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. "

Tales of Amethyst part 1: If you're offering her Diamonds and Rust, she's already paid. Oh, right, Amethyst. Hey, we finally have a recurring female character. Yay, us. Oh no. now the scrutiny sets in.

Hello, reader(s?). As you may well know, brick is facing his demons right now and, although we're sure you'd be fascinated to read volumes and volumes of his tortured complaints or just see what that dastardly chameleon villain, G Mod, says next, we've got something much more interesting.

Wait for it.

Wait for iiiiiiiiit!

What is this? Psych?

C'mon, son!

Welll?

Well, what?

Well, what is so interesting that you're ripping off USA network shows and their catchphrases?

Oh, right. It's an ORIGIN STORY!

That's it?

What? I'm excited. It's like on Burn Notice when they say "We're putting you on notice, 'cuz you're about to 

get burned."

No, they don't.

Yeah, they do.

What show have you been watching?

I, uh...

Get on with the precious origin story.

Ok, ok. We now present to you an origin story that has been compiled from a variety of credible sources such as old school papers, a defunct Friendster account and excerpts from an unfinished memoir by the protagonist herself.

How did you acquire that unfinished memoir?

Um, do you really wanna know?

Do I?

Better if you don't.

Okey-dokey.

Now where were we? Ah, yes. Amethyst's origin story. Before today, little was known about the perky producer that has been inconsistently nice to poor old Brick. Yes, he's still being tortured psychologically by G Mod, now focus. We're talking about our girl, Amethyst. Well, she's not really "our girl". That's a figure of speech you see. She is not an object to be coveted but rather a three dimensional human being with hopes, fears, strengths and weakness that make her who she is. She is not a means to an end, but a fellow traveler on the F'd Up Journey that is life. Shall we continue?

I'm sorry. I was busy ogling Amethyst...

What did I just tell you? She's a person with feelings and thoughts, not some object to lust over.

Whatevs, dude. She's hot. And that perfume of hers is intoxicating.

Why do I even bother with you? You just embarrass me in public. Here I am about to reveal some back-story in order to set up a larger arc, and you're just being an ass.

Ah, her ass....

*facepalm* Let's just ignore the italicized voice. According to her unpublished autobiography...

You mean her diary.

Er, well...

Where'd you get the book?

It doesn't matter.

Mmm-hmmm. Sure.

Amethyst came from a small town in the middle of nowhere. She grew up as the typical girl next door-type... Don't even start, Italicized voice.

I didn't say anything...*cough*Elisha Cuthbert*cough*

C'mon! We never saw that movie. Anyways, Amethyst's home life was not exactly ideal. Then again, whose is? Her father was a tyrant, her mother a flake. There was no mention of siblings in the book, but you know how it is. They always turn up when the narrator gets lazy. She grew up with a sense of dread when it came to the men in her life. She either pursued meaningless flings or focused on advancing her career.

It's unclear what brought her to work for the same company as Brick, but it seems to be the kind of place that attracts lost souls like these two crazy kids. Having glanced at her contract, it doesn't look likely that she's going anywhere soon. It's some intense legal mumbo jumbo. But she still isn't  in as bad a situation as Brick... Or is she?

Some receipts that we discovered allude to some massive debt that may be too much for poor Amethyst to pay for, even with her fancy-schmancy young producer's salary. What are these untold appetites of hers that have landed our female protagonist into such a precarious situation? Who knows?

What we do know is that she has returned after a brief hiatus and she may as well be wearing an albatross around her neck. Her eyes are sullen and her spine is slouched as she checks the promos for next week's show. It seems to be a problem of a personal nature, so a direct intervention might be the last thing she needs.

Will Brick be able to outrun the devil long enough to lend her a sympathetic shoulder or will he be too late? Does she even need his help or will he just set her back 50 years?

Stay tuned... I'll be damned...

The G Mod: Brick's nightmare. Or Dostoevsky Breaks on through to the Other Side.

With a wheezing cough and slowed-down reaction speed, Brick moped around the office. He sensed the distant tower getting stronger everyday with each soul that it absorbed, but he couldn't bring himself to think about it. Such dark and important thoughts would find the right time, but not now. Now, despite his co-workers repeated  warnings, he headed over to the door that separated his division from the Other Side. With a bit of hesitation, brick finally opened the door to some unexpected results:

I am not a doctor, or an astronaut or a clown (not even of the 'class' variety), but yet I feel that I need to give the reader a hint about what the hell has been going on with Brick. Anticipating events I can say at least two things. One is that Brick had a severe cold that was complicated by an impending mental breakdown. The other is that It's not easy being a disembodied voice. I have needs too, you know.  Though Brick's health, mental or otherwise, was always suspect at best, he had done a good job of delaying any negative symptoms from crippling him. He knew his state was precarious, his mind and heart being particularly vulnerable at times, but he hated the idea of being ill. Who wouldn't? But he needed to be well, he needed his wits for what was to come, so he carried on, despite all of the warning signs.

His heart was plagued by confusion. While he still had an undying longing for she-who- shall-not-be-named in all her glory, he also had a gnawing in his heart for the beautiful producer who had captured his attention and affection during working hours. Unfortunately, because of  his perennial lack of hope and the terrible exhaustion he subjected himself to, Brick was letting himself become susceptible to hallucinations. His own boss had suggested the possibility to him, but Brick obviously ignored his concerns and continued along this self-destructive path.

The last straw to test his patience was opening the door to the Other Side. The pressure proved so great, that it sent him into a deep delirium. And suddenly he was no longer in a postmodern television studio office, but the basement of the record studio where he had recorded his debut album. First he saw the mirror that had cast a cruel reflection of his double chin in years gone by. That was followed by the reflection of a familiar and despised face, though who-the-hell knows how he got there in the first place, since there were no doors in this space. This was a person of sordid deeds and a less than desirable appearance. His hair was dark brown and wavy, slicked back by a furious brush, with hints of scalp shining beneath the tufts of hair. His facial hair was thin and coarse, blonde yet dark. He was wearing a golden shirt that had lost its luster and khaki pants in non-khaki weather.

In brief, it appeared that the gentleman could not possibly be moral or even likeable except in that love-to-hate-them sort of way. His dark, plastic sunglasses were, of course, too dark to see through, giving the man the appearance of having no eyes, and thus no perceivable soul (no offense to the eyeless, it's just a story detail.)

The countenance of the unexpected visitor was that of someone prepared to annoy the hell out of you for no good reason. He was just that kind of rat bastard (no offense to rats, bastards, or illegitimate rats).

Brick was angrily silent and refused to talk first. The visitor waited and waited like that annoying guy at a party who tries to coax you into talking to him, even though he is a total douche and a terrible human being. The man was ready to pounce upon any conversation.

"I say," G Mod began to brick, "excuse me but, I mention it to remind you. You wanted to look up that movie that you watched last night to see if whatsername was in it, but you were busy with work, and probably forgot..."

"Yeah..." broke Brick and his ruddy face grew annoyed. "Yes, I forgot....but I would have remembered...ah damn, I forgot what I wanted to look up. Why do you bother me now, as if I'm going to believe that you were the one to remind me and I didn't just remember it myself?"

  "Don't believe it then," said G Mod, smiling like a shark, "What's the point of believing against your will? Just look at the music industry. Most of them sold their souls to me.... but does the existence of a devil necessarily prove that Zeus or Odin exist? I don't think so. I want to join a cult just to mess with them. Or maybe I just want to join the band called the Cult... or Blue Oyster Cult, he he."

"Listen," Brick says, trying to make sense of what was going on, "I seem to be having some sort of episode here. It'll pass and you'll disappear again, just like you always do. You disappear because you don't really exist. I, I'm the one that's saying everything, not you. I was delusional when I saw you last, and that's not going to..."

"I'm so glad that you're treating me with so much respect," extolled G Mod.

"Fool," chuckled Brick, "Do you think that I'm going to kiss up to you all of a sudden? I'm in a terrible funk because of my cold, so maybe that's why I'm seeing you show. Misery enjoys company. You're a phony and I regret finding any good footage.... Ugh, I can't even speak logically..."

"You poor idiot, you poor son. Yes, I am the way I'm supposed to be. What am I if not the source of some fatherly advice? You know, I'm listening to you and I'm really surprised that it took you this long to talk to me. I figured you'd want to whine much earlier. You accept me as someone real."

"Never will I think of you as anything but a bad lie, a sickness, a ghost. You are the worst I have to offer...and I really thought for a long time that that was Slate."

"Excuse me, your royal brick-headedness, but you are just playing deeper into my hands. You really believe  the extent of what is possible...and necessary for the future. You believe that this job of yours is what you need in your life. And what happens when the job starts disappointing you? Will you go into one of your downward spirals again like you did after whatshername..."

"That was a moment of weakness... I couldn't believe that I would care so much about someone like that..."

"And why were you so tempted to go to the Other Side just now? Do you just miss that cute and perky producer?"

"Don't talk about her! How dare you, you junkie!" Brick said, trying to stifle his nervous laughter.

"Ah, you can still laugh. Good I see you're not entirely dead yet. She's a sore spot for you, isn't she? They always are."

"Don't speak of such things.."

"I understand that you're sensitive about such matters. The great and powerful Brick is never one to open himself up to new things and people so, of course, the first skirt that's kind to you is suddenly elevated to some great status, regardless of who she is. Maybe you should write her a crappy love song like you have for all the women you ever met!"

"I'll kick you in the teeth."

"Come now, is that anyway to behave?"

"Ugh... you choose only my worst feelings and emotions and prey upon them. You are stupid and vulgar. I can't stand how you pop into my life and just drag everything into the gutter...."

"My dear idiot, above all things, I want to act like the best manager that a rock band has ever seen. I'm not the kindest person ever, but I feel the bitterness that gathers in tormented men's hearts. It would drag me down if it weren't for my special status... It's always exciting inside your head. The proximity to full chaos inside your mind is thrilling enough as it is. But seeing you, in-person, struggle is the pièce de résistance..."

"What right do you have to just sit there and criticize me in such a brazen manner?

"For one thing, your imagination is so decrepit, that you had to reference the Brothers Karamazov just to express yourself. You see, the outside world is shutting you down, literally. That Producer is just another in a series of pointless flirtations. This job? This career that you seem to be so whole-heartedly doing is just a box that you've chosen to hide yourself in while your life passes you by."

"..."

"Nothing to say? You can try looking to the book, if you're so afraid to think up something new..."

"No, I was just.... Remember when this blog used to be funny?"

"You poor man. Has this cushy desk job robbed you of everything? Perhaps we should ask Milton Friedman and his sweatshop friends. That's always an effective cover story: Brick whines, sweatshop workers still denied basic human rights. Hey, it's fun going off-book."

"Leave me alone..."

G Mod finally burst into laughter, "That should be your catchphrase: Leave me alone! Be careful, or the universe just might grant you your wish."  

The Christmas Party: How many special people change? How many lives are living strange? Where were you while we were writing blogs?

Still confused by his conversation with his new employer, Brick sleepwalked through the following days of work until it was 12/21/2012, the office Christmas party. Still uncertain about his role in this strange company that had hired him out of the blue a little while ago, Brick was still working hard on some never ending list of promos that were always due sooner than he would want them to be. After a particularly difficult attempt to blend two very different songs into a smooth transition, brick was startled by a friendly hand o his shoulder. It was the lovely young assistant producer, Amethyst.

Dressed within the parameters of her usual purple palette, Amy (as most people called her) was not gifted height wise, but what she lacked in altitude, she more than made up for with her buoyant spirit and rustic good looks.

"Brick?" she asked our weary protagonist.

"Yes, Amy?" he replied as if his lungs were just freed of lethal sea water.

"Aren't you coming?"

"Hmmm?"

"The Christmas party."

"Oh, right..."

"You forgot, didn't you?'

"Yeah, kinda."

"Well, you should come. Celebrate the end of the world that never came."

"I think I should just..."

With a look of determination Amy interrupted Brick: "There is no way I'm letting you work while everyone else goes down to the bar for the party. No more of this loner BS for you, Brick. You're part of this family now. C'mon."

Presented with an offer he couldn't refuse from a woman he couldn't say no to, Brick reluctantly tossed on his ancient winter coat and hopped on the tiny lift down to the main floor and passed through the glass doors towards the icy streets. His head grew light from the rush of cold vapors being blasted in his face as he struggled to get the hood of his coat to stay on top of his now scruffy hair.

The entrance to the bar was not going to win any awards for creativity or design, but it was a functional wood/glass hybrid and it would live out the rest of its inanimate door life as a sturdy, but boring entrance to a run of the mill sports bar. The company Brick worked for had rented the place out for a few hours to reward its loyal employees with free booze and grub. Having already eaten recently and not being a consumer of alcoholic beverages would come back to haunt our already stressed out hero.

Taking a seat at the closest available table, Brick rested his elbows against the thin tablecloth that resembled the paper in an old brown paper bag. In the distance he saw Slate, Tigre and Ombre squabble over what was the best drink/meal combo. One argued that wine goes with everything, another that Jack Daniels was like kissing god...or the other, cloven-hoofed fellow. Such debates held little interest for the eternally sober Brick. His solitude was his strategy for surviving the holiday party unscathed, but alas it was not meant to be. Soon a couple of his fellow editors sat down across from him. They were, of course, more interested in themselves to pay much notice to Brick, save to chastise him once in a while for not partaking in the art of boozery, at least, that's what Brick would have called it...

Mercifully, some women sat down at the table. A couple were in the I'm-old-enough-to-be-your-mom-but-I'll-treat-you-like-an-adult age range. There was also Amethyst, who sat down next to Brick, which made the table seem ten times more tolerable a place to wait out this end of the world Christmas crossover mash-up remix of a party. While the table continued to order a steady supply of food and refreshments of the 21 and older variety, Brick felt himself slip further away from the group. Far away, Slate was making the case for vodka being the ultimate in holiday-improving beverages. Ombre was not having any of this and was ready to argue for the merits of fruit flavored liqueurs.

"Not drinking?" Amy asked Brick as she took a sip of her beer.

"Nope."

"Why not?" asked a creepy former employee who had relocated to a different department of the same company.

"I just don't."

"But you're a creative person, you should drink."

"I just don't want to, okay?"

"Okay..."

"I'm sorry, I just, I don't have any interest in consuming something that's poisonous to my liver just because everyone else is, ok?

"Fine. Just wanted to help."

The evening continued in that awkward tone as Brick kept sneaking glances at Amethyst. This was, however a party, so of course the drunken broadcasters would get up to propose toasts filed with so many private jokes that it rendered the humor nigh-incomprehensible. The speeches got worse and more jumbled as the hours rolled by. When some of the women were getting ready to go back to the office, Brick saw his escape strategy, joined their extraction team and left the drunk to so be up on their own.

The walk back was brisk but invigorating. Brick was happy just to be near Amethyst, even though she was more preoccupied with her plans for the rest of the evening. Upon reaching the glass doors in front of the studio, Amethyst, noticing that Brick wasn't going back inside and reflecting on his general despair earlier that evening, told him that she would miss him during the holidays and reached out to hug him. He of course welcomed her warm embrace and knew that such a gift would not likely repeat in the foreseeable future. Amethyst went inside after saying a few more pleasantries and Brick was left alone to ponder his changing life as the afterglow of her touch eroded in the cold December night air.

They were talking about the space between us all and the people who hide themselves behind a wall of illusion...

Brick felt his focus slipping again as he tried balancing his elbow on the armrest, only to have it shift down, away from him. He felt a sharp surge in his chest, like something was trying to pierce it from the inside out. Gripping his left arm close to the firm muscle tissue below his left shoulder. The color drained from his sight for a moment before pouring back.

"Brick Mann. Brick Mann?"

The voice belonged to the ever vigilant secretary that kept the office running tight. She had her hair tied back tight, so as to keep her locks from tearing the world apart.

"Yeah?" Brick asked as he tried to feign normalcy.

 "The boss would like to see you in his office."

"Okay," with slow, careful steps, Brick put his never ending list of promos to rest while he marched down to the opposite end of the room. The pain still lingered inside him and yet it was outside of his consciousness as well. It was as if the whole room were a massive migraine.

Turning the knob, Brick entered the small corner office that distinguished the employer from the employee. An empty symbol of power that was nonetheless  statement of hierarchy and status quo.

The boss, a larger than life presence without so much as a whiff of vulnerability, sat waiting with the patience of the Himalayas. His unbreakable posture and titanium eyes were no joke (not that anyone would joke about the boss.)

"Brick," he says in a bass whisper. "Sit down."

Feeling to drained to stand, brick was only happy to oblige. His mind, feeling squeezed like a citrus fruit on a summer day, was pressured to discover the reason for the impromptu meeting.

"Those promos will be ready by the end of the day."

"Oh, well that's good to hear." The boss was pensive and in no mood for filler chitchat. "Brick..."

"Yes, sir?"

"Are you happy?"

"Excuse me?"

"I was under the impression that you were getting accustomed to the language."

"Oh, I am."

"Then let me rephrase. Are you happy working here?"

"I guess so, yes."

"You guess?"

"Happiness is an elusive emotion, at least that's how I see it."

"I see. Let me try to explain myself then. I don't know how it was on the other side (he points at the door next to the entrance  to his office which leads to another space entirely, one that brick is all too familiar with, despite the freshness of his current occupation). "The only way that we can get you to enjoy your stay with this company is for you to stop thinking of yourself as a separate unit in this space, building a wall against this reality, and embrace the fact that nobody can change you, except you.."

"I..."

"Can't you see that you're one of them? Until you accept the group with Slate and the rest, you'll never grasp the truth..."

"I wish that I could but..."

"Those buts are stopping you. Everything you need, you already have. Within and without you. The time will come when you'll see it. I know it shall."

Brick just kept staring outside, but all he saw was another soul being dragged toward a large shining tower in the distance, only to be shattered into infinite shards of light.

"I have been here before, but I wasn't myself."

"You have to ask yourself, what's more important: to gain the world or lose the soul?"

"What a choice..."

"Life will flow on, within you or without you."

 

 

The Long and Winding Road to Adulthood Part 5: Steady Employment and the Long Way Back from Hell.

The screen went white again as the program froze for the umpteenth time that day. Brick sack back in his rigid swivel chair and let out a downbeat yawn. He had been working for weeks now and the damned computer kept freezing whenever he loaded his old sequence.

Despite the occasional headache accompanied with an existential crisis, the last few weeks were rather dull and consistent. Brick was working hard for once.  The hiring process was a bit of a blur to him. He vaguely recalled reading words of wisdom by someone he had once respected, but had trouble putting a name or face to the memory.

The row of cubicles where Brick was stationed was soon greeted by its other usual suspects. John D. Slate, the would-be king of promos led the pack. His hair was nestled back in a blonde tail that was about as pretentious as his high-pitched 60 mph rants. Behind him was Señor Tigre, an affable audio expert with a head as shiny as freshly polished boots. Bringing up the rear was Jacques Ombre, dark and mysterious, mostly because of an unhealthy addiction to dark clothing and spray can tanning.

Brick ignored his throbbing head and focused on getting all the promos done on time. The morning dragged and clicked away into afternoon, with pauses for rendering and freezing alike. The typical parade of characters passed through the room at regular intervals, like figurines on a cuckoo clock: the overworked, underpaid secretary who looked mortified 24/7; the jovial lawyer who was both a badass and a mensch; the voluptuous producer/host with eyes like stolen diamonds who could always spare a moment to break your heart and piece it back together for next time; and the creepy soon-to-be-ex-employee who lingered around with unknown agendas and nothing to lose...

The trivial matters of running a rock band had become nothing but a distant memory for the man who now had a steady paycheck and a comfortable shell of a life to call his own. Sure he barely spoke the same language as his new co-workers. Sure he was missing sleep like a blindfolded piñata swing.  And then there was that growing void inside him that grew with every monotonous keystroke and mouse click.

Perhaps his road to adulthood was sacrificing freedom for stability, passion for consistency, love for malaise. The fire that once roared within him, the passion to reach for the unobtainable had been doused and the ashes of his troubled youth were swept aside for the respectable mediocrity of the forty hour work week.

Hell was a distant memory, but Brick was still a long way from paradise. For now, there was only the job and the nagging suspicion that something around him was not as it seemed.