As the intrusive thoughts come on, you succumb to disassociation, briefly fantasizing about hacking apart every last one of the bastards in the management suite. When you snap out of it, you’re covered in gore and holding a severed hand. Behind you is a trail of blood and smoldering ash. Your direct supervisor bleeds out in a corner with a letter opener jammed into their aorta, and the general manager has been thoroughly dismembered, with various parts tied to the break room corkboard with headset cables.
“I hate Mondays,” you mutter to yourself.
