No one knew how hard it was. People gave him flak all the time, but no one really knew how hard it was to run the BPRD.

Director Tom Manning slumped down in his chair and put his head on his desk. If he'd say something like that around Liz, or Abe, or Kate, or even - God forbid - Captain Daimio, they'd volunteer to take his place as Director on the spot, no questions asked. But no one knew how difficult it could be.

Every day, it was the same thing over and over: he'd get case files from the government, explaining that some ghoul or boogie was terrorizing some Girl Scouts or something like that, and that he had to "send down the best agents possible ASAP!" God, if he could get a dollar for every time he saw that sentence, he could retire a rich, rich man and never set foot in this Godforsaken place again. The he'd get his whippings from the higher-ups about how he wasn't doing his job, and he'd tried to counter with how his agents were spread out pretty thin (Please, he'd think, It's like spreading a spoonful of butter on a tennis course). And it'd go on, and on, and on until he went to sleep (sometimes helped along with some sleeping pills or scotch, depending on how nice his memories wanted to play).

It had seemed like an easy enough job when the Professor nominated him for it. Just pass out assignments, make sure Hellboy doesn't kill himself or anyone, and you were hot to trot! Simple, right?

Wrong. Dead wrong. He made too many mistakes. Like with Roger. That bomb was a Bad Idea, hands down. It took him a couple years to realize that the bomb wasn't needed, and that Roger was the nicest and most well-behaved agent he could ever ask for. He did his job, made no unreasonable demands, and got along with everyone. He was like that special ed kid everyone had in their class in high school - seemingly innocent, unaware of some of the harsher things in the world, and loved by pretty much everyone (hell, even Daimio liked that goofball, and that SOB barely liked anyone).

When he was alive, anyways.

That was one of the things that weighed his heart down the most, only lonely nights like this. Roger shouldn't've died like that. Hell, he shouldn't've died at all. That was an error on his part. He'd always consider his biggest mistake to be the day he sent Roger out to head a mission when he wasn't even trained to do so.

Now everything was falling apart. Daimio had tried to quit on him, Abe was being his usual self and hardly talked to anyone any more, and Liz was practically catatonic with nightmares. And he wasn't even going to get started with Hellboy . . . .

With a heavy sigh, Director Tom Manning sat up, reached under his desk, and pulled out a bottle of scotch.

What better way to forget the past than to drink it out of your system? Damn the consequences. He was gonna die young anyways - being in a job like this, he had one foot in a pool labeled "CORONARY", the other foot in a pool labeled, "HEART ATTACK", and a guillitine over his head named "DISGRUNTLED EMPLOYEE".

The aftermath was secondary, after all . . . who gave a fuck about tomorrow if there's today to look at?

Hey hey hey guys. Guess who's alive? Not me, as you can see - I'm a zombie.

Alright, so as I've already said, this one-shot is a lame attempt to actually post something here. I don't know when I'll be getting back to my WIP's, so don't hold your breath.

A big, big, BIG shoutout to Markey and RubyDracoGirl, for still talking to me even though I'm being a lazy hobo.

If you guys want, I might add more onto this to make is suck less, but that's all up in the air right now . . . I have to finish my fan-faction before senior year is over, and I think I might be 1/3 to 1/2 way done . . . but anyways, keep on truckin' (and pray that I get a snowday tomorrow!)

~Izzy