The Deskjob From Hell

The silk shirt slid easily under his tailored jacket. His hand reflexively touched his silk tie then came to rest on his lap. He didn’t want to be here. The once calming desktop landscape of a stapler, tape dispenser and telephone no longer made him feel centered. A ringing phone used to mean one thing. Profit. That word used to send chills down his spine. That was how it used to be. Now, his phone remained silent. His workday would never end. Not since his soul passed from the living.

The clock hanging in his cubicle did not move. It would occasionally change, but never moved while he watched it. In life, clocks meant nothing to him. He measured his day by where the sun appeared. Deals could be struck at any time. Contracts didn’t wait for the office to open. It was that line of thought, he remembered, that got him here in the first place. As much as this supernatural corporate gulag bothered him, he didn’t want to think of a situation where he would want to meet his new boss.
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