Bob Tastee was leaving the office just in time to catch the 3:15. For once he wasn't going to disappoint which ever one of his children had some sort of game or performance that he'd been asked to attend, more as a formality than an actual invitation.

"Afternoon meeting," he called to his plucky secretary, who was sneaking back to her desk, unnoticed by all but Bob, after another crack smoking break in the stairwell. The smell of cooked cocaine filled Bob's nostrils, distracting him from the task at hand. He had been on his way out the door, but he stopped to give his assistant a last minute assignment, getting his nose as close to her musty hair as he could without raising suspicions from her or any onlookers. Generations of men in his family had taken this road, born this burden of doing the right thing; he was just another beast in a long line of regenerations of the same man.

Suddenly he straightened up, determined not to reveal his perversions. "I've forgotten why I came over here in the first place, so it can wait till tomorrow or I'll miss that meeting," he said and darted out of the office before he had any more bright ideas.

"You're a damn funny coward," he muttered to himself. Waiting for the elevator, he bent over to tie one of his wingtips and spontaneously lost feeling in his brain. His appendages felt like the limbs of ancient redwoods, growing roots deep beneath the earth's surface, roots as big as some small to medium sized office buildings. It was the worst struggle Bob had ever had to face, just to move his legs, heavier than those of a pachyderm, but with unwieldy hooves.

Once in the elevator, his head felt like a giant basketball being dribbled by a genetically engineered black man who was strutting down a gravel road, knocking off hedgehogs, field mice and other small rodents in his path. When the elevator reached the lobby and the doors creaked open, he hit the floor, reacting to shell shock he only remembered from years of reading books about Vietnam. The basketball player was sitting on his whole body now, palming his face with his giant black hand, keeping him from making any more mistakes.

"Why do I have the feeling you want me to beat your stupid head in?" he asked. "It's painful to watch you hide behind your old perversions. If you can't keep yourself in check, you mischievous little bastard, you're gonna be horizontal for the rest of your days."

Bob went limp; he had succumbed to the great athlete. He was in the mood for something chewy and fresh, something that could only be purchased with cash, but he promised not to stick his head in that barrel again.

"OK, now get yourself on home, brother," said the man in head to toe Puma attire, helping Bob up and brushing the carpet fibers out of his mustache. Meanwhile, the 3:15 was on it's way to Connecticut with one less passenger named Bob.

About the author:

Sarah is currently seeking a full-time patron, benefactor or pater patriae to support her ongoing literary investigation into the lives of those unable to turn their lives into barely accessible poetry. Personal checks welcome.