The Commuter Chronicles, Pt. 3

Bared teeth and staring gouges are turned furiously in my direction, a wall of glistening red and pale wax.

I am a little unnerved.

As if on cue, a grad student wanders into their midst. At first he is casual, staring down at a yellow plan-of-work form, slinging a droopy backpack that has melted into his equally droopy clothes, obviously looking to attract some helpful attention.

It takes a second for him to register the recently-vacated ocular cavities shared by most of the office staff. Another second to realize no one will be able to read his transcripts.

A look of incomprehension and concern slowly squeezes onto his face like a bloom of acne.

It's a new team-building thing. You know, Fulci Friday.

Approaching one of the blind things, he sputters an inane question. At this point, I'm not too keen on details. All the things have twisted around to thrust their bloody visages toward the sound of his voice. His alarm appears to be bordering on total constipation.

He is digging out his cell phone.

Before he can remember which numbers comprise 9-1-1, they are on him. He is torn to shreds instantly. I don't think I've ever seen that much blood in my life. A set of teeth shear into his jugular resulting in a jet of splurting crimson which paints most of his face. Simultaneously, several groping hands tear his abdomen open, ripping through his shirt and pants, and releasing his intestines out onto the floor with a sound like 40 pounds of spaghetti hitting linoleum.

The grimace occupying his face more closely resembles an expression of indignant shock, like somebody told a bad joke. The things are tugging the ropes of his innards in all directions.

Their feast is quite noisy. For his part, he doesn't even manage a scream. Just an exhalation of profound disappointment as a snarling mouth chews his left ear off.

His eyes glaze. In a moment, various pieces of his body have travelled to various parts of the office in various conditions, none of which give the impression of having belonged to a single organism.

All that's left of the kid is a very unfortunate-smelling Jackson Pollack painting.

Welcome to grad school, my friend. Very competitive.

I start looking around for some good solid objects. All that comes to hand are a set of Bic pens and some heavy-duty scissors. Hey, our budget was recently cut. 3%. Gotta make due.

I unbutton my collar and prepare to interrupt my ex-colleagues' working lunch.