S.A.M.L.A.R.B Spectral Aquisitons of Material Lands And Resources Bureau

>Turn the sign upside down like you've seen in those cartoons when you were a lad. Perhaps if you don't get an interesting job, maybe some poor soul will go the wrong way and get a job to satisfy them.

You attempt to make the Accountancy Department sign point in the wrong direction, in the fashion of the cartoons you'd occasionally glimpse on TVs in shop windows before your mother dragged you to sit in dead silence while she smoked and got her hair done. You reminisce for a moment. Oh the hope of those younger days, when you could at the very least glimpse at what fun might have been through a window. No, got to stop these thoughts, that's what got you into this situation in the first place! Hopeful mindset! Practical solutions! You reach up to the scrawled message, intending to turn it. Your fingers scrape off of the wall with a just-too-loud “fwoot” sound, one that sends spears of self awareness crashing into your mind. Oh god, they've seen you grab at the wall like a cat with a television set. Them seeing your John Thomas was one thing, but this? BUT THIS?! You begin looking for another bus to leap before, until noticing that no one in the room appears to have looked up at you. Maybe they didn't notice it? Play it cool, Sammy Boy, play it cool. You called yourself Sammy Boy. This makes you feel ill.

>maybe they only put the hopeless souls at desk jobs, so maybe by being as loud, and confident as can on your way to this blaze lady they'll give you a more fitting job. Also swagger your way there it might help.

>Make your way to your destination, but in as defiant a way a possible. Knock over as many piles of paper work, poke as many people, and turn off as many computers as you can.

This concern about your own image has gone on long enough! These people will only respect defiance! They've got more than enough timid weak men like you!...Uh, like you WERE! They don't need another! You begin marching through the rows of cubicles, an incredibly predictable funk tune begins playing in your head as you walk, legs far apart, arms swinging loosely (with effort), and your crotch thrust forward purposefully to show just how little you care about the MAN and his OPINIONS. Your flailing arms, unrestrained by the oppression of the so called MAN, swing wildly into the desks of the many post-mortem office workers. Papers fly everywhere, computer screens fall needlessly to the ground, keyboards are knocked, chairs are jostled, desks go slightly off to one side, none can withstand your sheer potent display of masculine energy! You decide to keep your flow going. You start physically harassing the workers. Pokes in the eyes, fingers in the neck-holes and wrist-cuts, occasional tweaking of the gaps in their faces where noses once were. Oh yes, you're a real rebel now Samuel Larbawitz, these squares just can't handle you. You can see them, judging you for the rabble-rousing miscreant you are, each one of them dispassionately gazing at you with the glazed eyes and blank, dim-witted expressions that scream “ I'm not hip to your groove daddy-oh. I'm not picking up what you're laying down, not smelling what you're stepping in. I do not understand you and your motives. Please stop this, I have never wronged you and you are making my already miserable existence measurably worse. Why are you such a monster?” Oh god. Oh god, oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god oh god. What have you done! WHAT HAVE YOU DONE!

You rush through what remains of the cubicles, cheeks burning with shame, salty tears dribbling from your eyes and flowing directly into your mouth and up your nose. You've turned into THAT man. That one man who thinks he's better than all the people just trying to do their jobs, the guy who misdirects his anger at the system onto the system's other victims. You're not part of the solution, you're part of the problem! You are trapped in a swirling vortex of your own shame and disappointment when you meet the door you were moving towards. You meet it head first, in fact. More accurately, you meet it revolting shard of glass first as you impact the door and bounce right back from it, landing on the floor. You can hear a dull voice singing. You pick yourself up and dust yourself off, and look to your left. Sitting at the desk is a man in his early twenties. He's a touch on the fat side, with a noose hanging from his neck in place of a tie, longish black hair, and a big pair of bushy black mutton-chops. He is staring intently at a screen displaying a video feed of the waiting room you were just in, and he's speaking into a microphone. “I'm beige da-ba-de-da-ba-dead...” He repeats it constantly, over and over again. Does he realise you're not in the room anymore? He looks up at you, makes eye contact. To your horror you realise that he does know you've left the room. The man simply doesn't care.

You turn away from that scene, and open the door marked “B. La Poer” The moment you step into the room, you worry you may have accidentally opened the wrong door and stepped into the sauna. The entire room is full of a thick smoke, and an unbearable heat. In the dimness of the smokey room you turn your eyes this way and that, attempting to find the source of one or both. To your dismay, you find it. Sitting behind a steel desk is a fire. Inside of that fire, is a screaming woman, her flesh burning and melting, only to regrow as it burns away to create a hideous waterfall of constantly sloughing flesh. Her eyes do much the same, boiling and bursting and regrowing in the sockets, over and over again. It's a nightmare, a true nightmare, something that will haunt you for the rest of your days. And then it speaks.

“Hello Mister Larbawitz. OH GOD NO! Do you mind if I call you Samuel? PLEASE CHRIST JUST LET IT END! I'm Lady Blaze, and I'll be conducting your employment interview today. WHAT DID I DO TO DESERVE THIS! OH PLEASE GOD LET ME DIE FOREVER! Please, have a seat. IT HURTS! IT HURTS! Do you have any questions before we get started?” She points to a misshapen lump of plastic and metal on your side of the desk that may have at one point been a chair before the constant scorching heat from the room's occupant turned it into slag. You sit down on it as best you can, though it chafes in a most uncomfortable place.

You're in an interview room. Before you sits a horrifying monstrosity of burning meat. It wants to know if you have questions. You're having trouble seeing, thinking, and living in this room. What do you do?

Inventory:

SpoilerShow

Accountancy VHS tape with "Mango" style Cat picture.
Shard of glass embedded in head.
Blood (Hands)
A sense of smug self-righteousness

Nightmare Chest:

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An Office Complex in a sea of screaming faces and stars
The Concept of Eternity in an Office Job
Being Called Sammy Boy
Lady Blaze's Bloody Horrible Appearance