Work started at 9 am but he called on his cheap plastic flip phone (grey) to work and talked to the Angela. She was a horrible human being. 'It's snowing out and the buses are running late' he lied. She muttered in some nasally whine and he hung up. The coat flew up his arms and he drifted down the dusty stairwell in a mental fog that lasted until at least noon. He slipped on some thin, ripped shoes and shuffled out the door. His pants were kept up but an itchy, too-tight belt and they were covered with stains. Outside he waited for the bus and by the time it came his feet were numb from the cold. His headphones blasted death metal into his brain, and all the faces on the bus were a grey smudge. He the trip itself was a slideshow of nonsense. He imagined his coworker Stan, a bloated pervert with thick coke-bottle glasses and a gut that spilled so far over his belt, nearly to his knees, in the printer isle, but instead of printers he was selling guts like his own, large protrusions of human skin hanging from hooks for gut expansion complete with warranties and addons. At the Walmart bus stop he got off the bus and slid into mcdonalds breakfast menu on the wall, ordered fried sludge. Came into work, the crusty stains on his pants and shirt shining magically under the dead fluorescent lamps.

>exhibit A examination protocol activated, secret shoppers equipped with pre-memorized scripts and post-physics unification theory enactments for real life situations initiated***

He broke eye contact with everything and headed straight for the break room to punch into the computer to signal his arrival into the building. The machine docked his pay in 5 minute intervals, totaling 15 minutes to account for the time he'd slept in and bus delay. He looked in the mirror and noticed how the oval flip phone made a slight protrusion in the form of an upraised outline in black on his work pants. Tucked in the red work shirt, forgot to shave. David said that shaved faces were less trustworthy than clean faces. David had a skin condition where he itched it all the time and it flaked and peeled off like red flakes of sand paper. He smoked 2 packs a day. Stan was in the printer isle playing with his mustache and glazing over some kids. Angela approached and the massive bitch face installed on her creased, feverish Israel face. The tight hair parted across her anger lips and she railed on about annoying complaints in that tone of voice where each syllable stabbed into my neurons with a screeching red-alert stress signal to trigger the jesus christ activation sequence. With it came all the tied up laces of judaized disturbance mechanisms that coiled around his brain like browsing cookies or PUP.optional malware fragments. Her words didn't even make sense, they just poked and prodded his psyche like hotknives. Every day was a struggle to remove them, but he drowned in them and was surrounded by their residue. It was 2006 and things were only getting worse. The waves of sleep struck him as he stood there, eyes glazing over at the AS400 inventory system to print out pricing labels on little sheets of perforated paper accounting for all the price changes, hundreds of them, all alternating everywhere on a daily basis to keep the hapless consumer spending wrecklessly. First customers of the day dragged their bodies through the welcome doors, slid open and poured through, greeted by horse girl (cashier – blonde). The breakfast burrito sludge began to process and digest like tumbleweeds through a trash compactor and he felt his stomach wretch with gas and discomfort. 20 minutes later of shitting out diarrhea in the public bathroom and all the price change labels were ready to distribute in the tight plastic displays under the dust covered obsolete products like printers, projectors, boxes of toner and other miscellaneous junk lost and reshuffled in the fields of corporate decay.