Office of the Damned
Having been at my new job for about a month now, one thing I’ve slowly gotten used to is the sight of a thin, nine-foot-tall old man who roams the hallways in my office. He’s kind of odd-looking, in that way you’d get if you took a pile of old coat hangers and dressed it in a shirt and pair of dress pants. He has almost freakishly long arms that hang down to his knees and don’t swing when he walks; and the walk itself is a frightening stumbling affair. It looks like he’s constantly falling forward and catching himself from a faceplant at the last second.
I’ve never seen him talk; though if you nod at him he smiles an enormous smile before pounding his heavy feet down the hallway out of view. As far as I can tell he doesn’t seem to have a cubicle or, for that matter, any official responsibilities. Since I’ve never seen him do anything else, I can only assume lumbering down hallways is the sum total of his duties here.
I don’t know what’s worse: that my company apparently hired a scary Frankenstein monster; or that nobody seems to mind. At least this explains the flaming torch and pitchfork I received as part of my benefits package.
I’d complain to my boss, VP of Sales Dracula, but every time I enter his office I just hear a centuries-old voice coming from inside his enormous casket-like desk, asking me to make an appointment. Then I always just get distracted by his three under-sexed gown-wearing secretaries.