Herbert Kornfeld

Accounts Receivable Supervisor

Check it out, G's: Lotta shit in this column ain't foe tha eyes a' amateurs. If you a pussy, you best skip ovah this thang an' tune in tha ladiez' channel or somethin', cuz what I about 2 lay down deserve its own parental-advisory stickah, know what I'm sayin'? This straight-up, non-stop, hardcore shit, y'all, an' tol' wit' mad suspense, too, tha kind that make yo' shit evacuate, know what I'm sayin'? It like a haiku a' violence.


On Monday, Gerald Luckenbill, tha office comptrolla, aksed 2 see me in his office end a' bidness day.

Sure enuf, come punchout, Luckenbill wuz chillin' at his desk. His office wuz all dark, 'cept foe tha light from his desk lamp. I peep a check on his desktop an' recognize it as a payment that come in wit' today's mail, from a client called SPJ Communications. They one a' them Internet-service-providin' an' web-hostin' firms, an' they always buyin' they office supplies wit' us an' never gettin' they payments in 'til right befoe tha 25-day grace period expire. They think they tha King Shit, disrespectin' tha H-Dog like that.


"I just happened to notice the check in the Cash Room was about to go into the daily deposit," Luckenbill say. "I know that you hate how they get their payments in just under the wire. On a hunch, I took this check and phoned the issuing bank. Good thing I acted on that hunch, Herbert, because that check would have been returned NSF."

Damn.

Luckenbill peeped tha murder in my eye. He know me too long 2 think I let shit like this slide. "Now, Herbert," he say. "I let you go about your business without asking questions. I know you save us the expense of hiring a collections staff. But, in this case, I must ask you to keep a calm head. The holidays just ended, and maybe SPJ had more expenses than it counted on. Maybe it was a simple accounting error. Midstate wants its money, but it wants an honest, peaceful solution to the problem. We have the law on our side, Herbert. Keep that in mind."


Luckenbill barely done speakin' when I out tha doe an' in tha Nite Rida, headin' straight 2 tha bidness park where SPJ's office at. Luckenbill wanted 2 keep tha peace, an' I respected that, but I knew shit he didn't. I knew them muhfukkahs wuz straight-up trouble an' would fuck us ova more if we played it soft. I could smell it. I didn't spend aftahourz scopin' out SPJ HQ foe nothin'. I be bidin' my time foe months. Finally, tha mission had arrived. It zero hour. Those muhfukkahs wuz goin' down.

The lights wuz still on in SPJ's office, so I chilled in some law firm's parkin' lot next doe, meditatin', swappin' my officin' gear foe ninja black, flashin' back on tha wise words a' my mentor, CPA-ONE (R.I.P.): "Honor above all, Dog. Honor ain't cost-effective, but y'all must do yo' utmost 2 preserve it, cuz in tha end, it have tha most value."


Finally, 'round seven, tha lights went off. A big-hair receptionist exited an' drove away. She didn't peep me lyin' in wait. Wit' mad stealth, I tossed up a grapplin' hook 2 a third-flo' window an' hauled my ass up. Tha window wuz unlocked an' led into a hallway. Sidlin' up tight against tha wall, I made my way 2 SPJ's front doe. I jimmied tha lock, crouched down, an' entered. Sure enuf, there be a motion-detectah alarm beside tha doe. Huh. Child's play. I busted out a penlight an' my needle-nose pliahs, reached up, got into tha gap 'tween tha keypad's plastic casin' an' tha wall, an' snipped tha wirez. Tha lights on tha alarm went dark. Without missin' a beat, I snapped off tha penlight an' crab-walked my way 2 tha boss' office, where tha wall safe at.

Now, G's, as I made my way thru tha moonlit office, I peeped box afta unopened box bearin' tha Midstate logo. I aksed myself, "Why they ain't open they boxes? They got that shipment days ago. 'Sides, no office this size need that many ballpointz an' bindah clips. What be they game?" That got my blood up, but I force myself 2 chill an' attend 2 tha task at hand.


I reached tha bossman's office, removed some bullshit pheasant paintin', an' uncovered tha wall safe. I started crackin' it like a pro. In less than a minute, it opened an' revealed jus' what I expected: shitloads a' benjamins. Huh. A "simple accountin' error," my ass. Mo' like tha Big Willie muhfukkas be skimmin' from tha company profitz, like one a' them wack Fo'tune 500 CEOs. Not that I give a shit 'bout SPJ's finances, long as they don't fuck wit' Midstate, but I could use it against 'em if they got wise 2 tha H-Dog bum-rushin' they HQ an' thirsted foe retaliation.

Tha retaliation would come wit' a greater quickness than I anticipated.

"Greeting, H-Dog."

I whipped around. Five huge muhfukkahs wuz standin' right behind me. I peeped what they wuz wearin' an' knew immediately who they be.


Blueshirts.

Yeah, Blueshirts. Y'all peeps 'em on tha train or tha bus or drivin' in tha rush hour. Dudes wearin' them sissy blue dress shirts, sometimes wit' black dress pants, sometimes chinos. They looks like average suckahs, readin' tha WSJ or talkin' at clients on tha phone or gettin' coffee. But tha fact they everywhere an' don't hide theyselves like ninjas do be what make 'em so menacin'. Cuz don't hardly no one know they tha deadliest office enforcement gang on tha planet. Every one be trained in four kinds a' martial arts. Minimum. An' now five a' these punks about 2 come down on me, hard.


One of 'em sent a flyin' kick 2 my chest. I reeled back onto a credenza, then grabbed tha sidez wit' my hands behind my head, put mah knees 2 my head, and kicked out, knockin' two Blueshirts cold wit' my two feets.

Then anotha one came at me with tha Lo Han Fist. It vex me wild 2 see tha purely defensive artz a' tha peace-lovin' Shaolin bruthahood used foe corrupt ends, y'all. I blocked his fist wit' an iron fo'earm, windmilled my arms, an' connected a Shadowless Kick straight upside his bitch head. Then I gave him a Super Press-Down 'til I heard his ribs snap 2 my satisfaction.


That left two. Foe some reason, durin' tha kung-fu fightin', opponents only come atchu one atta time. I dodged tha fourth punk's Wind An' Thundah Fist wit' a triple somersault ova tha CEO's desk an' smashed through his office's window into tha main room. He hurled shards a' tha busted glass at me like throwin' stars, but I deflected 'em by pitchin' a loose corkboard at 'em, an' launchin' a hard kick 2 his throat. He flew away, but y'all could tell tha muhfukkah be usin' wires. I cornered him in a cubicle, an' we traded furious blows wit' a quickness. Tha first punk I knocked cold came to an' snuck up behind me, but I dispatched him again with a punch from tha back a' my fist without turnin' around. I aim a kick under tha fourth punk's chin, an' he go somersaultin' ova tha cubicle an' through tha window 2 tha outside.

Tha last muhfukkah be tha most hardcore, but inna psycho way. He laughed like a hyena, then he assumed a stance I didn't recognize foe a second. Then he came at me. Holy fuckin' shit: Tha muhfukkah be a mastah a' tha Deadly Super Wondah Palm. That certain death. I vaulted ovah him an' kicked tha back a' his head on tha descent. We whipped aroun' 2 face one anothah. He came at me again. I grabbed a stapler, said a prayer, an' popped a whole cartridge a' staples at his face. Tha muhfukkah in agony.


"That kung-fu is not of mainstream!" he screamed, pickin' staples outta his face. "Who is teach you such perfidy?"

"My kung-fu incorporate office supplies," I hissed. "That be my Magic Staple-Gun Punch."


I riled tha crazy bitch up good. Furious, he launched anotha Wondah Palm at me. Its touch brand a burnin' palm mark fulla poison, an' suckas don't live too long aftaward. But wit' a blood-chillin' scream, he ended up through tha same window I sent tha last punk through, an' foe some reason, there wuz a big explosion. I jes' singlehandedly fucked up five Blueshirts, but I wuz too cashed 2 gloat. Wit' my last ounce a' strength, I turned ova on my back an' lay motionless.

All quiet foe a while. Then, a piece-a paypa fluttahed down an' landed on my chest. It a cashier's check foe tha full amount SPJ owe us: $91.46. Then, outta nowhere, I heard this freaky laugh. Tha first two punks already split. I thought it might be tha crazy Blueshirt bitch, but his laugh sounded a li'l different. Finally, this kinda sissy voice spoke up.


"Excellent work, Herbert Kornfeld," tha voice say. "Here is your payment in full, for services rendered. As you can see, it's guaranteed. Your fighting skills are superlative. You dispatched five of the toughest Blueshirts in the entire state. Hmm. Five. Isn't that the same age at which your sister disappeared? Your sister, Herbert? Or do the mists of time obscure her memory? It is a pity you couldn't use your Office-Fu then to save her."

My throat went dry. My pupils dwindled 2 pinpoints.

"Goddamn you," I screamed. "What do y'all know 'bout my sistah, you muhfukka? Don't nobody talk about my sistah, not evah. Dammit, who you be? An' what do y'all know'bout my sistah? Answer me!"


But tha voice didn't speak no more.

If that story didn't make y'all shit yo' Underoos, then you must be wearin' a muhfukkin' toe tag. By tha way, any a' y'all evah aks me about my sistah, I crease yo' head wit' a three-hole punch.


Prior to his death on April 30th, 2007, Herbert Kornfeld wrote about workplace issues for The Onion. He worked as the Accounts Receivable Supervisor at Midstate Office Supply, the state's oldest wholesaler and retailer of office supplies and business machines.