Julian, as he read over the new mandate from the board, honestly considered protesting. He considered marching right into the board room, telling that ursine tempered chairman exactly where he could shove his new mandate, walk out the glass double door, and never return. Sure, he would most definitely lose his job. Of course, he would "never work in this town again." So what? The policy was degrading and wrong. He would lose his job, true. But he would keep his dignity and pride.

Then again, considered Julian as he absently munched on his donut, pride and dignity didn't go far when you had bills to pay. Even so, all things considered, it still didn't make the new manifesto palatable. Very much like his donut. He had to stop buying them at the company cafeteria.

But that was beside the point. If he were truly noble, he'd form a protest. He wasn't. Wasn't noble and wasn't going to form a protest. What he did plan to do was sit at his desk and continue munching on his bad tasting donut. Remain in his role as a sedentary desk jockey. A bourgeois nonentity, ignored by seemingly omniscient beings who handed him his paychecks.

He knew that his plan was pusillanimous by nature. But then again, Julian never claimed to be brave or even guileless for that matter. He was not ambitious either. He could be considered many things, but an aspirant wasn't one of them. To all appearances, he seemed impassive when it came to company policy. He guessed that was true. He never really had more than a perfunctory interest in his whole job anyway. Maybe that was the reason, and not the nepotism of the board, which passed him up for promotions every year. Although, that tyro upstart from Advertising made Vice President last year had also been the President's nephew . . .

All of which had no bearing on his current situation. Brushing some errant crumbs of his donut off the top of his desk, he turned his attention to the coffee. It too had been part of his daily regimen for as long as he had worked here. There was actually a bet being waged by a few of his co-workers as to the true identity of the liquid. Many were positive that it was not in fact coffee that they imbibed every morning, but a heterogeneous liquid formed from a mixture of rat poison and the KFC original recipe. Of course, the people who actually believed that were morons. And, Julian had to admit, he certainly worked with enough of those.

"Jules."

That one word, or rather the person it was uttered by, was enough to steer his attention clear of the coffee. It was uttered by the Goddess. Well, maybe she wasn't a Goddess. But Molly was the dexterous artisan of the digital super highway, which, in Julian's opinion, certainly gave her Goddess status. He also supposed that the fact that she was drop dead gorgeous may have helped just a little.

"Yeah?"

"I was wondering what you thought of the new policy." Her tone left no need to ask what she thought about it. Unfortunately, while Julian agreed with her, as of yet, unspoken complaint, his brain had just been commandeered by the planet Twinkie. Why that always seemed to happen whenever he talked to Molly he didn't know. Maybe the Twinkgerians just had bad timing. Or maybe he was in love. Either way . . .

"It's bad."

Molly raised an eyebrow. She had obviously been expecting a bit more than that.

Sensing this, he tried again.

"It's really bad."

"Yes," said Molly, "It is really bad."

An uncomfortable silence followed. Then Molly shrugged and went back to her work.

As Julian quaffed down his coffee, he hoped for a moment that his co-workers were right, that the coffee was indeed laced with poison. Then he wouldn't have to live with the fact that he'd made a complete fool of himself. Again. He was a grown man; why did he have to act like a little boy with his first crush?

It wasn't like he was a complete neophyte in the world of love; he'd been married once. Well, twice, if he wanted to count that time in Vegas . . .

Which he didn't. Didn't count it and didn't want count it. Looking down at his drained cup, he considered going and getting a refill. Then he remembered one of the new rules: "No more free refills of Company coffee." He was certain that it had to be against any civilized jurisprudence to deny a man his coffee. Well, he didn't particularly care for the swill in the first place; he certainly didn't plan on paying for it. He'd sooner burnish the Garbage man's shoes with his tongue before he let those vipers trick him into paying another stipend. Stipend was exactly the right word for it, with the way some of his co-workers drank coffee, it would be like an extra weekly payment. Setting his empty cup down, he decided that he wasn't going to play their little game.

So he had his values. But values didn't make him any less thirsty. Maybe he could fill his cup with water from the new bubbler that the ever-so "magnanimous" board had bestowed on the lowly paper pushers. The board had probably expected them all to gambol and gleefully skip like children, falling all over themselves in praise.

Which, he remembered, some of his co-workers had. Well, not the skipping part, but everything else. One even obsequiously told the board chairman that he was probably the best person since Jesus. That was certainly enough for most of the denizens of the room to burst into laughter after they had left. Not Julian though. Actually, the feeling that best described his take on the situation was much closer to disgust. How could anyone become that much of a thrall? That much of a slave; that much of a pet? The pet had tried to defend herself later by saying that she was just trying to show her fealty to the company. That had been the word she had used too, "fealty", as if that made her hollow attempt to get on the Boss's good side sound any nobler.

After retrieving his water, he sat at his desk and began to drink it much more slowly and in smaller swallows than those with which he had drunk his earlier cup of coffee. Part of that had to do with the fact that he didn't want to get up again, but mostly, it had to do with the fact that the water had a coffee after-taste. The coffee hadn't been that good first hand; second hand coffee was worse. He had not thought it possible-he had found something that tasted worse than company coffee.

With his thirst sated and the secret to winning the next world war pooled inside his cup, he had run out of excuses not to work. Time to put the old teeth to the grindstone. At least he had a good dental plan. It wasn't that he was a laggard or something, but his work, most of the time held little appeal and lately, things were becoming more and more retrograde. His own fault, he supposed. He didn't stop his position from deteriorating. It was as if he had simply laved his hands of the entire business of his career, indeed, his whole life.

There was no point in gainsaying it: for the last ten years he had done nothing but watch the world pass him by. And the sad part was, he didn't really care. He had become increasingly blase about the whole life thing. All things considered, he was actually sort of surprised that he hadn't done anything drastic, "Goodbye, cruel world" and all that.

On second thought, it wasn't that surprising. It wasn't surprising at all. It wasn't because he possessed that certain tenacity that gave people strength to hold on in impossible circumstances. He simply didn't have nerve to actually slit his wrists or jump out a window.

Julian decided that he didn't really like where this trip through his mind was taking him. He was beginning to feel depressed.

Maybe he should take all of his sick days and go to the Bahamas. He had been feeling a wee bit stressed lately; he could use a vacation. Unfortunately, such a hiatus was not possible for exactly two reasons. First, he didn't have enough money to go to the Bahamas. The second was the fact that, according to the new rules, sick days did not, in fact, exist anymore. All absences to work had to be planned at least a week in advance. And while the new rules had not specifically expressed that this was the case, they held the implication that you had better be on your death bed, were an unscheduled sick day taken. If not, it was quite possible to be fired. It was a little like an ultimatum. Go to work or else . . .

He was surprised that the thought of such a thing, the threat of unemployment for an unplanned illness, was enough to make him mad. He supposed that perhaps he wasn't as blase as he thought. Good thing he wasn't a bellicose man. If he were, he was certain that at least the chairman would have a black eye. Julian could do it too, although, to be brutally honest about it, just about anyone could take the chairman to the cleaners. The only hold he had on them was monetary; he wasn't some omnipotent entity. But he signed their meal tickets, and that was close enough for most. Damn patrimony.

Julian had learned through the office grapevine, whose words were trusted only because they knew these things first hand, being like vanguards at the front line of the action, that the only reason Mr. Chairman was where he was today, was because Daddy had willed him the family business. Had it not been for that piece of seemingly undeserved luck, Mr. Chairman would have probably been a working stiff like the rest of them instead of being part of the junta like governing force of the business. An amusing picture of the chairman in Daddy marsupial's pouch suddenly came to Julian's mind. It actually made him chuckle, which earned him a few strange looks form his co-workers, some of whom undoubtably thought that the coffee had finally taken its toll; leaving Julian with the mental acumen of a pint tub of cole slaw.

Julian considered edifying them as to the error of their appraisal. He ultimately decided not to. Why maim his reputation as an office nut ball? He'd had that label ever since that office party . . .

Suffice to say that the Twinkgerians had retained control over his brain the entire evening. The alcohol had not helped in the slightest. He had been told the day after that he had done the hula. On top of his desk. With a lampshade on his head. Wearing no pants. He had also been told, by a semi-reliable source, that several people, including the Goddess, had taken pictures which were passed around at subsequent company parties that he didn't attend. So much for the alloy-like togetherness and strength company employees were supposed to have.

Not that he was bitter or anything. Actually, if it had been someone else dancing the hula with no pants and a lampshade on his head on a desk, he wouldn't have settled for pictures; he would have wanted his camcorder. So, company nut ball he would remain. At least he wasn't behaving like a quadruped, like some people, like that pet. 'Best person since Jesus' indeed.

Julian shook his head. Why on earth was this bothering him so much? It was really none of his business. And why was he being so reactionary all of a sudden? He never cared about company policy before, certainly not enough to favor one over another. His thoughts had certainly been itinerant so far as well, jumping manically from place to place. It was a wonder he was getting any work done at all.

He looked down at the shipment list he had been working on. It was then he realized that he hadn't, in fact, gotten any work done at all. So much for the wonder. He looked at the clock on the wall. 11:34. He was feeling sort of nervous now. He'd never spaced out three whole hours before. Five minutes, sometimes. A half hour, once. But, three whole hours?

He kept expecting something to happen, too. Not sure what, not sure when, but there was no doubt in his mind that something would happen. Unless part of his mind wanted him to give into rampant paranoia, a feint that would result in no actual work being accomplished.

Julian almost chuckled again. That had to be the most bizarre thing that he had ever thought. But there were those spaced-out hours and the feeling that something important was going to happen to consider. Also, he had this strange urge to use the word "gloaming " in casual conversation. He had no particular thoughts to offer on the subject of twilight, but the word "gloaming" was perched on the tip of his tongue. He suddenly had a scary thought. What if those Twinkgerians he had so often joked about over the years were real? What if they, at this moment, had hold of his synapses and were forcing him to want to say "gloaming"? What if they were responsible for his missing time?

Now Julian wasn't merely nervous; he was beginning to feel afraid. Not because he now believed in the Twinkgerians theory, but because, for a minute or two, he honestly had. It was as if a tocsin had gone off in his head. "Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!"

Only, apparently, it hadn't just gone off in his head. Apparently, if the looks on his co-workers faces and his own sore throat could be trusted and taken as evidence, he had actually screamed at the top of his lungs "DANGER, WILL ROBINSON, DANGER!"

His outburst had a reciprocal effect. It not only scared the hell out of his co-workers; it had scared the hell out of him. He felt that, right then, right there, he had just become the epitome of the perfect candidate for the loony bin. And his co-workers looked like they couldn't agree more. He slouched down in his chair, trying to burrow himself deeper into it. Very much like those hibernal frogs burrowing into mud to escape winter cold. At that moment, Julian would have been elated to be one. Then again, at that moment, he would also have been elated to be drinking Liquid Plumber.

All of which didn't matter at the moment for exactly two reasons. First, there was no possible way for him to transform into a frog. And second, there was no Liquid Plumber on hand. It was then, as Julian feverently wished for either lighting to strike him dead or a janitor to come by, he heard laughter.

A beautiful, twinkling laughter. And Julian knew that a beautiful and twinkling laughter such as that could only come from one place. His Goddess, Molly, was laughing.

"That was such a great joke!"

Julian was incredulous to say the least.

"A joke?" Julian wasn't sure who asked the question, but he agreed full heartedly. He was in the middle of losing his mind, and Molly thought it was a joke? Then a smile played on his lips. Of course it was a joke. He wasn't really losing his mind; it was an elaborate prank. And while the need to say "gloaming" preyed on his mind, he went on to explain that there was a perfectly logical reason for his behavior. He had just wanted to lighten things up a bit.

He co-workers seemed to accept this. Whether because they believed him or just because they desperately didn't want to believe that they were working beside a mad man, Julian didn't know.

Didn't know and didn't care.

All that mattered was that he had a new steaming cup of coffee. Values were nice, but the fact that he wasn't indeed insane deserved something special. He also had a date with the Goddess at the end of the shift, and if that didn't deserve a real cup of coffee, nothing did.