Cubic Scentometers

The brown carpet walls are torn to shreds, blood stained polyester
tendrils in still-frame mentality linger fruitlessly while tiny shards
of skin hug the metal frame beneath. His fingertips are in tatters, and
now he massages his eyes, tired and sore from the incessant pitch black
darkness, burning from the salty sanguine. It has been 16 hours since
he was first trapped in this box, and the more he rubs his eyes, the
more he begins to consider rubbing them hard enough to burst, possibly
ending this once and for all. Would it really kill him? To rupture his
eyes? Will the force of the explosion be enough to traumatize his brain
to the point of failure? Or will sheer boredom take care of that
aspect?

A single voice shatters the silent misery.

"How's it going today, Bob?"

(Fuck. It's George. Always George. Why, oh why, must it always be
George?)

"It's going, George."

(If you don't ask him a question, he'll go away.)

"How about yourself?"

(Fuck. You asked him a question. Now you've done it.)

"Oh, you know, can't complain? except yesterday, I went home, and first
thing Lucy asks me is if I remembered to pick up her sister's book for
her to read. You know me, of course I hadn't, so I had to hear her go
on and on about it the rest of the night. You know how it is, women.
Heh. I remember one other time, I forgot to?."

(Oh, how it drones. Where is my taser? Why can't people be
relevant?)

Bob sinks deeper and deeper into his maniacal rage, clenching his
fists, feeling his nails dig into his palms. His knuckles begin to
sting from strain, and it snaps him back into reality.

"?yeah, that's women, all right. And I won't even begin on my
mother-in-law?"

"George, I have this very important project to finish up by noon. Can
we talk later?"

(Fuck. Why did you suggest talking later? You deserve this, you dumb
prick.)

"Sure, Bob. I have a few things I can work on, too."

George walks, surprisingly, silently back to his cube, probably because
there is no one on the way to emit his drawling, crawling nano-babble
onto. He's a sad case, really. Divorced twice. On his third wife, who,
in the middle of being banged by yours truly, told me how much she
hated his guts, and how she kept no secret of it.

"Oh, you fuck me so much better than George. God damn. Yes! Yes! Oh
fuck! More! Don't stop! Ohhhhhhhh? I'll never fuck him again. I swear
to fucking God."

Yeah, poor George. He really has it rough. I get up, coffee mug in
hand, and head to the break room. My day is just starting, and already,
I want to wash the taste of blood out of my mouth.