He, Dynamite. (Part 3)

The man strode confidently into Meeting Room Uno of the You Think We Deliver depot. Urgent they had said. On pain of the death of your career, they had said. They? Career? Bleak. Spice it up, maybe?

Uno was stacked to the ceiling with other uniformed men and women, each staring at a shrinking man in a boxy pinstripe suit and chelsea boots - HA! - at the head of the room. It seemed with each passing second that those at the front loomed further over Mr Pinstripe, whose spine was curving backwards more and more. Our second man was not, then, the only one whose sentiment regarding this call to arms was less than positive.

"Some changes to how we go about our work, boys and girls," Mr Pinstripe said. His voice - gilt-edged and guilt-edged - had obtained a special characteristic whereby it sounded as a whisper directly in both left and right ears of everyone in a room, no matter the number of listeners nor size of the room. This ability had been cultivated over years of having to make up for his body's tendency to cower, forsaking the naturally courageous tendency of his mind.

Every uniformed drone he addressed noticed the damp spreading from one edge of the ceiling to the other, as dozens of sets of eyes rolled in dozens of skulls. The looming front-rowers, however, now played into our whispering orator's hands, leaning over him in what - because of the nature of his address - now appeared to be apprehension.

"Ambiguity is killing us," he whispered. "We must strive to invite into our business full clarity, so that productivity is ever on the rise. From now on, you will knock on doors, hand over parcels, say nothing, leave, and move onto the next task. It is no one's job to ensure that the recipients of our products understand the objects we deliver to them. Get in, get out. No uncertainty about your role, no chit-chat, no relationship building. Utter clarity."

Our second man inhaled rather too deeply. For he had seen, on Mr Pinstripe's forehead, a darkening stain appear, which emerged finally in the shape of the Latin cross. Some unknown was dislodged from in-between his teeth at the sharp inhalation, and caught in the back of his throat. His mind jumped back to the incident with the girl the night before. His eyes bulged as he coughed and spluttered, decorating the back of the fleece in front of him with saliva and unknown. The close proximity of the being in front leant to the exacting of swift karmic rectitude on our fellow, since some spluttery chunks of debris bounced back onto the tip of his nose, encasing it in an umbre crust. The entire looming audience swivelled as one to target him, heaving not, apparently, themselves borne witness to the Sign before them. The man's uniform became too big for him. He reddened at the thought of how confidently he had entered the room just minutes before.

"Off you go," caressed Mr Pinstripe. "Vans are loaded and ready to bear you onwards into destiny."

Each left and, in the loading area, located their assigned delivery van and began, as they had the day before and the day before, delivering items their customers barely knew they needed. In the depot bathroom, Mr Pinstripe splashed water on his forehead, desperately trying to clear away the invisible ink he had strategically smeared there earlier that morning. 

Our current hero engaged automaticity, barely noticing the glory of the day, or the omens that crossed him in spite of that glory's power - evil, it seems, hides amongst the most alluring foliage. If his mind had not been crystallised, he would have later been able to describe in detail, dear reader, the young blonde girl searching through entrails on the roadside, the half-dead vulture with mistletoe sprouting from one eye that was dragging itself to some unknown destination with its beak, and the toe middle-aged women repeatedly failing to correctly execute a high-5. Bad omens all, indeed.

He did not stir, nor even raise an eyebrow at the disastrously rundown house to which his first delivery led him. The already disintegrating doorframe shuddered more paint from its surface as a maniacally-smiling young man swung open the handleless front door. Our man paid little attention to this youngster, who stood hands-on-hip, feet spread wide apart, and whose tumescence was barely hidden beneath the thick woollen jumper that was his only means of preserving dignity. Nor did our fellow notice the illegible scrawl covering the hallway walls, or the organ that extended toward him below the surface of the jumper. While he engaged in some absent-minded superficial conversation, it was only when this seemingly - in his mind - bleak repetition of all previous incidents in this line of work had ended, and his van had shut down before reaching the next road over, did he regain awareness of the outside world once more.