Treachery, with your monochrome soul and your cold, long fingers stretching into our hearts unbidden, squeezing out gently the very life we live.
Treachery, your name is Human Resources. And you are the very pinnacle of biblical evil on this human earth.
In short, I've been bummed right up the clacker by those cuntaloupes in AITCH FUCKING ARE.
As Snoop Dogg, or perhaps Ghostface Killah, might say, let me break it down.
This morning, I returned to work for the first time since emerging triumphant from a months-long scrap with what my doctor called 'The hardest fucking coma I have EVER seen.' (He didn't strictly use those words, but he had a look in his eyes - one of total admiration and respect - that told me all I needed to assume.)
Our HR Director, Paul D'Ong, (he's new - used to work in polyfibres), called me on Friday to suggest a 9am meeting to discuss my return.
So, I kicked the doors of reception in, bang on time at 11.30, and spent a while joking with the girls on the desk. (Bless those girls! If anybody can beat the joke they played on me, I'd like to meet them. They had these expressions of total horror on their faces when I walked in and one of them ran off in tears! BRILLIANT! They kept it up until I left too! Fucking LOVE those girls! 'But they said you weren't coming back!' they kept wailing. 'Waah, waaah, waah!' GENIUS!)
Anyway. Paul D'Ong called me into his office.
I did not warm to him. A scrofulous, scrotumular boil of a man, he lurked damply at his desk, festering over a mug of something with a milky skin on it. He bore the mildewy aspect of a man who spent his life either cowering to his superiors, or victimising those below him. I knew his sort. He was a denizen of the committee, the stationery cupboard, the minuted contact report, the timesheet.
He was, essentially, a horrid cockblob.
'Be seated, David,' he gargled.
I be'd seated.
'I've been tasked with, if you will, greasing your entrance,' he continued.
'Greasing my what?' I said.
'Your entrance into the new-look marketing department, David,' he replied, all simpering vowels and claggy glottals. He wore a smile as faint as a memory.
'The new-look marketing department? Have they redecorated or something?'
'No, no. We have restructured. You have a new colleague with whom to collaborate.'
I didn't like the fucking sound of that. So I said, 'I don't like the fucking sound of that.'
'Come, come, David. This is the age of cross-pollination, team-centric ideation, togetherness foreverness...'
'Fuck off. Who's this new colleague?'
'Oh, I think you've heard of him. His name is Rupert Abbott.'
The world stopped.
Rupert Abbott is...was...the Marketing Director at our main competitor, the market leader. He has always been an unmitigated dickprong, shitbar and fuckhole.
No, he's not - he'd be my dad. He's Cain to my Abel.
No, he's not - he'd end up killing me. He's General Zod to my Superman.
Yeah. I think that stacks up. Basically, he's a fucking douchecrack and I'm great. He's all stupid digital bullshit and I'm proper ads with birds and bristolas in them. He's all 'new era of consumer engagement', I'm all '10% OFF MUST END TODAY'. He's chalk, I'm cheese. (With the proviso that cheese is obviously way better than chalk. Way better.)
'I absolutely refuse to work with that fuckhound,' I protested. 'He's a tool, a dick and a tool. And he knows nothing. And he's a twonk. And a tool.'
'I'm sorry you feel like that, David,' slimed D'Ong. 'But tell him yourself - he's sitting just over there.'
I turned to see Abbott ensconced on a sofa, reading something called 'The Republic' by Plato. (No fucking last name - just 'Plato'. Dick!) He'd been obscured by a pot plant when I walked in.
'Hello, David,' he said, calmly.
'Hello, Rupert, ' I said, not calmly.
I felt very much at that point like slicing off my own cock and balls. But I'll see how the kid develops. Then I'll fire him like Gaddafi in a sewer.
I will not be shaken from my course.
Why? Because I AM THE CLIENT!