Tuesdays were the worst, especially after Craggs had mandated Monday Night Football viewing parties at Professor Thom’s two weeks ago. Barry couldn’t believe he was walking into the office today, Tuesday, at 8:04AM. Yet here he was, the first one there. Just like every Tuesday. Fuck.
Petchesky tossed his satchel under the desk, flipped on his computer, and went hunting for coffee in the break room as he massaged his temples.
What a night, he thought, picking through months-old bags of coffee beans. He absently reflected on the ugliest game he’d seen since St. Louis and Carolina attempted football not 44 hours previously. What the hell happened last night? he asked himself again as he poured the grounds, filled the pot, and turned on the Bunn-O-Matic. Shit my head feels like shit.
Patchesky knew he had eight minutes before he could enjoy a cup of joe, so he returned to his desk and browsed the AP Wire:
“Obama slams GOP for obstruction of US Government business; Still no developments in investigation of Syrian government’s use of chemical weapons on its own citizens; Giants top Vikings in sloppy fashion at home, newcomer Freeman fails famously.”
“Really?” Barry said, surprised at the sound of his own voice. It was nearly 8:30, and he needed to churn out something out by 9:15. What does someone say about last night’s MNF debacle other than “Professional football team fucks other professional football team for four hours in most disappointing Monday night spectacle since Monday, the day, was invented”?
Petchesky leaned back in his chair, rubbed his forehead, and looked around. To his left, off in the corner, he noticed a computer’s screen-glow. That’s strange, he thought, nobody leaves their computer on overnight. It was indeed strange: not even Samer, who’d forget his dick if it weren’t attached to him, forgot to logout before leaving on Fridays. What was going on?
“Huh,” Barry said, and got out of his chair.
Approaching McCarthy’s desk, Barry saw the good doctor hunched over his desk asleep. Idiot passed out at work; not the first time.
“Fucking doctors,” he said and shook Dr. Matt by the shoulder. Nothing.
“Yo, McCarthy, it’s after hours and you’re too drunk to drive, buddy. Time to go. I’m calling a cab,” Barry said, grabbing his hair and shaking hard as he laughed.
Still, no response.
Is that coffee ready? he wondered absently, dropping McCarthy's head on the desk with a thunk.
Barry stood back and looked harder at Matt's posture. Blinking, he focused and at length recognized what sat before him, dumbstruck: in the center of McCarthy’s neck stood a large surgeon’s scalpel, embedded past the hilt. That’s got to be buried three inches, Petchesky marveled. Blood had seeped out and congealed all over the desk, keyboard, and plastic floor mat. The Doctor’s eyes were wide open, as if screaming No! Why?! No!
Petchesky stumbled back, slipping in Matt’s bloody slop, and caught himself. Jesus Fucking Christ, he thought, What do I do now?
As if on cue, the break room’s Bunn-O-Matic chimed to signal Barry’s coffee was brewed and ready to offer its perks.