{"sf1_id":159157,"sf2_id":"dmBk6XRn","title":"Preamble of a Straitjacket...","author":"coffee_fox125","words":2760,"posted_at":"2010-07-05T18:43:00.000Z","tags":["Blowjob","M/M","Poetry","Smoking","Suicide","blank verse","poetic story"],"url":"https://fse.anthro.fr/stories/159157-preamble-of-a-straitjacket","original_url":"https://sofurry.com/s/dmBk6XRn","image_url":"https://cdn.sofurryfiles.com/submissions/thumbnails/fa/b3/fab35bcc-a49d-4fa9-a8a1-326af8fd443a","description":"","content":" **Preamble of a Straitjacket... Pt 1**\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\nThe tidel wave of beeps and clicks  \nFrom all the phones and computers  \nSound like it's World War two in here,  \nWhich could cause anyone to crack,  \nIt feels like my whole world is stuck  \nInside one giant Rubik's Cube;  \nGrinding its gears eternally  \nDeep within my own figure eight.\n\nThe time of the world matters not,  \nIt could be the first century,  \nThey say it's the future again,  \nBut, it's just as young for today  \nAs it was last century since,  \nIs it the Reagan years again?  \nOr, is Nixon back from the grave?  \nLife is still a bitch anyway.\n\nThe walls are eight by four by eight,  \nThe coffee replaced our blood  \nWith liquid fire full of hot fear,  \nBut, not as hostile as the clock  \nPerched on the wall like the Sun  \nLaughing at us all with pure ire,  \nBush, Reagan, and Nixon wedded]  \nTo form our loathsome employer.\n\nWe are perhaps the only folks  \nHere that are legal criminals,  \nWe've never seen the judge's gavel  \nNor the mosquitoes that you know  \nAs lawyers who suck your life's blood,  \nBut, we're still locked up in H.E.L.L.,  \nThe punishment is long hour work,  \nYet, our crime is legal spying.\n\nOur company is named H.E.L.L.,  \nHallmark Employment Lobby Lodge,  \nThis \"lodge\" is just a skyscraper,  \nHiding behind its public name,  \nIts real goal is keeping secrets,  \nThe kind that most companies hide  \nFrom the public or its workers,  \nThat is, except for, the eighth floor.\n\nThis floor is called \"The Ghost Floor,\"  \nYou will never find the eighth floor,  \nThere is, though, another \"Ghost Floor\",  \nThis is the famous thirteenth floor,  \nAnother floor you'll never find,  \nLegally these floors don't exist,  \nMy floor makes me feel so dirty  \nI feel like taking two showers.\n\nThe outside company logo  \nIs a gold plated figure eight;  \nThe Latin phrase at the bottom  \nSays, \"Abyssus Est Eternus,  \nSimply put, \"Hell is Forever,\"  \nNot all cages can be broken,  \nA cage that is invisible  \nIs a cage you won't escape from.\n\nSometimes some workers go insane,  \nWe keep them on the \"Loony Floor;\"  \nAnother floor that can't be find,  \nThe windows echo the Sun's gleam,  \nThe windows are shaded inside,  \nYou can even look at the Sun  \nFor hours without going blind,  \nBut you'd be punished for it!\n\nThe windows are suicide-proof,  \nYou'd have to run at your top speed  \nJust to have a chance at fleeing  \nThis legalized-prison-like maze,  \nIf you went forty miles per hour  \nYou'd probably make it right through,  \nIf you killed yourself at home  \nYour employment record dissolves.\n\nThis means that the IRS can't touch them  \nAs they steal back your 401 K's,  \nStock options, and all your money;  \nEven if you hid your money  \nIn some kind of Swiss Bank Account,  \nWe work from eight in the morning  \nTo sometime after eight o'clock,  \nDay after day, clock in clock out.\n\nEven the mice that spin their wheels  \nCan at least keep themselves in shape,  \nBut, most of us get overweight,  \nThen most of our brains turn to mush  \nBecause we're only allowed tasks  \nThat never end and are boring,  \nOur workplace looks like a labyrinth;  \nThe kind that lab rats know too well.\n\nWe call both floors Ghost One or Two  \nThe eighth floor is known as Ghost One  \nBut the thirteenth floor is Ghost Two,  \nTo enter any of these floors  \nYou must type the secret numbers  \nFound at the bottom-most panel,  \nGhost one is coded three-two-three,  \nGhost two is one-four-zero-eight.\n\nIn both of these treacherous floors  \nThere's no such thing as worker's rights,  \nOn this floor, Rights are like the Moon,  \nAlways seen, heard of, never felt,  \nThe cameras always zoom in  \nOn every action you take,  \nThey probably have cameras  \nHidden in every bathroom!\n\nFemales are expected to have  \nThe Barbie Doll body figure,  \nThe males are expected to be  \nThe Ken Doll body figure type,  \nThe females are to be silent,  \nThe males are even more silent,  \nDeath is your only option out.\n\nYou do not legally exist,  \nWhich means you are just a splinter  \nIn the ass of society,  \nIf you resign your employment  \nThen you'll never work in this town  \nOr this whole state ever again,  \nThat goes for suspension as well,  \nThere is no retirement here.\n\nOur boss is a dastardly dog,  \nThe kind that always shatters you  \nInto billions of endless tears,  \nHe is so great at what he does;  \nYou'd call him an evil genius,  \nImagine Scrooge and Katrina  \nComing together as one beast,  \nHe wrote the book on skinflinting!\n\nHe is a short, flabby, bulldog  \nSitting in a big leather chair,  \nHe smokes a big Cuban cigar  \nAbout the size of a ruler,  \nMaking up for the smaller one  \nBuried deep within his trousers,  \nYou're paid enough so you won't leave;  \nBut you have to hunt down your check.\n\nOn average, the pay is good;  \nBut you will never get a raise  \nOr move up a station or two  \nSave for your extra services,  \nTo move up in life and stand tall  \nYou must always keep your head down  \nUnder his table and swallow  \nMore than just your ornery pride!\n\nHow do you think I got my clout  \nIn this upside down profession?  \nI could describe every speck  \nOf detail under his table,  \nWhen it's over there's lots of gum  \nThat helps with the taste in your mouth,  \nI remember finding one piece  \nThat tasted like strawberry lime!\n\nThey entice you in this sector  \nWith promises of 401 K's  \nFringe benefits and stock options,  \nBut you will never enjoy them  \nAs soon as you accept this job,  \nThis job is so very stressful  \nThat nobody lives past fifty,  \nYou always die of some illness.\n\nI wouldn't even be surprised  \nIf they still kept asbestos hid  \nDeep in the ceiling above us;  \nOr in the ventilation shafts!  \nAll workers shall get lung cancer  \nBecause, everyone is smoking,  \n'round every corner on this floor  \nYou see \"Thank You for Smoking\" signs.\n\nI remember the old maxim  \n\"Yes, there is fungus among us,\"  \nBut there's dog hair everywhere,  \nWhich makes me sneeze once and a while,  \n\"That which doesn't kill can only  \nMakes you stronger\" said a wise man,  \nBut, the Spring is only strongest  \nJust before the coming Winter.\n\nThe only thing we are in life  \nAre ghosts that tap on your shoulder,  \nWe are the pairs of eyes spying  \nBehind a veil of privacy,  \nImagine using privacy  \nTo take away your privacy,  \nWe are the shadows in the fog,  \nWe're everywhere yet nowhere.\n\nYou see, we're all company spies,  \nOur job is to collect info  \nOn what you buy and how often,  \nAfter we've gotten what we need  \nYou'll get that annoying junk mail,  \nYou know, the type that offers you  \nLow interest credit card loans;  \nBut then, they jack up the prices.\n\nWe are the basset hounds that dig  \nUp all the dirty little secrets  \nThat you've tried to hide, scrap, or shred,  \nSometimes, online, we will send you  \nThose ads that say \"you're a winner,\"  \nThen you type your email address  \nTo claim your notorious prize,  \nBut you know you'll never get it.\n\n\u0026nbsp; Forty percent of the workers  \nAre Basset Hounds working nonstop,  \nForty percent are all Bloodhounds,  \nTen percent are all equine  \nBut the rest are Vulpes Vulpes,  \nWe're all looking out for ourselves,  \nWhether by action or species  \nWe're lowdown, under handing dogs.\n\nI'm cursed being a red fox;  \nMainly being the new leader,  \nI still hear the boss whispering  \nThe childish nicknames about me  \nAs I walk out of his office,  \nMy job is to make new software  \nThat allows web bugs to remain  \nThe unseen eye on the public.\n\nI'm most likely the Firm's mascot  \nSeeing as I wear its symbols  \nIn the form of a gold button  \nThat's in the middle of my tie,  \nI also wear an gold earring  \nThat is the same exact symbol  \nJust at the tip of my left ear,  \nIt's also branded on my ass!\n\nThe boss makes me walk all around  \nWithout any pants or boxers,  \nMy shirt isn't long enough to hide  \nMy shame from any onlookers,  \nEveryone sees the Firm's brand  \nThat the boss burnt on me, himself,  \nAfter a while of this charade  \nThey don't seem to notice or care.\n\nAfter a few years of this spiel  \nThe only upshot that exists  \nIs that I feel comfortable  \nWith myself and my surroundings,  \nThe boss doesn't allow the others  \nTo take that kind of liberty,  \nHe says that if he allowed it  \nWe would all turn into hippies.\n\nI don't go out on any dates,  \nI'm single and I'm not looking,  \nI guess I've never considered  \nAny side of the playing field  \nTo where I might be partial to,  \nAll I know is how to survive,  \nThough I'm just another male fox;  \nI still take good care of myself.\n\nSome think that I'm the office slut;  \nBut I happen to think of it  \nAs another way to survive  \nHere in The Big Rotten Apple,  \nThe only friends I've ever had  \nAre the cockroaches where I live,  \nThey seem to have a better life  \nTo live than I can imagine.\n\nMy name is Mitch Vernon Tailor,  \nI have been known as \"Mitch the Bitch,\"  \nI'm also known as \"Vern the Worm,\"  \nAnd, of course, \"Tailor the Failure,\"  \nAll of which, are for clear reasons  \nThat I'm not too proud to lay claim,  \nI'm known to be the worst leader  \nEver put, or kept, in this job.\n\nSometimes I ask myself questions  \nLike, \"Why do they still keep me here?\"  \nThen I chew the gum in my mouth  \nAnd say, \"Oh, I remember now!\"  \nSince there is no way out of here  \nThe only place to go is up;  \nBut I have never been the one  \nTo make a fuss or rock the boat.\n\nMaybe that's how I got my names?  \nAt least I know my place in life,  \nWhich is much more than collecting  \nAll the flavors of the rainbow  \nStuck up right underneath his desk,  \nUsually he keeps me drowning  \nIn a huge sea of paperwork;  \nJust to make sure I keep quiet.\n\nI'm sitting here in the middle  \nSection 'twixt the door and window,  \nI am the eighth Sub-Group leader  \nOn the eighth section in this maze,  \nI know everybody here  \nBut no one knows me in person,  \nBeing the ghost with the most helps  \nMe keep my anonymity.\n\nJust above our heads you can hear  \nElevator Muzak playing,  \nIt's enough to put you to sleep,  \nThe craziest thing in this job  \nIsn't the long hours or the pay,  \nIt's all of the elevators!  \nThey will always glitch or shut down,  \nAt least they play good rock music.\n\nMy elevator, however,  \nOnly plays Stairway to Heaven,  \nExcept, it keeps skipping nonstop!  \nGod, I wish this thing would snap off  \nAlong with me trapped inside it!  \nThis should be the stairway to hell,  \nNothing like a fox in a box  \nWishing I had some kind of pox.\n\nThey still give us midday breaks here,  \nLunch is donuts and plastic fruit,  \nIt's sugary food that helps you  \nProgram nonstop without real food,  \nOur liquid diet consists of:  \nBurnt coffee, soda, and Red Bull,  \nPlastic food makes for plastic friends,  \nYou have fifteen minutes to eat!\n\nThere's only one way to go  \nWhen you've worked here for twelve years,  \nIt's either up or down once dead,  \nI've got as far up the latter  \nThat any fox is permitted,  \nSo, how should I off myself right?  \nShall I do it quick or slowly?  \nShould I write a small death poem?\n\nThen I noticed the humming sound  \nAbout four feet above my head,  \nIt was a steel fan with one blade  \nThat constantly slashed the air;  \nLike an ax murderer set free,  \nAfter the poem was written  \nI grabbed a nearby stapler,  \nThen I stapled it to my shirt.\n\nI sat down in my cubical  \nTo give everyone my note  \nVia email and printer,  \nI'm sure nobody cared,  \nIt doesn't really have to matter,  \nLife is just mind over matter,  \nIf you don't mind, it doesn't matter,  \nLife has no point except to live.\n\nNext stop, infamous the break room,  \nAs I made my way through the isles  \nI heard someone laugh behind me,  \nIt was just another newbie  \nCriticizing me with his eyes,  \nHis nametag said, \"Hi! My name's Mitch,\"  \nHe'll have to find out the hard way,  \nAt last, I made it to the room.\n\nI quickly turned the switch off,  \nI had no six-foot rope at hand,  \nBut, I could use my lucky tie,  \nIt was the very dog collar  \nThat had become my livery,  \nIt was my entrance to this job,  \nNow, it will be my exit out.  \nLucky me, it wasn't a clip on!\n\nThe fan was bolted to the top,  \nThe fan's strength was very well made,  \nIt could hold two of me up there,  \nWith a sly grin, I got to work,  \nThis would be the perfect time now  \nFor it was almost his break time,  \nHe normally gets his full hour,  \nI'm allowed thirty minutes.\n\nWhilst in the break room I planned  \nOut how I would do it just right,  \nAll I needed to do was flip  \nThe switch, by the door, with my foot,  \nYet, my leg was too short to reach,  \n(Good thing I still had the stapler,)  \nI lightly flung it at the switch,  \nThe fan hummed right back to life!\n\nNow I'm tied with my fate,  \nNow I've knotted the grim reaper,  \nOnce the fan could turn no longer  \nI kicked the table underneath  \nTo let gravity take effect,  \nAs the immense pressure mounted;  \nI felt like my eyes would explode,  \nThen my tongue started to hang out.\n\nBy then, the last breath was only  \nA deep sigh and a death rattle,  \nMy blue eyes were still wide-awake;  \nLike black holes just waiting to suck  \nAny soul out, if looked through,  \nHe came in five minutes later  \nWith a sterile look in his eye.\n\nPop. culture tells us certain truths  \nAbout some aspects of your death,  \nWhat they don't tell you is the fact  \nThat from five to seven minutes  \nYou can still hear, see, and feel things,  \nThe rest of the brain's time is spent  \nWaiting for that elusive light  \nAt the end of that long tunnel.\n\nHow do I know all this, you say?  \nBecause, I could see him enter  \nThe break room with pomp and panache,  \nI could hear those Italian shoes  \nMarching in the silent white room,  \nI could smell those Cuban cigars  \nWringing out my stomach again,  \nBut, I couldn't move or scream at all!\n\nAs my boss turned to look up  \nAt my corpse swinging gently,  \nHe tripped right over the stapler;  \nWhich made him ruin his Cuban,  \nI though I still had the last laugh  \nBut, he still got it after all,  \nHe took my note to blow his nose,  \nThen, he stuck it inside my mouth.\n\nHe whipped out another cigar,  \nWith a couple of puffs, he finished,  \nHe then, yanked my tail o'erhead,  \nThen he spread both of my cheeks wide  \nJust so he could stick the burnt end  \nRight through the _eye_ of the needle,  \nHe struck the left cheek as he said  \n\"Ha! Another one bites the dust!\"\n\nJust now, I remembered one fact  \nAbout any executions  \nEither made by strangulation  \nOr my favorite; a hanging,  \nI think it's known as Angel Lust,  \nThis made a bit of sense right now,  \nBecause, I wear no pants to work now,  \nMy flag is stiff but at half-mast.\n\nAs he left the break area  \nHe must have called in H.E.L.L.'s fuzz;  \nBecause two able bodied guys  \nUnhooked me from my hanger,  \nNo doubt, they'll cover my death up,  \nI'm sure the other workers read  \nMy note with a scoff or a laugh,  \nThis note is written thus below:\n\n\u0026nbsp;\n\n**To Whom It May Concern:**\n\nAre we the zombies  \nWho live; work; and die  \nIn the cubicles?  \nDo they bury us  \nDeep in paperwork?  \nAre we the bodies  \nInside the morgues  \nIn our cubbyholes?  \nHave they pushed us  \nIn our pine boxes?  \nNo wonder it feels  \nLike an icebox here,  \nThrow down your nooses  \nThat you Ants have worn  \nAs your shirts and ties!  \nOr, they shall hang you  \nWith no tit for tat!  \nFeed them to the fire!  \nYou are made free now!\n\n© As of 2009  \n\u0026nbsp;\n\n  \n  \n\n"}