07 December 2009

Workday Woes

There are some days when you wake up and you just can’t muster up the strength to haul your ass out of bed to get to your dead end job. And the reason for this, let’s call it “fuckerosity”, for lack of an actual descriptive word, is you have a fucking bitch of a boss who thinks it’s her life’s aim to hound you at your every step, to make your workdays a miserable, suicide-provoking, endless procession of hours. And your only respite is when the clock strikes 6:30 (that’s right, THIRTY FUCKING MINUTES PAST FUCKING SIX, FUCKING HALF PAST FUCKING SIX, not five like other normal, decent jobs), and you get to walk to your car and spend another hour and a half in a fucking traffic jam before you finally reach home, too fucking tired to even eat.

Well, I’ve got that bitch of a boss, and yesterday was one of those days.

Ironically, the day started off pretty well. I woke up early, feeling refreshed. I even had the time to stop at Abang Mi’s for my favorite nasi lemak with sambal paru. The roads weren’t as congested in the morning, and I had a pleasant drive to the office, listening to songs on my iPhone.

I reached the office and immediately started my daily routine of numb-minding paperwork. As I was clacking away on my keyboard, the bitch walked up to my cubicle.

“Where’s the report I asked for yesterday?”

I looked up. “I put in on your desk, ma’am. Did you look properly?”

She started flaring her nostrils, a sure sign that a tantrum was on the horizon. “Don’t be a smartass. Where the fuck is my report?” She was starting to raise her voice.

I tried to keep calm, although my fists were clenching under the desk.

“It should be on your desk. I don’t know if someone else took it.”

She was screaming now, her face turning a deep shade of red. “Fuck you! It’s not there, you fucking retard! Fuck! I want my fucking report now, you fucking idiot!”

And, well…

That’s all I remember. The next thing I knew, I was at home.

And I had the bitch nailed to my floor. Hmm, I should elaborate, I guess. I don’t actually remember what happened, but I guess I must have punched her in the face at some point during the day because she had a nice purple bruise on her right cheek. And then I somehow carried her home and nailed her hands and feet to the floor, like a grotesque parody of Jesus.

She wasn’t naked, God, no. Not yet, at least. No dirty thoughts here, if you please. That would be horribly disgusting, like thinking of a rotting, maggot infested cow. She was, however, starting to wake up. I decided to wait for her to be fully conscious so that she will better appreciate the upcoming experience.

After around 10 minutes or so, she started to make noises. I am reluctant to say ‘scream’ here, because the sound that came from her mouth sounded more like the bleating of a wounded goat more than anything else. I quickly prepared some tools and approached her.

She started to scream for real now.

“What the fuck are you doing? Help! Help!” Her eyes were wide with terror, I noticed.

I smiled at her.

“Tsk, tsk,” I said. “Such a foul mouth. To use a cliché, bitch, no one can hear you. I would like to welcome you to your annual appraisal.

“Now I’m going to give you a choice-“

“I want to live!” She interrupted. “I want to live, so that I can get out of here and report you to the police and they’ll lock you up so that you’ll be fucking ass-raped so hard that you won’t be able to walk for seven fucking years!”

“Wow,” I exclaimed. “You’ve been watching too much TV. Here in the Otherworld the good guys always win.”

She looked up at me. “Otherworld? What the fuck are you saying? Let me go! What do you mean, good guy? You’re the good guy? You’re crazy, you motherfucker!”

I had had enough of her foul mouth.

“Shut up,” I said. “Like I said, I’m going to give you two choices. Unfortunately, you’re not going to leave this place alive. So, ma’am, all you have to do is choose. Behind Door Number One: quick and painless! One BANG! and it’s over. Behind Door Number Two: agonizingly slow and painful. You’ll probably scream yourself to death. Literally.”

She didn’t answer me. She started squealing like a tied pig.


I chuckled. “Aha, looks like you’ve chosen Door Number Two!”


I took a spoon and plunged it into her left eye, careful not to pop the eye. I scooped her eye out and stuffed it into her wide open mouth. She started to choke.

“Oh no,” I said. “You’re not going to choke on me, now.”

I stuffed the spoon into her throat and took the eye out. Then I took a pair of scissors and cut the front of her t-shirt and her bra to expose her large, ugly, sagging breasts. I noticed that her right breast was larger than her left, and her nipples were (barf!) hairy.

“Eww!” I gagged. “You are hideous. It’s no surprise that no man would want you.”

She was still squealing. The stupid bitch.


I got a sharp knife and slowly sliced her right breast off. When this was done I told her, “Balance!”


I started to skin her, starting from where I had cut her disgusting right boob off. She was breathing in hitched gasps now, but trying to squeal anyway. The stupid bitch.

After about 20 minutes, I had flayed her whole torso. She was, amazingly, still alive. She wasn’t screaming anymore. She was just whimpering like a wet dog. Bitch.

I was, I have to admit, kinda tired. I thought, what the heck let’s get this over with, and decided to end it.

I ran out to my tool shed and got a garden rake. When I got back in, I just started to rake and rake her flayed flesh until she became still.

She was dead, finally.

I took pictures of her body and posted them on Facebook. A lot of my officemates commented on the pictures. All the comments were positive and encouraging.

I never had any trouble at the office anymore.

And if I did, I’d do it all over again.