Machine Of Death

"The bloke's a whack job." Billy, the Director of Marketing, tells me this while he's picking his nose with a paperclip. In the background a phone has been ringing for five minutes without kicking into voicemail, and in the next cube, somebody's screaming at a subordinate employee on another line. I want to kill them all and dance to the sounds of their suffering through the junkyard of smashed computers and office plants and overturned desks.