He’s sitting behind his desk, which projects out in front of him like the deck of a super carrier. Collecting papers, mounds of trivial bureaucracy, landing, refueling, than departing his desk only to land, refuel, and leave someone else’s state of the art, redwood topped, war desk.

The time is slowly ticking by, while “Boredom” sits alone in his air-conditioned office, sucking down a diet coke, flipping around between ebay and porn sites.

He’s got a degree in “communications.” Though, the only time “Boredom” ever has to communicate anything to anybody other than his twenty something secretary is at the water cooler during his five-minute breaks.

Occasionally, “Boredom” dreams of bending this twenty something secretary over his massive desk, lifting up her requisite skirt, and fucking her in the ass, listening to her scream his name while he spanks her white skin. Taking his dick out of her before he cums and shooting all over her back and hair.

Show her who’s the boss.

Show that bitch tool what a cock is for…

“Mr. ______, are you awake in there?”

(In…)

It was my secretary.

“Oh good, Mr. ______, A Mr. Boswell, the man who called yesterday… The man who spoke kinda funny, kinda raspy, is here to see you.”

God she looked sexy.

“Thank you. Send him in, Ms. ______.”

“He’ll be right with you.”

Yeah, I’ll show you what daddy’s dick is for you little schoolgirl bitch…

“Hello Mr. ______, my name is Mr. Boswell.”

He shuts the door, takes a seat in front of me. Mr. Boswell is an average looking man who is extremely well dressed, holding a suitcase, which he sets down on his lap and precedes to open. His hand disappears into the suitcase, than reappears with a tape recorder, which he sets down on the edge of my big desk. He hits record, than sits back in his chair.

From here, he looks very small.

“I will cut the pleasantry, and offer you an explanation for why I’m here. Brevity has always been an advocate of mine at meetings such as these.”

“And what sort of meeting is this?” I ask, dryly, disinterested.

He pauses. Stares directly at me for a moment, than speaks:

“It has come to my superiors attention that you’re not a very happy man Mr. _____.”

I don’t respond immediately, I just stare back at him. After a while of neither of us saying anything, I get uncomfortable. To mask my discomfort, I take a sip from my diet coke. He continues to stare at me, though, and my hands begin to shake.

I set down my diet coke. I begin to hum.

“I do hope that you’re listening Mr. ______. It would be most unfortunate for you to disregard what I’m here to say, as it is to your benefit to hear me out.”

“I’m listening, it’s just, you know… late in the day and I’m tired and, well, not disinterested, just tired and…” I blurt out.

“That’s enough of an explanation. Perhaps we should complete this later?”

“No.” I say too quickly.

He pauses.

“Than ‘now’ will be acceptable?” He queries.

I pause.

“Yes.” Uncertain.

“Excellent.”

“Yes.” Resolved.

He pauses, than speaks:

“Mr. _____, do you know who I am? Do you know whom I work for?”

“No, but… fuck. Wait. For some reason. Hold on…” I stammer. I do remember meeting him before. I remember meeting his superiors as well, although the context completely escapes me.

Much of my life before this job, after my graduation, has escaped me.

“I represent the men that had you killed, Mr. _____.”

White out.

…A face above me… Smiling… Loving me through her eyes… My beautiful mother. She sings a lullaby… So beautiful… The tune, so pure… So real…

(To fulfill…)

…I’m at a table. Candles burn atop a cake while my friends… My friends are singing to me… “Happy birthday…” My mother takes a picture… I’m smiling… I remember that picture. Smiling…

(…my social…)

…Up on a stage… My father sings Neil Young songs to a small audience… I’m listening… We’re all listening… Hearing this voice, my father, these echoes… I cry… Being so proud of my father… I cry… To be his son…

(…responsibility…)

…There is a girl. We’re in a field. Together. Laughing, playing, passionately kissing each other… I hear her say my name. So beautiful. We’re in her bedroom. We’re making love… I smell her; taste her, feel her warmth and our bodies melt together…

(…I am expected to…)

…A small bar… I’m in college… Playing music with my little jazz quartet on Friday nights… it’s my solo, and I feel something… Fall into the music, and the crowd and everyone disappears… It’s just me, singing through my guitar…

(…fade away.)

Work. Routine. Pressures from my boss pressures from my client’s pressures from my coworkers from my landlord from my parents from the government from the tax bureau from the army from my doctor from ikea from the media from the lies that I’ve lived from the people that I’ve cheated from the god that I’ve wanted from the deep insatiable me that will never be satisfied…

I’ve become a great big vacuous hole of nobody.

“Mr. _____?” It’s Mr. Boswell. I’m staring up at him from what feels to be a horizontal position. I must’ve fallen over because my coworkers are crowded around me and they seem taller than usual.

From where I am, I can see up my secretary’s skirt.

And,

I start to get a hard on.