The office Twitterati are determined to hound me into the ground. When I walk through the open office I feel them watching, watching, tweeting, tweeting. Occasionally I catch someone’s eye; they return my gaze without blinking; I hear their infrasonic refrain, “Die, die, bastard, die.”
At my desk, behind the bullet-proof, one-way glass, I log in, activate the office-spy software, read their unsuspecting vitriol. I now know who the tweetleaders are, the ones who will benefit most from my going.
I confront them; denials are forthcoming. I make threats; they laugh.
Tomorrow I will set the cat among the canaries.
Written on a Wednesday in response to the weekly 100 word Friday Fictioneers challenge found here. Go have a peep.