After my long awaited relief, I worked my way around the disorganized trash heap that the ol' DS family managed to screw up. I looked over a pile of crates (that were stacked in the most impossible formation I'd ever seen. Modern artists would shit their pants.) and peered at a door. The rusted portal was about 8x5' with a door handle located inside a protruding pipe lodged into the door(?) and a shaft of light emanating from a window in the center. Seeing my freedom, I rounded the Vincent van Gogh inspired crate arrangement, dashed to the door, and found my hands were too damn big for the pipe.

Had I been any other person, I would have pussied out and tried to find another alley of retreat, but I'm Wolf o'goddamn Donnell, and I'm not going to be beaten by a piece of shit door! What did I do? I stuck my muzzle into the damn pipe, bit the door knob, almost chipped a few teeth in the process, and rotated my head to open the damn thing. Soon after I swung the newly named "DS door" open, I was blinded by the brightest fucking light ever. Jesus Christ, the gateway to heaven wasn't that bright. Trust me, I've seen it many times. (The last of which was right before crash landing in a giant pile of shit.) My eyes adjusted, and I realized that I wasn't outside. I was in a goddamn room. A room that I could only guess was lit by roughly a dozen supernovas. God, this place must kick out enough UV to cook chicken... at thirty yards.

I squinted my eyes to get a look around, and found I was in a locker room. I scanned the room, 5 rows of 2x5' lockers stretched from one end, to the other leaving just enough room to get passed them. I chose a random locker, opened it up (this is grade A security, folks), then grabbed a hanging worker's uniform. I immediately dropped it. Why, do you ask? That's because the thing gave off a toxic odor that could only be labeled as a Level 4 Bio-Hazard. Damn, that thing could kill maggots.

Reluctantly, I picked up the calamity, then put it over my clothes (Like hell I was going to wear this til I got new attire.) I read the name tag, Polenshich. That was the dumbest name I have ever heard. I swear, parents that name their child Polenshich should be beaten with their own limbs. I was in no mood to be called Poleinshit, so I just ripped the damn tag off.

Now in proper DS attire, I began to look for the real way out. After a few moments, a brightly lit "EXIT" sign marked my passage to freedom. I walked through the aisles to the afore mentioned gateway, grabbed the door handle, turned it, then got interrupted by a screech that damn near made my ear drums rupture. Frantically, I looked around for the source, then looked directly in front of me to a sign written in giant frickin' red letters, "EMERGENCY EXIT, DUMBASS!" Okay, I added in the last part, but I deserved it. That was one of the rookiest mistakes anyone could possibly make, tunnel vision. Here I am in the middle of a frickin' hostile territory and I have the utter brilliance to open a friggin' emergency exit. And did I learn my lesson? Hell no! I went and committed rookiest mistake number two... panic! In my panic, I just burst through the door... to find the entire Dipshit Family running in circles like chickens with their head in their asses. Maybe activating the emergency alarm was a good thing after all. What do you know? Luck is not usually my friend... but today it was.

I scanned the area. Large shipping containers, giant fusion powered trucks, loading and unloading stations. Yep, this was the shipping sector. I started toward with the trucks when... Smack! I was thrown to the ground by a beer bellied hick that, apparently, didn't understand the concept of going aroundsomeone. Instead, he decided to use all the kinetic energy of his fat ass to propel my body to the ground. Then, just to add injury to the insult, the fat bastard stepped on my freakin' hand. I truly...deeply...hate...life.

Pulling my self off the ground, I double checked my surroundings. Good news, most of the area had been vacated in the ensuing chaos, leaving me free reign. Bad News, MY GODDAMN HAND HURT LIKE A BITCH! I grabbed the throbbing appendage and tried to massage out the pain. After most of the agony had abated, my eyes turned toward the trucks.

My first thought was to just take one and drive it through the garage door. Then, the consequences of such actions ran through my mind. This pretty much gave the following scenarios: 1.I drive out, the guards see me, then slag my ass as use it as phallus warmer. 2. If there were no guards, I still would have no idea where the hell I was going. I would wander around aimlessly until someone got suspicious, stopped me, find out I don't work here, then hit the dipshit alarm then the guards would slag my ass as use it as phallus warmer. Well, I guess I was just going to have to scout the area first.

I strolled out an entryway to the outside world. Corneria looked exactly like I remembered it, a shit hole. Solar pulsated it's bright light from the heavens, the smell of pungent dew trees still lingered from the morning, and small creatures emanated noises from places unknown. This place sucks ass. Looking to get out of here as soon as possible, I examined the proximity. Several warehouses, similar to the one I was in, laid parallel across from each other. At the end of the long stretch of plunderhouses, there was a station manned by two guards. The two guards were packing heat in the form of SR-275 turrets. Why in the hell would they have SR-275s? SR-275s are made to shoot goddamn fighters out of the sky and take out landmasters, not guard some fucktards with the IQ of a mud brick.

I opted to go back inside, feeling it best that I remained unnoticedNow, I really didn't want to deal with the unbelievably overgunned guards at the checkpoint. When I entered the door that was previously my exit, I found that the workers had began to, wearily, come out of where ever the hell they went. Knowing I would be questioned if I was just meandering about, I walked with a stride of purpose to the first hallway I saw. Trust me, no will ever question you when you're walking like you have to get someplace in a goddamn hurry. I pushed past the people in my way, some even giving me the one finger salute, as I went to god knows where.

As I strode down the hall, I scanned the room plaques as I went. I swept through the first hall, made a left just to barge over a bureaucratic gopher, sending the large load of probably useless documentation she was carrying flying. Without stopping or even looking twice at the catastrophe I caused, Ileft the screeching rodent behind me as I continued looking for the door I sought. One right turn and down a hall later I found it, I threw open the mahogany door to find myself in the "Identification Manufacturing Room". I looked about the room at several photocopy machines, cameras and a wide eyed avian receptionist with thick glasses. She looked up at me the through the bifocals, her eyes magnified comically by her prescription, which, combined with her ridiculously large beak gave her an oddly fish-like look. How ironic for an avian. I swear I could actually see the rods on her retina with those puppies on.

"May I help you?" She asked in the usual monotone. God damn... when will these people get tired of fitting into stereotypes?

I approached her with one of my "I'm-In-A-Bad-Mood-Just-Give-Me-What-I-Want-Dammit" expressions and replied, "I just got hired here and according to the two "not so gentle"-men at the gate that gave me something just shy of an upper intestinal tract inspection using sandpaper for lubricant before letting me in... that I need, 'proper identification.' "

She squinted her eyes at me a moment a shuffled a few papers on the desk in front of her,"I don't have a notification for a new employee..."

It occurred to me that she was probably just pretending to look.

"Ok," I interjected as rudely as I could manage, "I'll just tell my boss and my proctologist that I couldn't get a damn ID because someone, not to mention any names," I glanced at her name tag, "Ginger... Stiltswimmer... won't let me get one because she needs some goddamn notification about every tiny aspect of her job before she can do anything!"

That certainly set a fire under her ass when it penetrated her tiny bird brain. "Okay! I'll get you one," she mumbled as she hurriedly began preparations. Wow, my boss must be a real dick.

"That's better," I replied in my usual Wolfish tone.

"Okay, I need your first and last name."

I knew this was coming, "Albert Smith."

"Occupation?"

"...Shipping..." I replied, pretending to be irritated that she'd ask such a stupid question.

She gave me a look of undisguised annoyance, "Date of birth?"

Since it wouldn't matter, I simply gave my real birth date, which also solved the problem of sounding genuine, "7-9-53."

"Go stand in front of the camera, Mr. Smith."

I walked over to the camera, stood in front of the modular photo unit, and gave my usual "Yay-I'm-Going-To-Work!" face, complete with a blank stare, straight mouth, and an outright pissed off expression. After the temporary blinding flash, the photocopying machines went to work, spitting out a DS ID card within five seconds. Cornerian medical technology is way behind, why? Oh yeah, because their scientists were busy working on five second DS ID printers! God I hate this planet!

The bitch grabbed the card and handed it over to me. "There you go, Mr. Smith," She droned with a resentful sigh. She definitely didn't like me, welcome to the club.

"Alright, and one more thing..."

"What now?" She replied with a borderline bored/angry look.

"Where do I get my first assignment?" I queried with an impish grin.

Now she just wanted to get rid of me, "Issuing department, to your right."

On my out, I couldn't help but needle her once more. "Thanks, four eyes," I quipped with a smirk followed by harsh lupine laughter.

I could hear her muttered, "asshole" as I left. As I made my way back to the shipyard, it dawned on me that perhaps her loathing was partly because of how bad I smelled.

Using my new directions, I rounded Gopher Hill, walked about four steps and found my destination. "ISSUING DEPARTMENT" was inscribed on a plaque located to the right of the giant entryway. I threw open the door, noticed a fat, balding, middle-aged feline sitting at a desk devouring what appeared to be the remains of a jelly doughnut. I waltzed up and oh so politely asked, "I need a job, now."

With the inertia of light particles his attention was torn away from his horribly mangled pastry and placed on me, "Oh, alright," he began to sift through a file cabinet, pulling out some papers. I was beginning to wonder why in the goddamn hell did they need all this bullshit paperwork when he pulled a single sheet out and handed it to me, "Here you go."

Well, that was easy, why couldn't Bird Brain be that way?

"Thanks."

I walked out, keeping one of my Wolfish affronts to myself because Ball-Bearinghead was so expedient. I utilized the time it took to walk back to the truck to glance over the papers.

Shipping destination: Corneria City.

Truck number:1564

Dock num... blahblahblahblah

It seemed pretty DS proof. Judging by the help that was dragging their knuckles around here it was with good reason. I strolled into the cargo area. Sure enough, the DS proofing was not limited to the paper work. I looked directly at a truck with a giant, white, "1564" painted on the back of it. I walked past the truck's "wide load" and looked in the window. The keys were already locked in the ignition. This is the most idiot proof place, ever. I opened the unlocked door andsat downin the hardest seat my ass had ever had the displeasure of planting itself. I've sat in interrogation chambersthat were more comfortable than this. I looked for the ignition, and switched it on; the reactor hummed to life. Piece of cake. I glanced up to see a profoundly stupid looking man waving his hand at me from along side of the truck. Once I had eye contact, he nodded his gape-mouthed head then pointed his thumb upwardI wanted to respond with a different digit, but wound up just nodded my head in return. He turned and ran off. The garage door opened a few seconds later.

I never want to be a truck driver. You want to know why? Because they are frickin' impossible to steer. I inched forward, trying my best to navigate this huge ass mechanical abomination through an opening that was reminiscent of General Pepper's ass... too tight to squeeze a pin through. After about 30 seconds of this, I just went like a bat out of hell. I couldn't afford looking too much like a newbie. Did I make it? Of course I did, I'm Wolf o'goddamn Donnell, how dare you question my ability? That being said, I almost took out the entire wall of the warehouse on my way out. How close did I come to the wall? Well, there is less than an inch close and then there is half the width of a quark close. I was much nearer the latter. A DS passer-by started to laugh at me from outside the building. It took every fiber of my being not to just gun it and run the shit head over and end his pathetic little life but that wouldn't go over to well with the SR-275 turrets now would it? I drove down the stretch of road to the checkpoint. As I approached, the two SR-toogoddamnhuges rotated their muzzles around to fix themselves on my truck. The damn things gave me shivers just thinking about what would happen if I got nailed by 'em.

I pulled up to a booth, strategically placed so if anything went down, both the turrets only had to fire from five feet or less before impact. Even DS's couldn't miss from that range. In that case I'd be caught in the middle of a mag-freakin'-nificent fireball that I could imagine would vaporize my wolfish ass (and the rest of the truck) so I could rain down to fertilize the landscape.

A very scrawny and ridiculously misfit guard in a pseudo-military uniform peered out of the booth.

"You've got the paps?"

Assuming the jackass meant the paperwork, I handed over the sheet given to me by Mr. Billiardball. He snatched it away, scanned it for about the same amount of time it'd take me to... say... blink, then handed it back. Then he left.

Oh shit, I thought, he's probably going to try to verify it, find out I'm not a proud DS employee, then properly slag my ass via high energy plasma. Then I remembered, this is DS central I'm talking about, this guy probably couldn't even read and had to bring it to someone else.

At that moment, I noticed both of the guards manning the proverbial ball busters muttering amongst themselves. Then I really started to worry, so I slowly cracked open my door. If any shit was about to go wrong, I wanted to bail, fast. After few excruciatingly long moments, Stick Boy came back.

"Go on through."

I felt so relieved I could have wet my pants, had I not already drained myself on General Pepper's ugly visage. I finally drove past the death trap and had my first fear free moment. Wait! Before I could get too comfortable, I did something I knew I had to do. I slowed, opened the window to poked my head outside and waved goodbye. Minus a few fingers of course...