1700 hours. The day is gone. I place my head against the window. It fits flush against the glass because my head is a square block with sheer sides like a UPS package carrying a subwoofer. The coroner will open my skull with a dull house key some day.

Two days ago, Brett shot a paintball that exploded near Smitty’s head. This is his memory of the event.

The buildings across the street are black now, barely discernible through the gloom of a late Autumn night. I turn back to the chaos inside my workspace. It is my hell, my inferno, my Bowser’s Castle. The office has been decorated for Christmas. Some heathen had the gall to string lights from the rafters. I envision a few of my coworkers’ bodies hanging from them like meat shanks drying on the clotheslines of a Louisiana bayou. I chuckle to myself.

Ratta-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat

I know instantly that it’s the sound of automatic rounds chipping off chunks of a hastily-built wooden staircase. Except it’s not happening out there, it’s happening in here, in my mind. I played Fortnite from 1800 yesterday to 0900 this morning. Sleep is for the weak. And still the battle rages in my head. I hear it always: the crackled cries of a screaming teenager through my headset; an orchestra of clicks as I frantically button-mash in my final moments; the Seamless guy ringing my doorbell with dinner. Eventually, he will leave my sushi in the hallway as I dance on the corpses of children.

The Eagles beat the Giants this weekend. Blogged it.

My coworkers are my enemies. My boss is the ugly foster father assigned to me by the leathery, disjointed talons of a broken system. I am the forgotten son of Philadelphia. Michael B Jordan would have lunch with me.

Instinctively, I rub my shoulder. The cold causes it to act up. Dave forced me to fight in Rough ‘N Rowdy last year, when I decapitated the head of a midwestern cook. As we danced in the ring, I did not know where to look. One of his eyes fought me. The other seemed to check for fire exits. Now he’s here somehow, not twenty feet away, hired by the very devil whom I serve—Dave.

Something is happening in the office. The bastards set up a screen. I don’t know why. Was there an email? I check my inbox. They must have taken my name off the company email list.

I will eat their hearts for strength.

They’re planning something without me. I’ve worked here for twenty-six years and still they leave me out. Drivetime was the reason Peter Chernin felt confident enough to buy a third ski house, but Dave must destroyeth that which he hath not built himthelf.

I discovered Rone and Fran. Without me, there is no Chicks in the Office, no People’s Choice Award nomination, no battle rap champion. I am gender equality. I am respected by the black community.

Every morning, I print out a picture of Nate. I carry it in my wallet all day. Then, at night, I light it on fire and watch it rise gently before it curls upon itself and falls quietly to the floor. This was a technique I learned from one of the John Wick movies I wrote.

I also carry a swiss army knife with more accessories than could possibly be applied to any situation, ever. You never know when you’ll have to open a can of soup for someone.

Suddenly, a blue ball explodes through the screen and splats again the window just feet from my head. Time stops. I cannot breathe. My mouth goes vacuum-sealed dry. My vision clouds with a red mist and waves of heat and cold wash over my skin. I am under attack. I turn slowly and see Francis. He is unaware of the threat, even though he is directly in the line of fire. His massive shoulders bristle under his designer t-shirt. I don’t know how the TSA lets him fly. Have we been trained for this? The fire marshall once taught us what to do in an active-shooter situation, but I can’t remember a single thing he said. Is there a pamphlet in my drawer? I check. Nope. Just bison jerky and pie plates. I should get rid of those. Nobody knows that I set up the pie hit on Nate.

I try to remember my training. My life hangs in the balance. In my mind, I see the faces of my entire family line vanish. The seven sons of Smitty, gone in an instant, wiped out by a paintball through their would-be father’s trachea. My fingers twitch involuntarily, searching for the Y button to toggle through whatever weapons I may have under my sweatshirt. But there is no controller. This is real.

“Whoa!” they cry, peering around the screen. “Did that go through?”

The goblins have gone too far. They have woken the dragon. I am Kevin Spacey in the movie Seven.

I stand up, quickly. The blood rushes to fill the right angles in my head. I steady myself and fly into the radio room to talk to the brass. Spit flies from my mouth as I gesticulate madly. I know not what I say. The words come out in a torrent of bile. I see shapes. The devil speaks with a forked tongue.

A long, bureaucratic battle for veteran disability pay awaits. Mountains of paperwork and stifling legal fees will keep me home for months. I’ll take up professional poker again to pay the bills. But I’ll die before I sell artisanal pasta again.