Office Max

Very very long ago, Max was a man. Coworkers claim that’s a “load of bull”, that he was always a bull (“Half-man half-bull,” he’s quick to correct them). In a way, his coworkers are right. Max was a man that died very very long ago when the half-man half-bull Max Minotaur took his place, under the employment of Mister Minos, CEO of Crete Co; creator of the cubicle maze, a.k.a. “The Labyrinth.”

Crete Co kept the populace at peace, contributing to society: Informative media advertisement; electrical police batons; landsharks with laserbeams; and the imprisonment of librarians, which were scientifically proven to be terrorists. Max was the mastermind behind most of this. Max received Employee of the Month every week because Minos was so deeply infatuated with him and his work ethic—so infatuated, in fact, that Max wasn’t even allowed to take breaks, or take days off. Max wasn’t allowed to leave his cubicle. Not until he earned two dollars. Day in and day out he slaved for the belovéd boss twenty-four hour shifts, earning zero dollars and zero cents. Cheap labor at Crete Co was common.

As time passed, from his head grew horns; from his hands grew hooves; from his mouth grew a snout; from his tailbone grew a tail, and so on. Max became a Minotaur. Now of course, Max could not be inspired with the ideas for things that would eventually dawn world peace, like I.D. checks at public bathrooms and x-ray vision goggles for S.W.A.T. teams, on an empty stomach. Thus, each day a sacrifice would be made to sate his hunger. Crete Co kidnapped the belovéd of its employees at the dark of night, legally incapacitating them, ’long as they, the product, remained in sacrificial condition. Some employees had unbeknownst already signed their belovéd off to Crete Co via fine print. In that case, Crete Co did it in the bright of day with a polite knock on the door.

Aegeus was one particular illiterate who’d signed his son Theseus off by accident. And also, his daughter.

“This is unfortunate, my son. I skipped the fine print, telling myself, ‘too long, didn’t read’,” he broke it to the boy on the phone, in a language that involved a series of woodpecker clucks the company’s anti-terrorist department couldn’t decipher. “We’ll discuss the probability of your being sacrificed to the Minotaur when I return home from work. It’s pretty high. Alas, I’m confident you’ll die.”

Max was glorious in the eyes of all civilized peoples but notorious in terrorists’. Obviously Theseus and his father were terrorists. Maybe even Arabic. Theseus, the most terrorific of the two, refused to be sacrificed, going as far as plotting Max’s assassination and speaking ill of the company.

“You’ll be freed from your contract. I solemnly swear it,” he clucked back at his father with such passion that sometimes terrorists exude. “Max’s head will hang like a trophy on our wall.”

And so the day came. There was a polite knock on the door. Theseus answered it, meeting a pair of men he promptly named “First Man” and “Second Man” accompanied by landsharks with laserbeams.

“Product I.D. number?” First Man asked.

He told them his product I.D. They scribbled it on a permanent sticker with a barcode, slapping it to his neck.

“xxx-xx-xxxx?” the Second Man repeated, just to make sure.

“Yes.”

Well, Second Man was startled by the vocal tone that threatened to become threatening; and so he clubbed Theseus to the ground, flogging him into fetal position with an electrical police baton. Sounds like, “kuk!”, “ughguhguh,” and “aruhruhruh!” came from his throat, not to be confused with the woodpecker language.

“Whadd’ya think you’re doing, stupid?” First Man restrained the dutifully baton-flourishing Second Man.

“I’m sorry, b-b-buh-boss. He sount like he was gonna get v-violent, for sure.”

“For sure, I’ll give you a wallop if you keep at it.”

Later while the two of them were lugging Theseus out of the van into Crete Co, Second Man for sure got his wallop for keeping at it. The product was now badly bruised. It would probably be marked as “used”. Worst case scenario, it wouldn’t be deemed in sacrificial condition, and they’d have to go politely knock some more. With a quickness they punched their time cards, dropping it to the floor of the reception room for Ariadne the Receptionist/Secretary to tend to, then sped home.

“How can I help ya, darling.” She lifted it-him.

“I’ve. I’ve come. I’ve . . .” Theseus was disoriented. “Yes. I’ve come to slay Max Minotaur.”

She sighed. “Your sister told me that.”

“My sister?”

A slim lady came from the corner of the room. He remembered she was his nameless sister from No Man’s Land. The other sacrifice. “It’s good to see you, sis. How were you shipped so timely?”

These’s sis rolled her eyes. “Hello? CreteEx express?”

“I believed such a thing a myth!”

“Myth my left tit. I was marked as top-priority and packed in a Crete crate for gods’ sake.”

“Max will be seeing you now,” Ariadne told them. She flashed a glance from her spectacles, strutting toward the elevator in a ridiculous pair of high heels like stilts. “Follow me.”

Theseus and Thesesis—yes, I think we’ll call her that now—accompanied Ariadne toward the elevator. Ari punched in a floor number. It started with a jump, creaking for mercy, then shot up toward a destination. Everyone grabbed a rail for support. It swatted everyone to the floor as it quaked to a halt.

“OOMF!” said everyone.

“Sorry for the inconvenience.”; “Oh! My sis, are you well?”; “Am I well? My eyes were almost poked out by those ridiculous stilts.”

Ding!

They found themselves in what was undoubtedly The Labyrinth, awing there, realizing the namesake: An inordinately awful organization of cubicles. By it, a maze was born. Post-it notes of certain colors were stuck to the sides of them to mark direction. Only Ariadne, who’d memorized a color sequence, could lead them through to Max. Before she did, Theseus told Thesesis, “You must stay behind, my sis. It’s too dangerous. Only I possess The Weapon of Max Destruction. Only I possess the sworn oath to save our father. If you somehow managed to save him or kill the Minotaur, indubitably I would stab you.”

She pecked him a kiss. “Be safe.”

Meanwhile, Max was working on a powerpoint that involved installing laserbeams into security cameras and installing more security cameras in public restrooms, lest any terrorist librarians plant reading material in the toilets. So great was the idea, he feared many laserbeam landsharks would be laid off and have no means to support their families. Quick was he to add the detail: Landsharks with laserbeams will be the technicians and repairers of these so cameras, then writhe in glee. This solved the problem of unemployment. Such work ethic and brain exertion took its toll; the stomach of the half-man half-bull growled. Impatience unsettled him. It was half-past-twelve without sign of the sacrifices! Swiftly he tapped “save” then closed the window and turned off the monitor then spun in his wheely chair, loosing a spiral-y stream of smoke from each ringéd nostril.

“RWWUUUUUUAAAAAAR! I get paid zero dollars and zero cents per hour. The one thing I can look forward to in a day is a meal. . . . Where . . . is . . . my . . . LUNCH?!”

Lunch came calling.

“Bastardous beast! Foul ringéd-nosed!” Theseus shouted from afar, forty cubicles yonder. “I’ve come to slay you; moreover, I’ve come to free my father Aegeus of his contract.”

Max cursed. Ariadne and the sacrifices were still very afar yonder. “Why are you so yonder, Sharp Tongue? Why have you not-yet been served to me via silver-tray-with-napkin-included?!”

“Justice shall serve thou, Cretan Cretin; allow Justice marinate. Thou must prepare thyself.”

“Darest thou marinate, when thoust must serve?!”

“Thou darest serve, when must thou marinate?”

“Thoust thyself thinkst thou needst not be marinated. Thoust needst not prepareth. Serve thoust, thou must!”

Like two whirlwinds Ariadne and Theseus sped through the halls of The Labyrinth, weaving a-past wall after wall, pivoting in accordance to the post-its. Using the archaic language had given Theseus an adrenaline rush that sometimes terrorists exert. Freedom, Justice, and other corrupting concepts crossed his mind as he ran; and how quick-footed he was! He was on a roll. Ariadne called out, “We’re here” after spotting the final post-it, but still he flew. Flight took him to that hall—that hall—that straight hall where stood tall the Minotaur; suited-and-tied—in a navy blue tuxedo, great stature imposing, arms crossed, immovable as stone. Blind at the time, the man made impact with that iron statue, his forehead clapping that stomach-like-steel, then collapsed to the floor. Woodpeckers danced dizzily.

In his irritation, the Minotaur casted him and Ariadne cold glances. She tried to bow, but the foul ringéd-nose puffed at that irritant. His snout wrinkled, twitched. She prepared an exeunt, tiptoeing, till he whisked a violent finger at her. Struck her a death leer. As if by magnetic force she was drawn forth. He lifted her up over her head with one hoof-like hand, working a snarl from his lips.

That irritated Minotaur asked, “Why is it you are so late, Ariadne the Receptionist/Secretary?” Checking his watch, “Why are you here with Sharp Tongue Archaic Mouth at twelve thirty-two, when lunch was due a half-hour two minutes ago? Finally, I must ask: Where is the second sacrifice?”

“Theseus was late. His sister never arrived.”

“Liar! You are a terrorist. Your trachea excretes that odor of terrorism, for you do not speak the truth. I also smell Sis of Sharp Tongue Archaic Mouth. Her trachea may very well be Arabic.”

Ariadne froze. Arabic was indeed in the air.

“Do you stoop so low as to betray me, Ariadne?”

Her finger blamed Theseus. “I told Thesesis to walk with us. She didn’t. Theseus threatened to kill me if I forced her.”

“You have then betrayed Crete Co!”

She shook her head furiously, no, no, no, I love Crete Co, let’s have Coffee, but the Minotaur raised her higher, loosing wide that monstrous maw of crooked teeth and coffee breath!

“Then you are more than sacrificial condition, my dear.”

All the while she shook and tried to scream, no, no, no! please, no. The Minotaur, stomach growling, jaws parting with webs of saliva, ignored the dangling girl; no, he paid no mind to her pleads, but dropped her down his throat, his tie and collar-button snapping under the pressure of swallowing her whole. Following that bulging gulp: Buttons popped away—one from that navy blue tuxedo, the rest from his shirt—exposing a belly round as a beach ball that hung at his waist like the work of many beers, spasming, gurgling. Some live thing inside.

It shuddered.

Theseus was shaken. He, while Max tended to indigestion, chose the moment to draw from his pocket a metal ball-point pin, a.k.a. The Weapon of Max Destruction. It had no trachea, but an Arabic intent. Max sniffed. Stared at this Max Destructor with intensity. Stomped forth. Theseus twisted the top, and behold!—that lousy utensil became a long gleaming scimitar! No doubt could this blade with ease defeat any dungeon dragon or demon, in the hands of any other than Theseus. The man cried, “Get back!, lest thou shall’t be slain,” slashing at air repeatedly, just then creating a sword version of Kung Fu’s Drunken Style.

“You mock me?!” Max demanded.

“Needst thou not mock, but darest serve!”

“Serve thou shall’t, Archaic Mouth!”

Half-man half-bull dodged an undisciplined sword swing then dove horns-first into Theseus’ chest, ramming him against a cubicle. It caved in, spraying splinters of steel over the desk area of its collapse, a monitor toppling. Theseus gasped. A ceiling light panel exploded for dramatic effect. Neighboring panels exploded. Now their tussle continued over that desk in the dark, Max atop Theseus, Theseus wrestling against hand-hooves clapped over his sword. He’d lose here. So he slid beneath Max and appeared from behind. They swiveled one-eighty. Theseus stabbed but Max blocked. Countering, Max summoned a firm pimp-slap that struck the man cold; he lay on the floor; a limp hand let its sword drop. Max loomed over; and how he snickered! The waste basket was spat into like a spittoon—again, for dramatic effect.

“You dare assault me with ‘thous’ and ‘thees’ and ‘thys’ in a work environment! ‘Bastardous beast’, you call me, when you refuse to cooperate as a sacrifice, when you refuse to meet deadlines, when you disrupt my immutable schedule.”

“Bastardous beast you are, sticking barcodes to people,” Theseus muttered. “You’ve kidnapped belovéd. You’ve killed innocent. You’ve enslaved many.”

“I am enslaved. Sentenced to my cubicle like a cage, the common men have more freedom than I. They are given the luxury of walking across the street—walking across it without being attacked by terrorist librarians. That is my doing. My safety ensures peace. Only those who are rebellious destroy it. You dare ‘slay’ me to bring chaos to hundreds of millions? Hundreds of millions, you would flip their world upside-down, because you want to save your father?”

Theseus gaped.

“I am the hard worker,” the Minotaur snarled. “I am the world-changer. I am the slave, the twenty-four hour shifter. You are a selfish man. You are a trouble-maker, the nonsense, old-time Archaic Mouth. You are a makeshift assassin! Nothing else!”

“Preeeeeach!” one of his coworkers shouted afar, from thirty cubicles yonder.

Max then picked Theseus, who was too startled to move, up from the ground. “You were somewhat useful: Reminding me about those barcodes we ‘stick to people’. I almost forgot to check you out.”

From the pocket of his flapping-in-the-breeze-of-the-A.C. tuxedo, he pulled a portable scanner shaped like a big shaving razor. He waved it over the barcode on Theseus’ neck. It beeped. After Max set it down on the desk, he acquired The Weapon of Max Destruction from the floor. He rolled his eyes. He crushed it between his hand-hoof like aluminum.

Cried Theseus: “The Weapon of Max De—!”

Another firm pimp-slap knocked the last two syllables out of our hero—perhaps not triumphant enough to take that title, “sacrifice" proving more a worthy fit. Max proceeded to hold him upside-down, shake from him any cell phones, metal trinkets, library books, that would prove difficult on a digestive system.

“Why am I not surprised? Your made-in-China made-to-slice-bologna blade proved naught of the prophesied caliber. Do take thirty seconds to choose your last words carefully, Sharp Tongue Bologna Blade.”

As he hung there from that hand-hoof, Sharp Tongue Bologna Blade pondered with precision. Then, he called out to his sister one-hundred cubicles yonder: “My sis! Do you remain?”

From very afar yonder, she replied: “Yes, Theseus. I’m waiting for you to die. What is it?”

“Thank you, dear sis. I would too anticipate your expiry. Please, heed these words: Do not yourself become a product except but of yourself. You are free, without barcode; your land, without landsharks or laserbeams or rumor of unlawful librarians. Find peace in a Justful system. I believe you will bring about the next generation who shall down this corporation, Crete Co! Gods bless.”

“People are actually respectable in No Man’s Land, I kid you not. I won’t be worrying about ‘downing’ Crete Co, because I’m not coming back to this country.”

“You kid me!”

“Goodbye.”

She made her exeunt via elevator, and, on that note, left him hanging.

The beast exchanged upside-down glances with him, snickering. He mouthed the words, time’s up. Theseus gulped. Whatever remained of Theseus’ dignity was lost the moment Max tossed him into the air. Midair he flipped like a burger; in fear he clucked away those words of a woodpecker; he felt the need to secure his nipples, held tight to those. The Minotaur caught his catch with widened jaws. A laborious swallow seen only in the likes of cartoon physics was made just then. . . . His throat bloated like an airbag, then receded; his chest puffed like a frigatebird’s, then receded; that beach ball of a belly pumped like a helium balloon, doubling its size. Rumbling. Writhing. Sagging to his thighs. Triumphant rubs were due. Performing those, he cocked back his head and loosed a classy belch.

* * *

Max returned to his cubicle to continue the powerpoint that day. He worked through afternoon; he worked through evening; he worked through night (closing hours, but something felt amiss); he worked through sunrise; he worked and worked but never made two dollars. Lunch time came again, and he began to shout: “RWWUUUUUUAAAAAAR! I get paid zero dollars and zero cents per hour—” but he stopped.

Lunch would not come calling. Ariadne was gone.

He panicked then of starvation. The Minotaur did a thing he hadn’t since the Max that was a man became the half-man half-bull: He trekked out into The Labyrinth. He found no exit nor elevator. Max inquired his coworkers, “Where must I go to leave this place?”, but none of them knew. Ariadne usually led them out one-by-one when closing hours came, which had not happened. Some were lost in the halls, some were at their desks still typing away, but none had left the previous day.

Loyal to Mister Minos, Max refused to feed upon those coworkers to survive. They were not sacrificial. It was not moral. For days they wandered (some typed, but Max did no longer) about The Labyrinth. Coworkers eventually starved. Bodies piled the floors round Max, and alas, he too eventually became a body, a final monstrous body that piled the floor. Mister Minos did not keep up-to-date per se with his employees, so the news of this place being a graveyard of rotten cadavers astonished him; but what astonished him most was the death of the employee he was so deeply infatuated with: The hard worker, the enslaved . . . his belovéd, who received zero dollars and zero cents per hour, Max Minotaur. Minos risked being lost and never returning, entering The Labyrinth.

Four days he trekked, reaching mortal starvation on the fourth, till finally, chance took him to that hall—that hall—that straight hall where lay tall the Minotaur; suited-and-tied—in a navy blue tuxedo, great stature imposing, arms crossed, immovable as stone.

This was now where lay the CEO of Crete Co, Mister Minos; he lay, and, in what was an unspeakable exertion of infatuation and act of terrorism, condemned that poor cadaver. Once the deed was done, he died of starvation in shame. That was the moment the building of Crete Co faltered. It creaked, an iron whine mourning the end of peace, then imploded upon itself, crumbling in smokes to the streets. Goodbye, Crete Co.

Without Crete Co’s informative media advertisement, not much was heard of the happened events. People knew only that landsharks with laserbeams were no longer obliged to beam their lasers, that red dots no longer appeared on the side of security cameras, that librarians were no longer persecuted for planting reading material. In time, perhaps people would even decide librarians were not terroristic. This concept was as absurd as Arabics being unconnected to terrorism. It was absurd as Arabian being the name of a people, while Arabic being the name of a language. This country of post-Crete Co could soon meet a fate like No Man’s Land. . . .