02 Mar Do Not Connect

The breakroom reeked of fish. Someone had reheated food in the microwave, and now the whole place smelled putrid. The odor was so strong that it reached down the hallway to my office.

I watched a coworker leave the restroom after taking a hefty shit, and walked straight through the door — no handwashing for her.

Another guy I worked with has an affinity to ripping huge farts several times per hour, and not caring who heard or had to breathe it in.

These are only a few things that drive me insane about working in my office. When I would exit those doors, the relief would hit with an intense wave of immediate satisfaction. I may be smiling by the time I sat down in my shitbox of a car. To just get out of that building was enough to send me in an ascent of joy.

Have you ever had a job like that? It can be torture to be there for 40 hours a week. Believe me, I tried to find something with comparative pay, but never had any success. I had a few interviews but I was not selected for a callback. I concluded that it must be me, that this job had drained me of so much that I was a husk of who I was, a walking memorial to my former self, and now I was damned to be stuck there. I was denied for one job when they said I was too ‘bitter’. Am I?

When you’re so close to the same humans day after day, after a while, they get on your nerves. Combine all those grievances into one heaping pile of shit, and the whole situation starts to collapse whatever bit of sanity you’ve managed to sustain, suffocating you with the literal stink of it all.

Granted, I’m not a perfect person by any means. I’m lazy, and my wife complains that I don’t do enough chores, but I do most of the things that are required of me. I’m a devoted and doting partner. We don’t have any kids, but looking at everyone else I know, I feel like we are better off that way. I don’t want that kind of responsibility. What if those kids turned out like these people I loathed so much? Besides, adoption and IVF are expensive. We could use that money on fun stuff instead. Adoption can also be difficult for a gay couple, but that’s for another discussion. Raising kids just doesn’t sound like a good time to me.

Last summer, I applied to take my two weeks of remaining paid time off to do something that I would consider fun. My wife, Elyssa, and I were going to take a vacation at the end of August. I thought by then that I would be at my breaking point and would need the time away from my personal little hell. The trip would be at a cabin retreat in the mountains, in the middle of nowhere, just my wife, books, and booze to keep me company – no distractions from modern life to stress me out and bring me down. No thoughts about work. No thoughts about scheduling or time constraints. No cares about life at all, except what the next page held and the next dram of whiskey.

The time leading up to this trip felt like a dream come true.

The excitement was hard to contain. I could feel it bubbling below the surface, a dormant volcano of elation waiting to ignite. At work, I had become chatty and more outgoing than I usually was. People were surprisingly happy and positive toward me after that point. I began to think ‘does my job suck because I make it that way?’, but the answer revealed itself soon.

Then one day, my boss dragged me into his office to inform me that my vacation time had been cancelled. We had a massive order that we needed fulfilled and they needed me on duty.

My soul was crushed. I’m not usually a crier, but I broke down at my desk. I nearly did in front of him, but I managed to hold it in. The last thing I wanted to do was to look weak in front of these fucking scum bags.

I looked into it and it was perfectly legal for them to cancel my paid time off. I had it with them and the legal system let me down too.

To add insult to injury, the Tuna Casserole Bandit was at it again that day. The middle-aged, balding man was named Danny and he was from our accounting department. I only recalled his name because there was recently a birthday announcement sent to the entire company. It was just a generic thing, probably automated. It had no personalization to it at all, which goes to show how much they cared about us.

When I arrived back at my desk, I searched for that email until I found it. I was the weary detective and he was the unknowing criminal. I wrote up a lengthy email about how fed up I was with the way he ruined my lunches and nearly clicked send, but I held back. Logic conquered my raging emotions, and instead, I saved it to my drafts.

The kettle filled with hate inside of me continued to boil, about to start the whistle at any moment. I kept the email up with the photo of his, clearly not recent, photo– his blobby, bespectacled face made me want to punch my monitor. So instead of exploding, I took a break and took the elevator down to my parked car, then proceeded to scream myself hoarse. My throat ached and my ears rang, but it felt good to release some of that rage.

On my way past the cigarette smokers blowing their cancerous clouds all around the front doors, which was supposed to be against the rules but nobody seemed to give a shit.

The two middle-aged men chatting it up in front of the elevator didn’t seem to care that I had to walk through the fumes of their self-inflicted poisoning. All my rage returned as I rode up the three floors, my fist clinched white-knuckled and trembling.

I sat down at my desk and decided I wouldn’t do a single task for the rest of the day. Instead, I would look at job boards and online sites to find a new place to drain my soul. As I was scrolling through job listings on a website, a notification dinged on my laptop that it had connected to a new Wi-Fi network.

“What the hell?”

I guided my cursor to the settings and saw it was now connected to a new network labeled as ‘DO NOT CONNECT’.

Confused, I switched it back to the normal network, but after a few seconds, it switched back to the other.

Under my breath I croaked out a frustrated, “What the fuck?”

None of the web pages I had open would work anymore. After relaunching my browser in an attempt to fix the problem, I was redirected to a page that was only labeled with IP address. The page was completely blank besides large, bold text in the center that said “How Can We Help You?” and a textbox below to enter a response.

I snorted and thought

Is this a joke?

“Eliminate The Tuna Casserole Bandit so I can eat lunch in the breakroom again,” then I clicked the Submit button.

I had to chuckle a bit. This had to be some kind of survey that the company wanted us to be ‘honest’ about, so I was. They’d have no idea who I was talking about anyway. They say it’s anonymous, but I’m willing to bet they could trace these back to us with our computer’s IP address. I didn’t expect anything to happen. Part of me hoped this wasn’t a virus that I had just released to the entire network.

My laptop suddenly switched back to its normal internet connection and everything began functioning normally again. I was a bit puzzled, but once I continued my job search, I had forgotten about this weird incident. The toiling commenced and not another thought

The next day, after churning orders all morning, I headed to the break room for lunch. There he was. The fucking Tuna Casserole Bandit. I walked in just as he popped his favorite dish into the microwave and started heating it.

I sat at the opposite end of the room, trying to be as far from the smell as possible. I had chosen the wrong day to bring my lunch that required the microwave. There was a chance that my food was going to absorb the stink and then I would probably hurl like I was demon possessed. Thinking about it made me gag. From my seat, I glanced up at the man every few seconds, he stood there scrolling on his phone as the timer wound down. His thumb flipped endlessly on whatever app he was on, not appearing to read anything. Just flip, flip, flip. Was he a psychopath or a narcissist looking for new prey? Was he severely ADHD? Perhaps he was just really bad with technology?

He bent over to look at the turning food as the timer counted down. Instead of the normal beep that his food was finished, he was brought down by a loud bang.

He hit the floor, blood pouring out of numerous wounds to his face. He clawed at the lava-hot food masking him. I ran over to see if I could help. Shards of plastic from the explosion had pierced his face, including his eyes. He screamed and screamed as he writhed on the floor.

I called for emergency services, who arrived several minutes later. By then, blood had turned his once white dress shirt into a dark crimson, his skin had descended to a macabre gray. When the EMTs whisked him out of the building, he was barely moving.

Later that day, my boss held a meeting by his office door. He stood there, arms crossed, staring out the window. He looked contemplative and worried. Once we had all gathered, he turned around, revealing a printed-out statement in his hand, most likely direct from Human Resources.

“As many of you saw and heard, we had a bit of an accident earlier. Here is what we know — Todd Sterling from Accounting was heating his breakfast in the microwave when it exploded. Only a few people were here at the time due to an accident on the freeway, but thankfully, Sammi,” he pointed at me, “rushed to his aid and called 911. He was rushed off to St. Vincent’s Medical Center and we are hoping he will pull through. I wanted to hold this meeting to stop rumors from spreading, and I wanted to be honest with you. Thank you all.”

The rest of the day went normally, but the break room was cordoned off, and stayed that way for days after. I typed away, feeling some guilt. The memory of typing the request to that random website haunted me. What if they somehow pulled up my history and found out what I did? Could they even blame me for such an accident? It’s not like they could find footage of me planting a bomb in the microwave, or some other manipulation of it to cause it to blow up. I simply sat there, waiting for my turn.

I also thought, what if it had been me? What if it was my face that was shredded, my eyes punctured by the industrial plastic of the exploding kitchen appliance, forever doomed to be blind and permanently disfigured?

Later that day, our boss informed us that he had died.

And I felt… fucking happy.

I could barely contain the joy I felt.

No more tuna stinking up our breakrooms, no more holding my nose as I walked down the hallway, no more watching him pack his gullet with his smelly fucking dishes.

No more.

For the next week, I did more work than I had in the last month. I fulfilled orders, answered emails, and tallied costs and totals like a well-oiled machine. Nothing could bring me down.

I went to the bathroom on my break. I ran into Mrs. No Hygiene leave after taking an extremely smelly dump, the sink dry as a bone. When I sat at my computer, I was infuriated. How could a grown woman be so lazy? It takes a minute to wash your hands. Not only does this keep you healthy, but everyone around you too. This should all be common sense.

Not to them.

Her name was Bernadette, and she was the only woman sales boss. She was also known for her thickly applied makeup, and her penchant for flirting with the young guys in our building. Bernadette wore a wedding band, but that didn’t mean much to her. I had heard tales of young men climbing into the passenger seat of her Ferrari at the end of the day, to be whisked away to a day of having her makeup smeared all over their crotch, and some surely smelly sex.

I unlocked my computer and my web browser immediately took me to that mysterious page again.

How Can We Help You?

My heart began pumping hard. My smartwatch informed me that I had an elevated heartbeat.

Duh, I thought, I’m about to get another wish granted.

‘Teach Bernadette a lesson’, I typed, and then clicked submit.

My smartwatch notified me again. I couldn’t help but smile. Bernadette had become a scourge, a plague on the health of our office. She could easily become our Typhoid Mary. She didn’t work close to me, but I could guarantee that she didn’t use sanitizer and possibly didn’t even bother wiping. Who knew how far her distaste for hygiene went. Maybe she loved it. Maybe she had a kink for the putrid stink of her unclean nether region. Whatever the cause, it didn’t seem to bother the young guys who lined up to get inside of her.

My regular internet connection resumed and I went about my day, only this time, the anticipation was trying to kill me.

The next day, I walked in with a coffee I had bought, but I couldn’t help overhearing some of the salespeople by the coffee machine.

“Has anyone heard from Bernadette? It’s not like her to be this late.”

I grinned, so wide that it touched my ears, but I tried to hide it by sipping my coffee.

It was pointless to resist the dark joy filling me.

Bernadette went home the previous day and her normally submissive husband met her by the front door, wielding a revolver he had recently purchased. He knew about her frequent affairs but finally had enough of being a good little cuckold. Bernadette had embarrassed him in front of their family, children, and friends one too many times. He unloaded five rounds into her head, four while she was already dead on the ground.

He saved one more for himself.

It was never made clear exactly what his breaking point was.

I was relieved to never get her shit germs on my hands ever again.

I could now go to the restroom with peace of mind.

Bernadette’s position was filled a week later by one of her former staff, a guy named Carlos, who bought a BMW that same week. He has an affinity for big-breasted brunettes, and he’s not married. More power to him. That’s my type too, and that’s partly why I chose Elyssa. I have a thing too, I suppose.

Anyway, the office became more peaceful with the abrupt departure of Bernadette from this world and I became even more productive. So much so that I was promoted to a lead position, which meant I would be in charge of ten employees and below my manager in the hierarchy. That also meant a pay raise, which I used to buy my busty brunette, Elyssa, a brand-new SUV. Our old one had been falling apart lately and it was time to trade it in. She was quite happy with the surprise. We had sex in the laid down second and third rows in the driveway once we made it home. It was thrilling and the most fun we had in a while.

I was only disappointed when she made tuna helper for dinner later that night.

The incident made me think of Todd Sterling, the deceased Tuna Casserole Bandit.

You couldn’t have paid me enough to take a bite of that shit. I fed it to the dog when she wasn’t looking. He ate it with vigor, probably glad to eat something that isn’t a cheap corn byproduct that only smells vaguely of meat. He chomped until the plate was nearly clean, only soiled by his slobber.

I asked her why she made that and she said it was a recipe she stumbled across on TikTok. People said they loved it. It was the best dish they ever had. They recommended it to everyone. I gagged.

I slept in the guest bedroom that night.

The next day, I sat at my desk, which was situated slightly higher than the rest so I could literally oversee my employees. They all worked efficiently and I didn’t need to crack down on laziness. I was quite proud of them. Two months had passed since my promotion. Things were looking promising for the first time in a long while. If only things at home would have improved too. Instead, it only became worse.

I was afraid that I’d never see the strange Wi-Fi connection again. It hadn’t appeared since I had asked for the promotion. For a time, I thought about what I would use it for next time, but once it became apparent that this may not happen again, I drifted away from those ideas.

I was glad to find out that I was wrong.

A few weeks ago, as I was tallying our numbers for the month to present to the higher echelon of the company, my computer informed me that it had connected to the DO NOT CONNECT network.

I smiled.

How Can We Help You?

I considered entering the notorious Office Farter, but then I had a better idea.

‘A promotion,’ I responded.

The rest of the day went smoothly. On my way home, I told Elyssa I was bringing home fast food. We made love in the SUV again, and we even slept in the same bed. It was hard to sleep that night. Insomnia consumed me. I wondered how my boss would meet his demise. Would it be a deranged homeless person with a pocketknife? A boating accident? A mishap with a sex toy?

I found out the next day. On my way to work, I had to order a coffee with a double-shot of espresso to wake me up. My smartwatch said I had about two hours of sleep and I could definitely tell. My eyes burned and felt heavy, my brain was slow to respond, but the coffee helped. I walked in to find a Zoom call meeting waiting for me. They didn’t tell us the gory bits, but my employees gossiped to me about it later.

He had a rather unfortunate accident on his way home. A semi-truck cut him off on the freeway and the ensuing accident left him decapitated, his head rolling down a hillside into a ravine. The head wasn’t found for weeks, and by then, animals and the elements had wiped away most of the flesh, or at least that’s what I heard some people saying by the coffee machine. The best part is that his girlfriend, twenty-two years younger than him, was giving him road head when this happened, trapping her corpse between his legs.

Meanwhile, a week later, I was the one to fill his position.

Was death too extreme just because he cancelled my vacation those several months ago? It wasn’t just that. He ignored my complaints about those annoying coworkers. I went to him several times and nothing ever happened. I had also asked for raises, applied for promotions, anything to make my time there a little more bearable. This strange Wi-Fi network was a much better boss than he had ever been.

I now have my own office and a wonderful view of the city, the same office he had occupied. My secretary gives me oral under my desk whenever I ask for it. She’s a busty brunette named Tanya with a tongue of gold.

The office walls were an ugly grey and now I’ve had them painted a shade of blue that I love. I had the chair replaced with another because I didn’t want my ass to touch where my former manager’s once did, plus this one lays back for… extracurricular activities.

As for my Elyssa, she had taken a new habit of farting at a near-constant pace. It sounds funny, but I am disgusted by it. It’s hard to be aroused by someone when they could rip one right in your face. We don’t even sleep together anymore, and I believe she has an affair going on herself. She comes home drunk, her neck a wreck of bruises and her clothes disheveled, she walks with an extra pep in her step when she’s not making fish entrees for dinner.

I’ve confronted her several times. She refuses to let me see her phone. I know what she’s up to. I’ve been betrayed before and I can see it coming from a mile away. She was a U-Haul lesbian anyway. We moved in after two weeks of dating. We started in a small apartment downtown, but bought this house in a more rural area to get away from the noise. Lucky for me, her credit was shit and only my name is on the mortgage.

If I happen to get the DO NOT CONNECT Wi-Fi once again, I know what I’ll ask for this time.