Craving for extermination

“All they do is take.”  My voice is weak like someone found near death in the desert.  I speak to his gold-rimmed glasses more than his swimming, frightened eyes.

He’s higher up on the food chain.  At night he fucks a hot divorcée who used to work here.

‘We’re all just numbers,” he says with sympathy.

He is right, but when they fuck him it’s with more and better lube.

The whole thing is a joke.  This isn’t a real job, he isn’t real, the walls aren’t real.  When I tell Glasses morale here is non-existent the HR cunt sticks her ugly mushroom head out of her windowless office.

“We’re having a meeting about that.”

I want to throw her against the cinder block wall which isn’t real.

I can’t hate Glasses in the manner he deserves, he’s so sympathetic to the eternal screwings of the dead-end job.

Bullshit, of course.

I am getting fucked with a dildo of sand and grit.

Our meeting ends.  In the restroom I piss in the sink.  In the mirror is the only motherfucker who will fight for me.  He has to get me out of this mess, no one else can or will.

I have a craving for extermination like the Buddha warned I would.

Will it be them or me?

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