monsters ·
20 June 04

I sit amongst the gathered trolls of the dark lord.

They work like animals for the glory of individuals rather than groups, for one rather than all. Team spirit is often banded around like the dissemination of a critical report for the eyes and attention of everyone, but the relevance of a few.

The report would mean nothing to the majority, and yet the minority want you to be aware that they work as much as the majority. Please view our fancy report with the thousands spent on coloured ink, expensive photography, and endorsement from the senior management.

I woke up this morning to the sounds (or should that be shrieks of the demonic kind) of a Bollywood-esque radio station. The purpose of doing this is that it will wake me up, and I will make the extra effort to turn off that claptrap of hell. It drives me slightly mad, but this morning was a little different. I woke up and noticed I had got up on time and not gone back to bed. I lay there, still, looking at the light shining through my large window – which is covered with a bed sheet because I’m too lazy to put up the vertical blinds I so eagerly purchased approximately five years ago.

people talk and discuss gossip usually because they don’t fuck enough

“Hmmm. Guess I should be getting up now.” I say to myself as I don’t actually move. I tend to turn the alarm off and run back into bed, after falling over the copious amount of crap that lies before me to get to the alarm clock. Essentially my routine involves getting up twice in the morning on weekdays.

The Castle of the King of Trolls allows its servants the option of a Red Flag. The flag represents the anger that one has towards others, and is often a sign of “leave me alone”. I try to use this as often as possible to avoid any association or conversation with everyone around me. Mingling with the “Man” and its people is not a favourite hobby of mine. We’re too different, or perhaps I am. However, these bastard Imps and Orcs often disturb me with their worries of the “Man” giving them grief. These fuckers have not yet learnt the art of “Pretend you’re working biatch!”. That and they seem to accept the light truly does shine out of the rectum of their superiors. I see the superiors moving between competent and incompetent, much like the rest of the department.

As I walked into the Castle, I considered my options on this fine day of sun and cold winds. My first thought was that I would explode into a million particles as soon as someone said “J…..”. My response would be “FUCK OFF! LEAVE ME ALONE! GET THE FUCKING HELL AWAY FROM ME BEFORE I KILL YOU, YOU IRRITATING IGNORANT INBRED SHITHOLE!” This of course would be a bad option and perhaps not a method in which I ought to deal with my anger.

What I really wanted to do was destroy the work area where the Orcs were gathered. For someone to just push me a little, for me to lose it and to pick up the cheap chair covered in blue fabric – the standard issue office material. I have one at home, and they’re sold all over the land of Hell.

He would grab the chair with both hands, calmly, as everyone around him watched. Perhaps the taller, stronger Orcs would rush him to grab the chair from him, in case he was to go ballistic and kill the crippled Orc that has been such an annoyance to him ever since he set eyes upon her retarded form. The thought crosses their minds, but they wait to see what the short Orc will do with the chair. They watch him place his hands on either end of the backrest, moving his hands up and down with a glee of malice. They ponder as to whether this is some sort of deviant fetish he is becoming involved in, and consider moving into apprehend the fiend. But they still wait, and watch.

I’m too lazy to put up the vertical blinds I so eagerly purchased approximately five years ago

He groans, and arches his back over the chair, closing his eyes and considering his next move. He is aware they are watching, but he places them out of his mind. The chair is his hammer, and his anger is the will of the hammer. The hammer wishes to be demolishing anything that exists around him, to vent out that rage and hatred for where he is and what he does. He strains heavily as he lifts the chair using the backrest, and pulls it over his head, with the seat digging into his back. His arms are angled, stretching, and he can feel his tendons being stressed. The others watch with baited breath – has he gone mad? Will he attack anyone? What sort of madness has sparked him to come to such a conclusion?

[zz93]

Like lightning striking a tree, splitting it into several pieces. Like the sound of thunder crashing through the air, and striking fear into children. He smashes the chair into the desk with a mighty roar, akin to that of a frustrated Lion unable to capture its prey. His eyes are red, watering and bulging out of his sockets. He breathes heavily as he takes in the oxygen that is available to him, and gives the look of a maniacal, dangerous animal – perhaps something that should be locked in the dungeon to be forgotten about, and never to be spoken of. They all gasp at this maniac. He grins, and lets out a brief but loud cackle of laughter – perhaps of relief.

“I am on the verge of total collapse. I will expel my demons, and you will witness my cleansing of my soul, for anyone that stops me will be exposed to my rage.”

He knows this is the wrong thing to do, he understands they will not stand for it, and already, someone is on the phone to call the guards. He cares little for formalities anymore, he cares little for the rules, he is on the verge of collapse and thus he lifts drags the chair off the now dented desk. It slides off, taking with it a stack of papers. He is weary, he wasn’t aware that this much emotion could drain a soul. He is not repentant, nor is he willing to give up what he has started. The chair is lifted once more; the pain grows within his back as the seat digs into his back once more. An all mighty crash is heard again, as the chair connects with the desk. The chair is split in two, with only the back rest remaining in his hand.

He is apprehended by the Orc Guards, as the other imps watch in amazement. Finally, they are able to discuss something that occurred in their environment. Gossip exists; people talk and discuss gossip usually because they don’t fuck enough. I don’t fuck enough (or at all), but gossip doesn’t interest me, but then perhaps nothing does.

The Orc Guards drag him away to the Chamber of Pain. They tie him to the table, and begin to stretch his limbs out of their sockets. “We understand little Orcs have a weaker tolerance for pain – now tell us why you acted like a normal human!” they ask with venom, and pleasure. The venom is that of pent up anger of their own inadequacies, and the pleasure of hurting someone else is inherit in most, if not all. As I lie there, considering my options, I realise I have no answer but one, “Because I am a normal person”.

They ponder as to whether this is some sort of deviant fetish he is becoming involved in

They stand, shocked, bewildered by a comment. “You’re not normal! You’re a drone, a slave, a clone a nobody. We all are, we all answer to our leaders, you are nothing without them.” They say this with little conviction, as I have shattered their own belief in “normality”. I smile, and realise I have come to the end. I realise now that I am normal, perhaps more normal than most. I only express my normality the only normal way I know. Others choose to suppress their normality, which makes me chuckle. “Its ok guys, just kill me, I know who I am now. I know why I am who I am. I have the answers I have looked for, and I no longer wish to commit my own death. But I will take anything you have, and I will scream if it causes pain, and I will bleed, but I will not yield and I will die in happiness. You are no longer in control. I am.”

At this, the Orc guards fume, and begin to torture the little Orc with all the devices they have. Slicing into his flesh and bone while he is conscious, enough to cause gratuitous pain, enough to put him to sleep, but not enough to kill him. They continue for months, and even years. All through which, he always completes his torture with a smile, and a grin. He doesn’t care anymore, and it doesn’t bother him. He dies quietly after eight years of torture, with no one remembering who he was, or whether he even existed. The Orcs continue their work as ever, and nothing changes. The world has not stopped, and the monotony of Monday’s continues a pace. Welcome to the world of office work.