The thoughts that occur in an office building on a Friday at three-forty-five P.M. have a natural tendency to turn toward the morbid. If the cartoon thought bubbles above orange cats in the comics were to appear over the cubicles at the offices of Johnson & Warbling, one would be hard pressed to find one that didn't contain a single class A felony. Cubicle six row two, for instance, fantasizes kidnapping his two spoiled offspring in order to teach them a lesson in respect. Whenever cubicle three row five closes her eyes, she pictures the slow and painful death of her chauvinist neighbor- the one who whistles and jeers every time she walks out of her home, past his confederate flag-ladened pickup. That particular plot involves a heavy dose of anti-freeze and popsicle sticks. One would also find many thoughts targeted toward other cubicles: Cubicle three row nine often thinks about ripping the larynx out of cubicle four row eight, a high-pitched gossip, who in turn thinks about gouging the eyes out of cubicle one row one who almost always daydreams about the sunny meadow and laughing children outside his apartment and wonders whether a nuclear bomb can be purchased commercially or if building one himself is more feasible.

However, come five o'clock on Friday, every one of those thoughts dissipate into the air. Cubicle six row two honestly can't wait for the onslaught of hugs from his beloved children when he walks through the door; cubicle three row five takes solace in the fact that her neighbor is facing three civil suits, one charge of public intoxication, and foreclosure on his home because "the government has no right to take the hard earned money of its citizens". The three other cubicles will go out for an after work drink and swap break room horror stories before wishing each other "have a good weekend!" with a smile on their face. The thoughts earlier in the day will never leave their cubicles. They remain in waiting for the next Friday where they will have their moment again at the precise moment of three-forty- five and then fade away again into their perpetual cycle. The cycle has been broken and no cubicle occupant has ever committed anything related to their macabre musings. That is, not until the last Friday in February when, for the first time in the history of Johnson & Warbling, a thought accompanied an occupant home.


The thought came into existence above cubicle five row five at one-thirty-two P.M., a bit earlier than usual, but was swept away by a rather frustrating spreadsheet. This particular thought was unlike any other conjured at the office. In fact, it was almost ingenious and somewhat plausible. On a normal work day, the spreadsheet would fall victim to procrastination but with quarterly reviews fast approaching, the occupant of cubicle five row five felt pressured to put forth a little more than his usual 65% effort and as a result, that thought remained dormant. It didn't fade as all that came before it had, it wasn't forgotten, it just slept.
It slept through his commute–the repetitious rocking of the train kept it sedate. It slept through the long shower–his guttural singing was not enough waken the thought. It almost awoke during his aimless TV-time but it was hard not to fall asleep to the soporific tones of Tom Brokaw. It finally made its presence clear at two-twenty-four A.M. Cubicle six row five, the cubicle next to his, was in the process of removing her shirt when the thought reappeared above his head. He didn't awake with a start, nor did he bolt out of bed screaming "Eureka!", he twitched just enough to bring his fantasy to a premature end. Disappointed, he fell back asleep, dreaming about his almost ingenious, somewhat plausible idea.
The alarm woke him. He reached over to the bed stand and hit snooze. It didn't turn off. He tried again but the alarm was stubborn, forcing him to get out of bed. It wasn't until he was halfway dressed that he realized he didn't own an alarm clock. The high pitched ringing was emanating from the bank across the street. He could hear faint sirens growing louder. Someone seemed to have robbed the bank. He rushed to the window. The bank's storefront had been breached by a teal volkswagen bus, it's hazards blinking in the early twilight. Money was strewn across the road, surrounding the fresh skidmarks that trailed away.
That's when he noticed the bag. The bag was strange but somehow familiar, it was large and appeared to be packed to its capacity. He looked at the bag with a sense of accomplishment–he achieved something great, he just doesn't know what. Drawn to bag, he lifted it on the bed and opened it to find hundreds of Benjamin Franklins staring back at him. Panic filled his chest and constricted his lungs, bile rose up his throat. The sink was the unfortunate receptacle of last night's TV dinner. Afterwards, he raised his head and examined himself in the mirror, a bruise in the shape of a W below the letter V was imprinted on his chest. He gasped, not at the bruise but at the dried blood covering his hands. He didn't have a cut on him. His adrenaline kicked in just after the knock on his door.