Quitters!!

Frank Freeman wrote a letter to his boss describing why he didn't feel like his work at Calan Industries was satisfying, in a creative or physical sense. Frank's main complaints were:

First; Frank had obtained a degree in Classical History, not a degree in paper filing. His work was boring and despite having done the same tasks repetitively for ten years, he had seen no raise or variation in duties.

And Secondly; Frank did not much care for the way his boss was running his shift. He felt his boss placed too much emphasis on quantity and not enough emphasis on quality.

And the day came when Frank decided he would present the letter to his boss.

Frank chose his finest suit, gray pinstripe, with a gleaming silver tie. He combed his hair and shaved every follicle from his face. On his way to the office he listened to a classical waltz from the late nineteenth century, which stirred him into a confident mood, so much so that he cut off a white pickup truck that (in his opinion) had taken too long to merge into his lane. Maybe, Frank thought, maybe I look like an asshole now, but that doesn't really matter to me.

He wondered what he would do, if he wasn't working at Calan Industries, and decided perhaps that he'd sign on for a tour of duty and see some action, or maybe he'd try to find a guitar, and start playing again on the side of the street. Anything seemed preferable to his job at Calan Industries.

The glass doors slid open as he approached them, and he walked across the carpeted floor towards the front desk, where he set his briefcase momentarily on the ground to tell the receptionist that, "I'm clocking in, the time is eight fifty three."

The receptionist's monitor burned green and Frank stepped past it (scooping his briefcase from the carpet) into the hallway. There was an open elevator to his left, and he stepped inside it's faux-wood interior. He ordered it to the twenty third story, and stood inside patiently as the box rose.

It opened and the cubicles in front of him were still. A telephone rang, and was promptly picked up, a soft female voice answered. A hundred fingers typed against keyboards and set a quick percussionist beat.

Aside from the woman who had answered the phone, no one was talking. She was telling someone (likely from the military) about the shipments that had been delayed due to an oil spill.

Frank walked down the center aisle of cubicles towards the door where the name emblazoned on the door was that of his boss. He turned the door knob and stepped in.

With his letter held high, he shouted, "Boss, I'm putting in my two weeks!"

His boss did not say a word. Frank saw the pistol that his boss had placed against his temple. Frank saw his boss' eyes, wide and fearful, as though the entire world was staring at him.

Frank watched his boss pull the trigger, as brain and blood scattered into the air. Frank's boss tumbled backwards from his chair, and the pistol fell to the ground.

It was a solid steel kind of pistol, with a spring loaded clip and thick black paint. A yellow stripe ran down the length of its barrel, with the three-pronged Calan Industries logo on its handle. Frank had remembered marketing that pistol to a Private Military Corporation, boasting of its killing ability.

Frank stood open mouthed, not sure what that meant.

A few hours later, the Corporate Manager found Frank sitting at his desk, staring at a blank computer screen. "You know you're going to be moved into that office by the end of the week, right? Someone's got to fill his shoes, and you're the best fit."