennis said in response. He barely looked over at the two men.

Pollack wiped his nose on his arm.

"Yeah, so, Pitchman's pinned. The ape and his habit are finally going down together! Hey, maybe I can get promoted or something."

Yeah right, a data entry monkey was going up in the ranks, Dennis thought. Then he backed up to the first sentence.

"What do you mean?" He asked.

Davison took this one. "He means that Pitchman's three pack a day smoking habit is finally killing him. Think it's lung cancer."

Dennis looked skeptical. "The guy always marches around with an aura of smoke around him, coughing a lot. But most heavy smokers do. Is this confirmed?"

The two asskissers looked at each other.

"Well…I just thought…" Rudy stammered once again.

"Clearly he's getting pale and coughs up a lung every five minutes." Jim offered.

Dennis chuckled. "Well, I hope you're right." He filled his mug with some coffee syrup and walked back to his cubicle..

He sighed. What a life.

That piece of writing he had written today, though-that was kind of interesting. It was still in his mind. Ominous.

---

The next day Dennis decided he would try and get his hands on some of QMA's texts. There was a manufacturing and binding floor in the basement of the TruBind building, presumably where everything was happening. Processing QMA's shtick into textbooks. He didn't think he would have a problem; he was an employee. Even if he had to buy, surely he could get a discounted rate.

He came in ten minutes early so as to have some time to pursue the venue. Pitchman would have less to cuss him about, Dennis figured, if he actually did his own personal bizz on his own time. Then again, Pitchman loved to cuss. Apparently, he was married; Dennis could only imagine a 300-pound crack whore who spat phlegm at regular intervals.

The elevator headed down to the Operations floor. Dennis stepped out. Lots of noise, lots of lights and danger signs, lots of hard hats. So this was the magic of TruBind. It looked like he was wading in an inch of grease.

"Sorry bud," A tall man in a white coat boomed, scaring the hell out of Dennis,

"Can't be on this floor. Not in those duds, anyways."

Dennis didn't want to be shut down so fast. "Umm…yeah, it's just that… …well, I work on the database management floor. Just uh... was going to perhaps pick up some texts."

The man shook his head.

That was it. Not a word.