"Karofsky, you're late, again," said Mr. Maggio, the manager of marketing at Dusty's Insurance, the only car insurance company in Lima, Ohio. It's also the one everyone in Lima complains about.
"Sorry, boss. My car wouldn't start, and—"
"I don't want to hear it, nor do I care. Next time, the pay for all of the work you missed is coming out of your salary. Understand, Karofsky?"
"Yes, boss. You can call me Dave, by the way."
"Thanks, but no thanks." And with that, Mr. Maggio went back to his computer, where he claimed to be doing work, but was making a habit out of searching Sia songs on YouTube.
Dave walked into his small, cramped cubicle, next to an ex-convict and a drop out of the local high school. Dave didn't particularly like the marketing department, nor did any other department in the building. The people who work at Dusty's are the not-so-bright men of Lima, who need a career with some kind of salary. The range of people who work there are B plus students, all the way to people with three convictions on their record. The B plus students end up in finance—the C.E.O. figures they won't screw everything up—and the convicts and drop-outs end up in marketing. The people in the middle end up working with people, instead of being in cubicles.
Despite Dave having a solid B plus average when he left high school, he was placed in marketing because of his "incident". He has been trying to live it down everyday for the past ten years since he left his alma mater, but Mr. Maggio, as usual, doesn't really care.
And so, here was Dave, whose closest friend at work is nicknamed "The Master Snatcher".
"Yo, Karofsky," The Master Snatcher called.
"What?" Karofsky replied, slightly annoyed.
"Meeting at twelve for a meeting, be there."
"For what, exactly?"
"We're making a new ad."
Dave sighed. The legacy of ads included D-list "supermodels", smashing cars with hammers, and stupid co-workers rambling about the company and it's origins. Dave knew for sure that this was going to be a long day at work.
After work, Dave needed a drink. The meeting had gone worse then he had thought, with ideas such as horses running in the way of cars to be hit, and a symphony of cars running into lampposts.
He went over to his new favorite bar—the former gay bar of Lima had closed down eight years ago—and sat on a barstool. The bartender seemingly refused to come over, until Dave finally had to yell, "I'm here to drink, not wait around!"
Then, Dave saw him. His blue eyes shone against his porcelain skin, and his hair was as stylish as ever. The bartender was Kurt Hummel.