And I present to you, a break from my usual dark tones and romantic drama. I give you..
Work Sucks.
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Meet Garfield Logan. Dark, olive tanned skin. Tall, lanky, and awkward. Shaggy hair periodically dyed green. Early twenties. Single. The one who makes horrible puns during meetings and spends an unusually prolonged amount of time at the watercooler.
Mr. Logan works for a company called Slade Enterprises General. He works forty hours a week in his little cubicle in a sea of little cubicles. He is signed on with the company as a programmer, but feels that his life is in a rut.
Garfield was abruptly shocked out of his slumber when his alarm clock buzzed loudly in his ear. His eyes squeezed shut, he covered his ears and pulled the pillow over his head, attempting to shut out the noise. When it didn't work, he screamed into his mattress out of frustration and slammed his fist down on the alarm clock, hitting the alarm button.
"Craaaaaaaap," he whined into his pillow. After a few minutes of loathing and thoughts of going back to sleep, he begrudgingly pulled himself out of bed and stumbled over to his closet.
Today, like every other day, he put on his stupid little pressed white shirt, with his stupid little thin black slacks that he couldn't get comfortable in because of that freaking "comfort crease" down the length of the legs. He put on his stupid little black socks and matching black shoes and slung a tie around his neck. Grunting to himself under his breath, he buttoned up the cuffs on his shirt and shoved a comb through his hair. The cowlick he had wouldn't subside, and after a few attempts he threw down his comb and flicked off the bathroom light, no longer caring about his bedhead.
He slung his messenger bag of paperwork over his shoulder and slammed the door behind him, heading over to his car; the car that he had missed several payments on, incidentally.
The drive to work was uneventful and boring. Everyone and their mother was driving to work, and traffic was moving as slowly as it could. He slammed his head down on the steering wheel and stared down at his feet.
"One of these days," he mumbled bitterly to himself.
Now, let's move forward a bit further in the day.
Mr. Logan arrives at the office, and the parking lot, as per the norm, is full.
Garfield drove around the lot for the seventh time, looking desperately for an open spot. Every day for the past week, he had parked about three blocks away because there were no open spots in the lot. He looked around again, his gaze sweeping the concrete desert. The only spots open were the handicapped places, and he toyed with the idea of simply parking there in desperation.
"Not like anybody uses those damn spots.." he mumbled to himself. He sat for a moment staring at the rather inviting blue square, and ultimately decided that he would chance it. He pulled up into the spot and turned off the ignition, stepping out onto the pavement and locking the car behind him. It chirped as he hit the lock button a second time, and he slowly took his unwilling steps towards the corporate prison that he spent five days a week in.
When he entered the office, he walked past the receptionist, who greeted him warmly.
"Morning Garfield!" she cheerily called out.
He waved half-heartedly. "Hi Kori. How was your weekend?"
"Excellent, actually! Went to a barbeque with some guys from the office. How about you?"
He shrugged as he continued on his way to his cubicle. "Watched zombie movies and went to the bar."
She laughed. "Have a good day."
"If I wanted that, I'd have stayed home," he called back to her, hearing her laugh as he walked away.
Weaving through his coworkers, he was greeted cheerily by a bunch of generic Joes who he didn't care about, all smiling and waving, sporting those little pocket protectors full of expensive fountain pens and a fake tan, slicked back hair and a bleached smile. Good God, one of these days he was going to come to work with a shotgun and clear the building. He raised his eyebrows and extended a lip, nodding as he considered the idea. He'd seen it done before. Those folks that shot up the office. Postmen did that a lot. He patted his letter carrier bag fondly and smiled to himself, musing over the idea.
His thoughts were interrupted when he saw her. Her hair was purple today, died black at the ends and neatly pulled back into a ponytail. She wore a small pair of thin black half-rimmed spectacles and a navy blue suit jacket and accompanying brown skirt. It was about knee high, but it rode up as she took long strides through the room.
"Holy hell," he thought to himself. "Those legs."
She was wearing a dark nylon and her thin, elegant legs extended before her with each step. She had a stack of manilla folders under her arm, and she looked rather busy. He raised his eyebrows and grinned at her as she passed him.
"Hey Rachel!" he said as smoothly as he could.
She extended her middle finger and brushed past him, continuing her fast pace through the workplace.
As she walked away, he stared at her butt as it moved underneath her skirt.
He whistled to himself and stepped into his cubicle, dropping his bag on the floor and starting up his computer.
A head poked over the divider. "Dude!"
Meet Victor Stone. Six foot three, muscular, brilliant, dark skinned and built like a brick shithouse. He too works for Slade Enterprises General as a programmer. He and Garfield are best friends and have been coworkers for almost two years.
Garfield looked up at his friend and raised his eyebrows in greeting. "Hey man." His computer had started up, and he opened up the standard work file that they used, entitled "Slade_."
"How long have you been here today?" he called over the wall divider to Victor.
"Yeah." Victor looked up from his chair. "Dude, just come around the divider and into my cubicle. You don't have to yell at me over the wall, man. We can socialize."
The sound of hurried footsteps could be heard, and a moment later the lanky man was standing in the cramped cubicle with his friend.
Victor rotated in his swivel-chair, spinning it around to face his coworker. "Yes?"
Garfield jumped onto the man's desk and took a seat on a stack of work papers, kicking his dangling feet in front of him.
"Dude, I'm gonna ask Rachel out."
"Again?" came the reply. "You know she's rejected you like.. Eight times, right?"
"Only seven!" he said, crossing his arms. "Besides, I'm sure she appreciates my tenacity."
Victor stared at his friend blank-faced. "Dude. She's filed harassment charges against you twice already."
Garfield unfolded a piece of paper from his pocket and took in a deep breath, smelling it. "It smells like her!" he said dreamily.
The large man rolled his chair a few inches farther away and stared at his friend, showing visible signs of discomfort. "Okay that's.. really creepy, dude."
"Dude. That is so not creepy. It's romantic as hell."
"Just do you work, holy crap," Victor said, eager to get out of the conversation that made his friend look like a stalker.
"Whatever," he grumbled, stepping out of the cubicle and going the few feet over to his own.
And when he got there, he stopped dead in his tracks, his face contorted in humorous agitation.
Standing in front of his computer was the last person he wanted to see.
Meet Tara Markov. Blonde, outspoken, potentially bulimic. The loud, obsessive blonde of the office, who happens to be infatuated with Mr. Logan. Sadly for her, the feeling is not mutual and as such she serves as a further annoyance in his daily hellgrind.
"Hello Tara," he mumbled through clenched teeth, taking deep breaths in order to calm himself.
"Well hey there cutie-pie," she said with a wink and a flirtacious gesture. "When'd you get here?"
"Please get out of my cubicle," he said, his left eye beginning to twitch.
"Am I.. distracting you?" she giggled.
"Tara, for the love of God, we went out ONE TIME. Stop leaving the messages on my answering machine, stop the letters to my house and the creepy things like waiting for me outside the bathroom and writing your name on my things."
She winked. "I do it out of love."
"Oh God," he mentally kicked himself for ever going out with her. He didn't realize then how clingy she was.
"Please. Get. Out."
She sighed and strode out of his workspace, huffing and stamping her feet as she went.
"How's your girlfriend?" came Victor's laugh.
"I swear to God I'll murder you," he called back. His threat was met with more laughter.
As he was settling in to begin his work for the day, another one of his coworkers stepped into his area, although this was one he got along with.
Meet Mr. Dick Grayson! Tall, charismatic, with slicked back jet black hair and a smile that could stop traffic. Like seriously, cars would stop. Like, you know how Mr. Clean has that white sparkly smile? Yeah, it's like that. Anyway, Mr. Grayson works in accounting and is the office playboy.
"So, guess what I did last night?" he said, leaning against the divider of Garfield's space.
"What did you do last night?" he asked, not willing to guess.
Dick hiked his thumb back towards the receptionist desk. "Kori."
Garfield nodded in approval. "Chill."
"Yeah, it was pretty awesome."
"So how long have you two been going out?" he asked.
"Going out?" Dick looked surprised. "We're not. This was a one time thing."
"Yeah right," Garfield laughed. "You say that now, but you've had a thing for her for as long as I can remember."
"Psh. That's not my style," the dark haired man said, brushing the comment off as he left. "Take it easy."
"You too."
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The day went by uneventfully, and our dear Mr. Logan did about only twenty minutes of real work.
When he stepped out of the office into the parking lot at four that afternoon, he saw the handicapped spot he had parked in was empty.
"FUCK ME," he said loudly and flatly.
A blonde head popped out of a nearby bush. "SURE!"
"GODDAMMIT TARA."
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Author's note: Look at the first letter in Slade Enterprises Xtml. I am freaking hilarious. .
In addition, I know that Terra's real name is Atlee. But in the comic book history she was born Tara Markov. So.. shhh.