Who are we?
He carefully undid the three buttons of his meticulously ironed polo shirt, then, rather than pulling it over his head, he grasped the fabric on either side and ripped it from his body. He took the mangled fabric, wiped the blood from his face, and tossed it towards the rubbish bin underneath his computer desk. He missed. Unleashing a string of expletives, he crossed the room and kicked the all-inanimate shit out of that garbage can.
“Trashy fucker,” he spat at the now splintered plastic receptacle. “Could anything else fuck me today?
The contents of the room remained silent, from the furniture to the books, the portable floodlights, and the decommissioned dental chair in the center of the room. The silence was stifling, and he became aware...
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