Heads

Heads

There are three major groups who suspect me of having precognitive abilities. The Psionic League assume I’m an unregistered, the Temporal Hive thinks I’m pottering about in time, and the general population just assumes I’m some kind of wizard as anything they don’t understand registers to them as magic. Well, the useless lot of them can suck The Cosmic Schlong as the whole thing is merely good, old-fashioned screaming paranoia and royal jelly from the Pluto sized beetle thing we sold Jupiter to. So naturally I saw an awful lot of what is currently besieging me coming and am duly prepared with an office I can fully seal off from the outside world. This is a kind of catch-all solution, like having a lot of money you’ve leeched from internet peasants, it makes you look an awful lot cleverer than you really are. After all, I’m no telepathic time chimp or whatever the hell the Hive is looking after these days, I just know that sooner or later my fuckwitted mess of employee goo will do something that will require I completely cut myself off from them.

To be fair to the rest of the office, I doubt even the panpathic imps of the League would have seen this coming and also a lot of this might be my fault.

Ooh, shit, another one just got infected. Urgh, it’s like a head with an anus being fisted by another head. Headed?

Today I noticed we had two Mail Boys which struck me as odd because the 3D Printer only birthed one and the second was banging its head on a cubicle wall that used to belong to Wayne instead of delivering mail. My first instinct was to suspect hallucinogenic poisons and therefore Janice. The skeletal harridan has used her Union mandated Revenge Cards on poisons before and I begrudgingly respect that they got the job done. But the walls weren’t a writhing flesh-scape of my mother’s face so she’d either lowered the dose, which was very unlike her, or it was something else.

It was something else.

The 3D Printer and I have a kind of unspoken relationship built around fucking with each other while remaining within the rules by the narrowest of margins. Any idiot can burst out from behind a shrubbery and bury a stone hatchet in your forehead, the art is in skillfully committing the most atrocious acts of bullying in a way that doesn’t warrant the attention of any authorities and this is an art we are both practised in. It’s been on a winning roll lately with a series of technically adequate Mail Boys, the last one (which I hate to admit was a masterstroke) was a long-form trap I wandered into like a child into a Kinderofen. My reaction to this was a tad severe and somewhat out of what I assume the rules of this game to be, like punching a child for beating you in a board game even when they goddamn deserve it. The most recent thing was a cluster of standards and boring, a near literal dotted “i” so I concluded that, like a punched child, the 3D Printer had decided to shut up about putting a hotel on Mayfair.

Ha! Well, fucking bastard got me again.

The new Mail Boy’s head looked like a kind of standard, if unusually Glenn Ridgey, head but a series of brutal and funny baboon attacks suggested it were anything but. Most heads bleed following the application of a 4 centimeter spike, this one just sort of squished. From my view of the event from my office, I’d thought perhaps distance was playing silly-buggers with me. But after moving The Baboon Collective’s little penthouse to where I could get a ringside view of the fun, it turned out the Mail Boy’s head had the consistency of a giant foam novelty hand. Gah! Curiosity, killer of cats, disrupter of open plan office environments. Naturally, I had to see how much I could squish the thing before it wouldn’t re-form.

I dipped in to my collection of police battering rams and — using twine, paperclips, and other office supplies — set up a nice “twin log” trap where an unsuspecting AT-AT or Mail Boy can get crushed where the twain meet. This part worked perfectly. The Mail Boy’s head, caught within the larger-than-head diameter of the rams, smooshed all the way in until there was a muffled popping sound and a smokey brown discharged. The Mail Boy treated the whole thing as one would treat stopping to remember something you’ve forgotten before resuming its duties, discharge in tow.

I’d hit the Zero Lock on my office before I’d really understood what was going on but that’s screaming paranoia for you. Ah, the friend who is always there.

Long story short, the office is lousy with Parasitic Heads that all resemble the Mail Boy. Initially, the head spores (I’m assuming they’re some kind of modified novelty fungus) would attach themselves to the skin of an employee and grow a Mail Boy head over the original. The new “Mail Boy” seemed to remain functionally someone else under the tumorous mass but the new head had some sway over the motor neurons and pain receptors so removal was out of the question. Most other things were out of the question too as the parasitic heads don’t have much of a work ethic. A few employees/hosts managed to ram into some of the more stable walls in an attempt to free themselves but all that did was smear my nice office with globs of Parasitic Head spores. These patches grew into standalone Mail Boy heads with wee little tendrils for feet the crafty buggers use to scuttle about the place. Watching one drop on, and engulf, Janice was probably the highlight of the day but now that most of the office has been assimilated, there’s some hold outs in the break room who’ve built a rudimentary flamethrower from canned cheese and microwave parts, the office is just a Mail Boy delivering mail to other Mail Boys and hostless Glenn Ridge noggins skittering about the place.

Look, fun’s fun, but I’ve got work to do. As brilliant a prank as this is, and I am an immensely talented man able to admit when I have been beaten by a work of true art, I can’t run an office of moaning Glenn Ridges gazing into a non-existent distance. I’m officially calling this an over-the-line foul and dobbing on the 3D Printer. We’ll get the Mutants from Custodial Duties up here with some anti-fungal spray and have the whole lot cleared out by the afternoon. HR will insist I send the possessed home early and I will if only to keep them on side for dealing with the 3D Printer. The hold-outs, on the other hand, well that’s the kind of gumption you reward with Subway coupons.

Aside for having to potentially find adoptive homes for a collection of be-tentacled Glenn Ridge busts, things have been pretty hum-drum. Monday will have my journal entries as I trek through the whole of Doctor Who, Tuesday or Wednesday will have these, Thursday will have a new article series where I watch all of The Simpsons, and then I get a three day weekend where you can amuse your fucking selves. A few critique articles are on the boil too, but those are only ever ready when they are done. It’s as wise to rush the understanding of art as it is to rush the production of it. Hmm, some of the heads have fused into one larger head.

You will never know what your inner monologue really sounds like.

Gabriel.

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4 Replies to “Heads”

  1. Keep up the good work Gabriel. Glad to read that office shenanigans have not hindered you from writing the lunatic wall poo scrawlings you post here.

  2. Entertaining and thought provoking, is what I would say if I wasn’t so scared by the things you have in your head, Gabriel.

  3. I don’t know what a Mail Boy is and what it has to do with a 3D printer, so reading this was a moot exercise.

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