It was like walking into a wall. Oxygen was removed from the atmosphere. Suffocation, but without that pleasant sexual feeling. Aaaargh. I had walked into the stench cloud of the office farter. I made a silent prayer to Set, the Snake God: Please, don't make me an Hors d'oeuvre today. I staggered, my eyes watering back out of the room. My exposed facial hair was threatening to singe. E Gads, the cloying reak of colon contents and death scented room freshener stuck to my nose like dog poo on a progressives sandal. I retreated to my office to clear my respiratory system.
I went to the Human Resources department. Nothing can be done about a deviant employee without consultation with Human Resources. Procedures must be followed and the white man punished. At Mitchieville we respect other cultures, so much so that we had the Human Resources manager taken out and stuffed. Not replaced with a Real Doll * like other companies, but taken to a taxidermist. I like to go to her office and have a smoke. I blow smoke in her face, admiring the fine work done by Squire Bob, the taxidermist from Erin, Ontario. What to do about the office farter, I wondered. Verbal warning? Verbal warning with written note in file? Written warning with written note in file? Termination and lawsuit from Human Rights organization? Inevitable rehiring, fine, and return of farting? I wondered what the progressive Human Resources department manager would do. I looked her in the face, stared into her glass inset eyes (good job, Squire Bob!), and wondered how she handled these sorts of problems before she was drugged, skinned, tanned, and stuffed?
I opened the leftist daily newspaper. I opened it at random, hoping some of the progressive bias would ooze out of the pages like pus from a kid who draws nourishment from a school welfare feed lot program. The first article I read did not help me much *, the office farter was male, so I got no brilliant ideas from that. I opened a beer and drank it as I pushed paper clips around the Human Resources department managers desk, as the stuffed Human Resources manager did nothing, as she always did, as a fly crawled over her face. One of the other workers came in for a smoke and a beer, and we chatted about other things.
I had to do something about the office farter. Staff could take matters into their own hands. They could be ruthless and efficient, but efficient sometimes means messy. One problem would be solved, but there would be another: expense for new carpets. The compactor would be jammed. To dig the last set of molars out of the gears cost five hundred bucks. The Mayor would frown. The wood chipper was in use: far away at the farm the Mayor has to raise ponies for his daughter. The wood chipper is messy, regardless; and it too tends to break down with molars and tibias. I went back to my office and did some research on the internet.
That fart odor had penetrated across the top floor. Good thing the Mayor was not at work today. If we threw one more person into the Occupy Mitchieville pit, they would have enough to form a human pyramid and get out. I realized that I would have to act fast, quietly, and effectively. The problems from inaction were far worse than that of action. Money would not be a problem; we could bill the Federal Government's anti Bullying program. They never supervised their spending, so some of the special supplies I needed would never be noticed.
In any conflict management situation, the services of a mediator are called for. I summoned Maximinus Thrax from the collections department of the Mitchieville Public Library. We changed into maintenance workers clothes (coveralls, work boots), armed ourselves with a garbage cart, had a smoke, and made our way down to the basement, to the elevator control room. I used my key to activate elevator three, the one nobody who knows the office culture at Mitchieville uses. Ten minutes before his lunch time was supposed to start, the office farter walked into elevator three. We brought him right down to the basement, express. He still stank as the doors opened.
As I said before, Mitchieville celebrates third world cultures. We put the office farter in a cage * and took him up to the Human Resources department. We put him up on the credenza of the department manager. He has a good view of the Occupy Mitchieville pit; they have a good view of him. Maybe they can learn from each others experience. He I would feed; the Occupy people I would not. I left him with a supermarket bag filled with herbs: cilantro, parsley, and dill. This should help him detoxify, to marinate the evil nature out of his system as he is prepared for the Great Feast of Holiday, which is special for followers of Set, the Snake God. I am going to fatten him up. I care.
I, Fenris Badwulf, wrote this.