Dept. of Low Cry Emissions



I encountered the new guy in our company commode, clenched before the urinal, emitting a low, continuous cry.



"Hey, fucker," I said. "What's dope on the porno-scope?"



He moaned and gestured down with his free hand to the blackish clot of seeming fish guts and human gristle he'd drawn from his open zipper.



"Yo," I said, clucking my tongue, "It happens."



Mounted above the row of urinals, marquee lights flashed in a ring around a banner-sized, beatifically smirking portrait of our corporate commander-and-cheiftain.



The new guy's slick, balding pate gleamed sickly in the reflection.



"What about my family?" he whined, yanking at the sorry, bleeding, runny mass hanging from his pants like a crushed fistful of earthworms. "What about my unborn kids?"



"Dude!" I snapped. "You're spattering the floor!"



The new guy just gaped.



I thought of the Martha Stewart Living Camp Hatchet lying in my file drawer since last year's X-mas party, a gift from my secret Santa.



"You better not look in my eyes," I said. "You better not look in my fucking eyes."



He whimpered something. I wasn't listening.



My supervisors had been on my ass about kill counts lately.