The room reeked with the smell of sour grapes. A man shook in his shoes. The clerk, a scarred and scraped brute with firm black hair, a beast with the face of a boy of ten or twelve years, eyed his “New Hire” form. The man saw a far off look in the clerk’s eyes, the grim mien of an ogre in need of food.

“Bob? Is that your full name?”

“Not my full name, no.”

“So what is your full name?”

“Bob Quick.”

“Yes, I see that. I meant your first name, Bob. Just ‘Bob’. Is that what you want to be called?”

“Well, no. I’d like to be called by my full name.”

“Of course you would.” The clerk sighed. “Now then, what is your full, first name?”

There was a pause and no one spoke; one in want of a name, one in search of a word.

“Uh, I think you should put down Rob, or Bert, or some short name like that.”

…

Meet Bob Quick. He is not a man who hopes and dreams of wealth and fame. He is just a poor soul in need of a job. A man who, through no fault of his own, is forced to look for work – in the “One Word Part Zone”.