Author: Greg Clarkin

I left the house in a panic, hopped in the car and sped across town. No way was I going to be left behind. No way was I going to go hungry, left to buy groceries on the black market from some shady food dealer.

If the president said we needed a picture ID to buy groceries, then by God, I was going to see if the supermarkets were handing out special IDs. I wasn’t going to rely on my drivers license, or work ID to eat. It was early, I figured I could beat the crowd, and headed straight for Stop & Shop.

Dear People in the Newsroom Team,

I hope all is well with you and your dependents families. This is just a quick note to let you know that fifty-nine of you are fired will be pursing new opportunities elsewhere. The four of you who are not fired staying with Crock, the world’s media leader, will be responsible for running the newsroom, including covering the news, writing the news, taking pictures of the news, and editing the news.

Hoffman came into the conference room and put his iPad down. He looked around at the team sitting at the shiny conference table, careful to make eye contact with each one of us. The mood went from the jovial, pointless pre-meeting small talk to tenseness. Something was going on. Something big.

Wilson from marketing looked downright awful when I bumped into him coming out of the company gym. His right eye was puffy, black and blue, and swollen half-shut. His hair was a mess. The man looked like he was on the verge of collapse.

“I’m sure you’re not hearing this for the first time today,” I said, “but you look like crap. You take up mixed martial arts or something?”