Avant garde, no?

What the hell? Who's there?

I snap to attention. It's 7am on a Friday morning, and I was hard at work, drawing up some kickass grafix for the most kickass commercial of all time, and I'm alone in the building, and I'm not making any noise, apart from the scritch scritch scritch of pencil on paper, so who exactly made that clattery noise, eh?

My swivel chair makes a slight creak as I slowly rise, my heart beating ever faster - adrenaline and caffeine surges through my veins.

My pupils dilate as I silently creep out into the darkness of the office proper.

Clatter!

There it was again... I reach the edge of the stairwell and carefully peer over the top - nobody immediately visible... what do I do? What the hell do I do? WHAT THE FUCK SHOULD I DO?

I rush down the stairs, surprising... nothing.

I spot something, in the shadows beneath the stairs.

"Step up, motherfucker," I say cockily, though inside I'm saying, "Oh holy fucking jesus fucking christ, I don't want to die, oh jesus!"

The shadows move slightly... I edge towards them, my hands curled into fists, ready to take on this crazy fuck... I flick on the light.

There's nobody there.

A quick perimeter search reveals the absence of all other life... I must be hearing things. I start to walk back up the stairs... it's kind of uncomfortable... well, as long as I'm standing up and alone, I might as well surepptitiously rearrange the position of my genitals, as a man is wont to do from time to time.

Clatter! says the ceiling fan. My hand jumps.

FUCK! I just hit myself in the balls! At first... nothing... then the slow wave of nauseous pain starts to spread upwards through my body.... Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck motherfucking fucking bastard fuck shit fuck!

It hurts.

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