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Fred peered down his nose at Tom, the way he always did when he was pissed off. His face was beat red and his nostrils where slightly flared, quivering with suppressed rage.

“Conica is on my ass about the finance reports! Of all the things you could have fucked up, Tom, why did it have to be this?” he said, his weight leaning dangerously over the edge of Tom's desk, his voice erupting in furious bursts.

Tom took a pencil from his desk and very deliberately shoved it in his electric sharpener. The sounds of the tiny motor sheering pencil shavings from a crisp, new #2 filled the office. Tom stared blankly into the beady eyes of Fred Bradford as the motor whirred. Once the pencil had been tuned to a fine point, Tom removed it and blew the dust from its tip with a calculated breath. He rolled the pencil across his desk. It bounced lightly off of Bradford's fat, which had settled itself comfortably on the edge of Tom's desk.

“Bradford, one of these day's you'll learn that it's better to treat people like people. I had to learn that the hard way. You want your reports done, you can do them yourself. You can expect me to be out of here by the end of the week.”

Tom took a in a brief moment of satisfaction as he saw Bradford's expression shift from one of anger to horror, but it was little comfort to the deje vu that had stirred his soul just minutes earlier.

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