Tales of Amethyst Part 2: I wait for you here, like a stone. Kind of a dour title, right? It's not even that serous a plotline, it's just a song reference... Or is it? Ugh, let's just go with it.

As the promo department scrambled desperately to make an almost entirely unnecessary promo, Amethyst had just returned from lunch to find her tyrannical boss angrily tapping his finger on her desk. Yes, we throw out the word tyrannical pretty liberally, don't we?

Her boss, the great and powerful Eugene Pterodactyl, was a middle-aged disgraced-actor-turned-talk-show-host. A fiery puff of red hair stood on top of his freckled brow. His frame, which was once athletic, was more couch potato these days, heavy on the potato. Of course, it wouldn't be Eugene Pterodactyl without one of his trademark ascots that were woven from the hair of his fallen enemies. Yes, he took his competitive nature as an actor very seriously back in the day. Hell, even his talk show regularly blew the minds of his rivals on other networks. That might explain there was a quick turnover rate of hosts on other networks while his reign was supreme.

 "Eugene? Hey, I didn't know you were going to be here today."

"Yes, that's why you took a two-hour lunch break at 10 AM."

"I'm sorry, it's just that..."

"You have no discipline," Pterodactyl growled with his signature baritone. "My last second-in-command moved heaven and earth to spare me the trouble of doing the everyday minutiae of a ****ing peasant. It seems you'd have me do everything myself while you fritter away your time...my time, by having lunch with your girlfriends. Instead of making sure that the show was running on schedule, you're out there gossiping over a salad and a latte..."

 "Hey, that's a sexist stereotype. I was eating chow mein..."

The vein in his forehead, that rivaled the Nile in its breadth, throbbed like a flooding river. That's a messy metaphor, isn't it? Oh well, never mind.

"I hired you to be my assistant producer, but all you seem to do is make me do everything myself, you sorry excuse for a human being."

"Hey! I resent that! I'm a person and I deserve respect."

Pterodactyl towered over the petite Amethyst as he continued the humiliation. "Respect is not mandatory. You do your damn job and, maybe, someday, I'll think about it. Until then, just remember what a worthless piece of garbage you were when you begged me for a job. Remember that the next time you decide to leave me waiting for you here, like a stone. Do you understand, you miserable wretch?"

"I, uh..."

"Well?!"

With a disgraced bow, Amethyst replied, "Yes."

"Good! Don't make me have to give this speech again. I don't want sully myself by speaking with underlings."

With that final venomous burst, Eugene left Amethyst's office. Amethyst, crestfallen, melted into her seat and stared blankly at her computer screen, eyes glazed with silent horror.

Brick, completely unaware of what had transpired, entered the office unannounced.

"Hey, Amethyst? We're struggling with that promo. Could you send us a copy of the script?"

"..."

"Amy?"

"Hmmm?" she asked, half-aware of what was going on, her stare still fixed at her depressed reflection in the 

computer.

 "The script? For the promo?"

"Oh. I'm sorry...was I supposed to send it? I forgot... I'm such a mess."

 "What are you talking about?"

"It's nothing," she said, holding back the flood of self-loathing that begged for release.

"Okay, " Brick reluctantly remarked, wanting to know what the hell was going on. He left the office disappointed.

 Amethyst reached into her desk drawer and examined her unbreakable contract, signed in her own blood on the day she started working at the company.

"Someday..." she murmured as saline drops streaked the immutable document that stood in the way of her freedom.

Masters of Ephemera Part 1: It's alright ma, I'm only doing promos.

As we rejoin Brick at his place of work, we find him emotionally and mentally exhausted after being forced to relive the collected works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky. A searing white light flashed between Brick's eyes every time his thoughts drifted to his time before joining the workforce. He slowly but surely clicked and drags the video files onto the timeline and began editing.

The boss man, tall as a sequoia (well, maybe not that tall), marched into the video editors' room with urgency in his booming voice.

"We've got a show going on the air tomorrow and we've got no promos for it! you guys need to make one A.S.A.P. or our ****ing viewers won't know what the hell to glue their eyeballs to for that particular half hour."

"What the ****, boss?" asked the pony tail aficionado, John Slate, the head of the promo department.

"I have no idea, but some heads are going to roll. I give you my word about that."

The boss returned back to his chambers and Slate began his rallying cry.

"Men! We have been given a task of great importance. We have an hour to create something that will air once and probably only once. If we fail, the nation's grandmas won't know what the latest gore-filled videogame or ear-drum crushing metal videos are! Can you live with yourself knowing that?"

"No way!" shouted the editors in unison.

"Then I challenge you to get this promo done on time. Even if only one person sees it, that's one more potential viewer that we need."

"Si, " said Señor Tigre, "Even one viewer is worth putting ourselves through hell to make a promo that will only be shown once. I shall write a magnanimous script and record a stupefying voice over for the promo."

"I'm not sure he's using those words correctly," mumbled Jacques Ombre. "I'll get to work on the graphics and text."

"And Brick shall download the footage and edit the video," declared Slate. "Brick?"

"What?" asked the spiritually drained young man.

"Start getting the footage for the promo."

"Ah, what's the use, Slate? It's too little and too late."

"Now what the **** kind of attitude is that?" asked the self-righteous promo maker named John Slate.

"What's the point of doing something so labor intensive that will only be viewed once. What kind of crap is that?"

Slate got down from his soapbox and stood over Brick, who was still seated and moping because we just don't know what else to do with his character.

"Now listen, and listen well, since I don't reckon I wanna repeat myself..."

Jacques Ombre wept over the abuse being inflicted upon the English language.

"... We are the only thing that separate the masses from their own depressing lives. We make the best damn promos we can so that those lost, lonely souls that watch TV will have something to look forward to. We work so that they'll have something to fill the void that their lost youth and non-existent social lives have created within them. Can you put a price tag on a rainbow? Can you hug a bubble? The world we live in is fleeting. So what if our ads are short-lived and quite possibly made in vain? That is our lot in life."

Brick's attention was not lost on this speech.

Señor Tigre chimed in: "We are the Masters of Ephemera. We are not the immovable mountains but rather the constantly flowing river that empties out into the vast ocean of the collective subconscious. Something may be brief and temporary, but that does not mean it is any less significant or meaningful. We are constantly changing and therefore cannot linger."

Jacques wanted to contribute to the conversation but decided to focus his attention on perfecting the font on the newly designed text graphics for the channel's promos.

"Ok," Brick decided. "I'll get to work now." He dragged the video files onto the timeline but the screen turned white and froze.

"Damn. Premiere froze, yet again. "