My coworkers have started placing landmines in the hall. They’ve gotten clever with it. At first, they’d cover them with a sheet of paper, or a casually-dropped scarf. If you weren’t looking down, they’d get you.
Then someone found the manufacturer who sold our building their floor tiles. Now, I never know where to step. It happened again today. I had my headphones on, walking down the hall, minding my business, and WHAM—
It blew my left leg right off. My headphones went flying and I crashed into the wall. When I looked up, my coworker was standing above me. She smiled. “Oh, Mr. Pigeon,” she said, bending down, “—so, me and some people are going out for drinks tonight. I’d like you to come!”
I pushed myself into a seated position and took off my belt. “Work people?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yeah—just get everyone together and bond, you know?”
I used my belt to cut blood flow from my bleeding stump. Once I got it nice and tight, I looked back up at her. “I’m sorry. I don’t think so.”
Her smile stepped off the cliff of her face. A frown replaced it. “Why not?” She demanded.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t like you—don’t take this the wrong way. I just—just, I don’t care about you. Any of you. I don’t want to care. I have my own life, my own shit to care about and you people are fine—just, fine. But, no.”
And, thankfully, just as she was about to respond, she stepped onto a land-mine-loaded tile of her own, and—being smaller than me—was, blessedly, blown to smithereens.
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