What long days! Longer days than working for the mafia, thought Jared. Though of course he didn't think he was working for the mafia. How could he have been that naïve? I mean, that was pretty dumb—out of all the dumb things he could have been assuming, that was pretty dumb. Pretty weird too, come to think of it, he thought as he pounded his stubby legs down the hallway, weirder than that dream he had last night, the one where he made out with the Warden, yeah, that was a weird one. Man, my mind races a lot, I should stop doing that. It's probably why I'm so bad at the little things, because I can't focus on them for more than two seconds before I have to start thinking about something else. He dropped his papers on the ground, frenzied, outside the Warden's office door. Stupid, stupid, stupid, come on Jared, get it together, the boss is counting on you. Mortality graphs in front of the taxes, he does like the pretty pictures, and a happy Warden is a Warden that signs his paperwork without a fuss. Pounding the papers neatly and obsessively on his left knee to even out the corners and popping them in a linear manila folder, Jared inspected his tidy reorganization as he shoved the door open with a busy shoulder.
"Sir, I've got some statistics for you I think you'll appreciate," he said, his face buried in his work as he entered the room. As the door swung ajar, the Warden's face whipped up from his desk, his cheeks slightly sunken and nose a bit rosy. "…sir?" Jared caught a quick glimpse of his boss' desk—a straight edged razor that appeared as if it used to be inside of a shaving utensil with a bit of white powder on it, the Warden clutching a very short straw, a bit of a shattered mirror. He didn't need to see any more.
"Get the fuck out of here," the Warden cooed, his eyes glistening with loathing, his heart strangling his throat through his stomach.
Jared ran, his folder leaving a splay of papers raining in chaos, the Warden running his fingers like a tremor though his hair in Jared's wake.