Greg guided Ben to his new domain: the Mail Room. It festered in the building’s bowels, a crypt of witchlight hum and forgotten parcels. Ben stood at its threshold, nostrils flaring at the stench of dust, stale alchemical sludge, and defeat. Towers of unmarked boxes teetered like siege engines abandoned mid-assault. A steel steed (forklift) sat dormant, its prongs rusted and bowed—like a toothless wolf in a den of mice.
The room’s sole guardian snored at a desk buried under mountains of mis-sorted scrolls (mail). The man—Garry, his nametag read—was a mound of flesh and flannel. His jowls quivering with each wet, guttural snore. A rivulet of drool pooled around a half-eaten doughnut fossilized to a memo pad labeled “URGENT: 2017 Tax Documents.”
“You!” Ben’s voice shook the cobwebbed rafters. “Rise, sentry! Your post is overrun!”
Garry’s snores deepened, punctuated by a phlegmy choke. Ben seized a nearby gavel (a stapler) and slammed it on the desk. The doughnut crumbled to dust. Garry snorted, smacked his lips, and resumed his slumber.
“Deaf as a tombstone,” Ben muttered, leaning closer, "And twice as useful."
Ben stalked the mail room’s aisles like a general surveying a plague-ravaged camp. The air in the realm hung with the musk of neglect, every breath a lungful of parchment rot. His boots crunched over the carcasses of rubber bands and brittle packing tape as he cataloged the room’s sins:
The “Fragile” Bin:
A sarcophagus of folly. Shredded packing peanuts spilled over its edges like snow atop a mass grave. At its center lay a headless garden gnome, one chipped hand still raised in a cheery wave. Ben crouched, turning the figure over. “A warrior felled by decapitation,” he muttered, the gnome’s vacant stare mirroring his disdain. “Your clan abandoned you to this stygian pit. Rest now, little sentinel.”
The Pallet of 2018:
A monolith of incompetence. Envelopes—yellowed and bloated with moisture—had fused into a single, sagging slab. Ben dragged a finger across its surface, dislodging a beetle that scuttled into the shadows. “Scrolls of a fallen era,” he growled. “Their secrets have moldered, their senders forgotten. A tomb for ink and idiocy.”
The “Phone”:
A relic of a dead crusade. The device crouched on a desk like a mummified toad, its receiver dangling by a cord frayed to gutstring thinness. The base was crusted with hieroglyphs of neglect—coffee rings older than interns, fossilized cheese dust, and a sticky patch that reeked of citrus-flavored regret. Ben lifted the receiver, and a family of silverfish spilled from the earpiece. “Your lines are severed,” he declared. “Your battles… unanswered.”
The “Live Nudes” Box:
Ben’s boot connected with the crate, sending it skidding into a wall. The cardboard split, unleashing a skittering horde of spiders. “Invaders!” he barked, seizing a nearby scroll tube (mailing tube) to crush the eight-legged marauders. “This outpost is compromised!”
The Filing Cabinet:
A tower of hubris. Ben wrenched open the drawer, unleashing an avalanche of paperwork that buried him to the knees. Tax forms sliced his arms like paper blades; a family of silverfish rained down, their antennae twitching in the fluorescent glare. Amidst the carnage fluttered a postcard—sun-bleached and warped, its palm-tree vista defaced by Chad’s looping scrawl: “Wish you were here! - Management Retreat, 2016.”
Ben plucked it from the rubble, his thumb smearing the ink. “A chieftain’s mockery,” he rumbled. “Penned while his kin rotted in this purgatory.” His boot heel ground the card into the tiles, grinding paradise to pulp.
*****
The forklift’s engine snarled to life, its rusty growl echoing through the mail room’s cavernous belly. Ben stood tall in the saddle (driver’s seat), his hands gripping the wheel like the reins of a warhorse. “We ride at dawn, steel steed!” he bellowed, slamming the gearshift forward. The machine lurched, skewering a pallet of “Confidential” parcels with its prongs. Boxes exploded in a shower of packing slips and decade-old memos.
Garry jolted awake, his beard raining powdered sugar and doughnut shrapnel. “Wha—? Who—? Overtime?” he slurred, blinking at the carnage.
“War,” Ben corrected, steering the forklift in a tight arc around Garry’s desk. “And you, sloth-lord, will serve.”
Garry blinked, farted audibly, and reached for a fresh doughnut. “M’break’s til 10.”
Ben’s eye twitched. “So be it,” he snarled, revving the engine. “I’ll forge order from this chaos—after I rally a war council!”
******
Ben stormed through the office like a hurricane in steel-toed boots. Searching for one soul that had the look and feel of a true warrior.
Greg was first—cornered in a supply closet, stress-eating gummy bears. “Ben! Hi! I was just, uh, inventorying—”
“Your ledger-balancing ends now,” Ben declared, hauling him out by his tie. “The mail room demands tribunes.”
Kellen froze mid-Slack message, fingers hovering over his keyboard like a startled vole. “D-dude, I’ve got a deadline—”
“Death comes for us all,” Ben intoned, tossing him over his shoulder. “Today, you live.”
Lisa didn’t flinch when Ben kicked open the lobby doors. “Concierge service is over,” she drawled, not looking up from her nails.
“You mistake me for a guest,” Ben said. “You are scout-general now.”
The Intern (name: Dylan? Tyler?) was found weeping in the stairwell, clutching a shattered coffee carafe. “They called my pivot tables ‘cute’—”
“Tears are rations for the weak,” Ben said, hoisting him up. “Today, you bleed productivity.”
The Mail room Musters:
Ben climbed atop the forklift, his boots scraping against the rusted steel, and raised his mug. The witchlights flickered, casting his shadow like a war banner across the mountains of ruined parcels.
“Warriors!” His voice boomed, shaking dust from the rafters.
“You stand in the rotten heart of this realm—a fortress besieged by chaos, its walls crumbling, its defenders asleep!” He jabbed the knife toward Garry, who snorted mid-snore, a doughnut chunk tumbling from his lips.
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Greg hyperventilated into a UPS bag, his face the color of printer paper. “I think I’m having a—”
“A revelation!” Ben thundered, cutting him off.
“For too long, this keep has festered! Scrolls lost to the abyss! Beasts of iron left to rust!” He kicked a shattered monitor, sending sparks cascading over Kellen, who yelped and dropped a stack of misrouted mail.
“But no more! Today, we carve order from this entropy! Today, we become the spearpoint of destiny!”
Lisa rolled her eyes, filing a nail to a lethal point. “Destiny’s got a 401(k) and dental, right?”
Ben leapt down, looming over her. “You mistake purpose for payroll, scribe. What is life but a ledger of deeds? When the bards sing of this day, will they croon of copays… or courage?”
The room fell silent, save for the intern’s muffled whimpers. Ben turned to him, slicing the caution tape near an OSHA violation with a flourish. “Rise, young squire! Your pivot tables are but kindling. Today, you wield fire!” He thrust a lighter into the intern’s shaking hand.
“But—but…”
“All great pyres begin with a spark!” Ben wheeled back to the group, his cloak (Old curtain) flaring. “To the nay-sayers, we are misfits! To the blind, we are mad! But I say—we are the fulcrum! The edge! The unseen hand that strangles entropy!”
Greg peeked out from his UPS bag. “Ben, the fire extinguisher’s expired if a fire starts—”
“A blessing!” Ben roared. “For now, even flames heed our cause!”
The HVAC turned on—a guttural, grinding screech. Ben spun toward the sound, mug gleaming. “Hear that, comrades? The beast mocks our resolve! It thinks us crushed beneath its paper hooves! But we… we are the avalanche!”
He slammed his fist onto the pallet of 2018 mail, sending a cloud of silverfish scattering. “Greg! Chronicle our conquests upon these scrolls of triumph!” He hurled a fistful of shipping labels. Greg caught one, blinked at the barcode, and accidentally stuck it to his forehead, shaking his head.
“Kellen!” Ben tossed a shattered printer drum at him. “Forge from these ruins a siege engine! Let every jam and paper cut be a war cry!”
Kellen stared at the debris, then slowly began threading a USB cable through the wreckage like a fuse.
“Lisa!” Ben unsheathed a letter opener and slapped it into her palm. “You are our blade in the dark! Let the taverns (break rooms) buzz with tales of your cuts!”
Lisa arched a brow, then speared a stack of unopened HR complaints. “...Sure. Let’s stab bureaucracy.”
“And you!” Ben hauled the intern to his feet. “Your fire will light the beacon! Let Chad’s kingdom blaze with our glory!”
The intern hiccuped, flicking the lighter. A tiny flame sputtered to life. “I-I’m ready to… burn?”
“LOUDER!”
“BURN!” the intern squeaked.
Ben raised his mug to the air. “The scribes will sing of this hour! Of the War Council that rose from dust! Of the beast that fell to stamps! To victory!”
“To… victory?” Greg whispered, peeling the shipping label off his nose.
“TO VICTORY!” Ben roared.
A half-hearted murmur rippled through the group. Garry belched in his sleep.
The mail room door shuddered under three sharp knocks—a rhythm more akin to a siege battering ram than a polite request. Ben wheeled toward the sound, mug raised. “Who dares—”
The door swung open, revealing a woman carved from a battlefield, marbled with armor (tailored pantsuit) gleaming under the flickering witchlights, every seam sharp enough to draw blood. Her hair swept into a tight siege engine of a bun, eyes like twin daggers honed on corporate audits, she surveyed the carnage with a gaze that could flay weak wills to the bone.
“Benginold?” Her voice was a whetstone dragged across steel. “Chad approved my restructuring request. Effective immediately, this…”—she paused, nostrils flaring at the smoldering tax files and silverfish diaspora—“…unit is temporarily designated Logistical Reconnaissance Division. Personnel reassigned, pay grades unchanged.”
Greg peeled a shipping label off his cheek. “Wait, we’re stuck here? But I’m HR—”
“You’re expendable,” the woman said, flipping open a clipboard forged from what looked like dragonhide (vegan leather). “I’m Jenavive Harken. Your tactical liaison. Call me Jenny if you enjoy unemployment.”
Ben’s eyes narrowed, assessing. Her stance betrayed training—weight balanced on the balls of her feet, shoulders loose but ready. A quill (pen) tucked behind her ear, ink black as a starless night. A warrior-scribe, then. Worthy.
“Jenny,” Ben rumbled, lowering his mug. “You bear the stench of command.”
“And you reek of arson and poor life choices,” she said, toeing the charred tax box. “But Chad insists you’re disruptive enough to warrant oversight.”
Lisa snorted. “So you’re our babysitter?”
Jenny’s gaze sliced to her. “I’m the scalpel excising this tumor of incompetence. You’ll address me as Commander or Ma’am. Your whining stays in the break room with your emoji mugs.”
The intern raised a trembling hand. “Wh-what’s our mission?”
Jenny’s smile was a garrote wire. “To unfuck this dystopian origami project.” She turned to Ben, tossing him a brass key stamped with the Council of Seekers’ sigil—a tower encircled by quills. “Chad’s terms: Fix the mailroom, and the Tower’s next.”
“War Council!” he roared, slamming the key onto a pallet. “Meet your general!”
Greg whispered to Kellen, “Are we the good guys?”
“We’re the employed,” Kellen squeaked.
“I think, I burned the tax files accidentally,” the intern said.
Jenny snapped her clipboard shut. “First order: Incinerate anything older than Chad’s last haircut. Second: Silence that godsdamned printer.” Her eyes locked on Ben. “You. With me. We strategize in my office.”
Ben grinned, teeth glinting.
As they marched over to the break room, the intern leaned toward Lisa. “Is Jenny… scarier than Ben?”
Lisa lit a cigarette off the smoldering tax box while Greg prepared the fire extinguisher. “Nah. Just better dressed.”