Again, this was written in 2018. (Don't judge me!)
“How, Sir?” I stood up from my seat. “Mr. Awesome! You aren't listening.”
“Dude,” Mr. Awesome verbalized as he snacked on fast food. “I mean wow. Candied lard is not that hard to find in that gnat-sized frog of a building.” He stood also. “I am told that it will be a finch. It better be.”
“I believe that you mean cinch, sir.”
“I mean what I said and I said what I meant.” His face, eddying with rage, grew nearer to mine. Blonde versus Burnett. He dropped his french fries onto the couch. We were eye to nose. Him towering; I low. Wham!
“YOWL!” I scampered out the door, a red mark upon my cheek. I would have revenge.
Bang! The office door spoke of my protest. Mr. Awesome grabbed his best jacket, a holey thing frayed to a threads width. He had promised his wife that they would go out to eat, where was it? It was fancy. MacDonald's! That was it. She was so ecstatic about that. Maybe he should take his wife out more frequently. He ordinarily took home Taco Bell. He had given his word to be there by six; it now was six eighteen. If he left now he would be on the dot. He promenaded out the door.
Meanwhile I, like the waterbird the flamingo, waded through the toe deep water swamping the commercial enterprise, sniffing the musty, dusty rafters. I started to counting cast-iron boxes, when I slipped on a slimy area which launched me into the air and spun me on my head.
“Art thee hurt?” I spotted the speaker, from flipped viewpoint. A elderly grandma, perhaps one hundred years old, standing there; I mean, energetically doing the polka in the murky water. I righted myself.
“I'm fine. Who are you?”
“Ms. Flatch. And thou?”
“I am excellent, thank you.” She looked at me curiously, switching to a snappy jig, swishing about in an inch of the dark water. A long silence followed. “Why are you doing that? The dance?”
“I do so on account of a dare. Friends of mine dared yours truly. Friends say 'Thee can't keep up a dance all day. We dare thee,'. So here I am, Mr. Excellent.”
“Why do you speak like that? With the thees and thous.”
“I am a Quaker. Quakers believe in saying thee and thou. Quakerism are old-fashion Christians and Christianity is theism, believing in the God of the Bible. Hindus are deist, believing in a all powerful god (gods).”
“Okay, um. What are you doing here?”
“I work here. I just got off. I must leave. Good day, Mr. Excellent.”
“Bye,” She did the Terpsichore out the door on the far side of the room. I walked around a large machine. Beyond that was a young man, siting cross-legged on the ground in the water, playing solitaire. The cards were sopping wet. He looked up.
“Why are you doing that? Mr., um?”
“James Grit, and I am doing it for the experience.”
“Um, what do you mean?”
“I'm a believer in Romanticism. You know, the experiences makes your personalty.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, I-” Just then a buzzer on his watch went off. “Ops. I gotta go. I'm scheduled to tight-rope across Niagara Falls. After that they going to fly me out to the Grand Canyon, so I ride a unicycle across on a string.”
“You do that kind of stuff?”
“Never tight-roped before. I did once ride my cousin's unicycle. Broke my nose.” He grinned.
“Break a leg. No, No. I mean good luck.” I shook my head as he belly-slid across the room and out the door, yelling back.
“For the experience!” I began examining the area for that supposed candied lard(gross) when four men came in. One was walking on his hands; another was eating a candy bar as the other two were conveying him about.
“Have you seen a Mr. James Grit about?” The one who spoke shifted from hand to hand.
“Yeah, you just missed him. But why are you here?”
“We think Mr. Grit is amazing and we wanted to interview him. He is wrong on couple points, but even we don't agree on all the points.” He gestured toward his friends. “I'm a Naturalist. Unlike like what you'd think, I think nature is evil and if there is a god than he is evil. My friend here, he is a Realist, he believes in all the points Naturalism, but thinks there is no god. My other friend here is a Absurdist. He thinks that Realism is right, but he also believes that there is no purpose in life. Him there, he is a Existentialist, believing life is purposeless. Sorry, we need to go. Gotta catch Mr. Grit. Good day.” After that they departed. I left work that day without finding any candied lard, but came home with a lot more information in my head.
"The only thing that anybody really knows about this author is that he is a real nutcase."
-Anonymous reporter
Well...