Revolution

I pick up the monitor and throw it into a motivational poster of some rowers. I watch the product of my rage shatter against the cheap glossy paper and drag it down to the floor. My office door swings open and Ted, the guy in the office behind that wall, bursts in.

“What the hell?” he says and just stands there trying to assess the situation as if he can find the win-win. I look down at my desk and pick up the keyboard. I hold it out to him.

“You’re not a dog. You have rights and opposable thumbs.” He looks at me with bewilderment, but I just give him a nod and he takes the keyboard. He laughs nervously at the sound of plastic against drywall.

“Is this a crime?”

I shrug. “Only if you kill yourself afterward.”

“Suicide is a crime?”

In response, I pick up my overflowing inbox and chuck it. The paper takes a few minutes to swing down to the floor. It’s as close as our little revolution will get to confetti. Bill sticks his round head into my office - Where do they get these boring names? - and asks if I have that W-40 ready but realizes what’s going on and leaves. Ted looks worried but I squeeze his shoulder then lead him out into the hallway.

We march heroically into our boss’ office and stand defiant. He sighs and looks up from his monitor at us. He’s just a slave like us only they loosen his collar a little.

“Don’t you ever tire of this?” he asks.

“Nope,” I respond.

Ted quivers.

“Ted, go back to your office and stop talking to him,” he says. Ted looks back and forth between us and leaves.

“Is this because of the parking?”

“Yep.”