Clank Clank Whump!

Defenestrator™ (Model #7823)

Another Supremely Adequate Eunicorp® Product™

Greetings from the President of Eunicorp®

Congratulations on your purchase of the Eunicorp® Defenestrator™, and welcome to the family of Eunicorp® product users. The Defenestrator™ is an all-purpose device expressly contrived to eliminate the noted lack of classic casement style windows in most modern office buildings.

Neither man nor machine, plant nor mineral, the Defenestrator™ is instead an ingenious electronic homonculus, driven to create said windows, exorcise demon management drones, and otherwise do your bidding and God’s work upon this fallen world. Invocation of, regular blood sacrifices to, and periodical wipings of the Defenestrator™ with a warm, damp sponge will ensure many years of enjoyment and shattered windows to come.

Daam Nijpels
President, Eunicorp®

SAVE THESE INSTRUCTIONS

IMPORTANT SAFEGUARDS

When using Defenestrator™ and other electrical appliances of semi-divine origin, practice safety by devotedly following these precautions.

Read all instructions before using.
Do not touch protuberances. Solely employ shanks and lugs for purposes of conveyance.
Do not manipulate knobs. Such activity can cause blindness, manual hypertricosis, and insanity.
Keep inflammable substances away from tongue of fire issuing from slot "Z".
Blades are sharp; handle carefully and with graceful fluttering movements of the hands--like two tiny birds trapped in a dance between life and death.
Air sac can expel heated air at temperatures in excess of 40,000 degrees Fahrenheit. Do not puncture or gaze upon with unshielded eyes.
Do not operate for more than 30 minutes at a time. Do not invoke more than 12 times a year. Do not summon during the evening of Samhain, when the dead walk the earth and the doors betwixt genius and insanity fly from their hinges.
Keep hands, fingers, toes, and orifices free of Smasheee® attachment. If any of these are Smasheeed® during operation, dilute well with gin and seek immediate medical attention. Ears and lips may be left in the Smasheee's path, the effects accorded as a kiss from the divine.
If Defenestrator™ is dropped onto hard surface, promptly beg forgiveness and suffer consequences gladly. Sweep up protoplasmic residue with a standard shop broom and an absorbent cleaning compound.
To protect against risk of shock, do not immerse Defenestrator™ in bathtub with the elderly, easily offended, or dimwitted.
Do not allow small children to operate or fondle Defenestrator™ until after the age of consent.
Avoid contact with wildly gesticulating foreign objects.
Use of non-Eunicorp® attachments may result in injury or even death. It is inadvisable to craft one's own attachments, even as a joke. Attachment of non-Eunicorp manufactured attachments may induce severe mood swings in the Defenestrator™, causing it to seize up and hurl the offending attachments through the unfaithful like Zeus' thunderbolts, in a blind, unreasoning rage.
Do not override safety-lock keeping automatic extremity-removal appurtenance at bay.
Do not operate while under the influence of parents, peers, or common sense.
Use only on secured flat surfaces constructed of sandalwood and lightly scented with sweet marjoram.
Do not immerse Defenestrator™ in the deep, piercing blue eyes of mad prophets, whose hypnotic orbs shimmer like twin emeralds set in a Tabula Rasa field of white sand.
Do not use the Defenestrator™ to prepare Thai food or other dishes with an abundance of peanuts. A hideous aftertaste may result.
Before use, be sure inner workings are free from vice.
The Defenestrator™ is not a toy. Nor is it a musical instrument, time portal, or last best hope for humanity. Do not operate Defenestrator™ in any way other than its intended use.
Do not permit midmanagement weasels to behold glory of Defenestrator™ until it is far, far too late.

SPECIAL NOTICE

The Defenestrator™ is equipped with a polarized plug. As a safety feature, this plug fits a polarized outlet in only One True Way. If the plug does not fit fully in the outlet, reverse the plug, or ask a more intelligent friend or family member to do it for you. If it still does not fit, contact an electrician or student of divinity. Do not attempt to defeat this safety feature. It is fruitless, and will only leave you gibbering and befuddled by life's bittersweet quality and gossamer substance. Soon after, a sickening realization will befall you, a revelation that you are truly damned and fit only for the fiery pit prepared for the Dutch Satan and his mid-management angels. Do not use a hammer or tongs to remove plug.

PARTS

Some assembly required.

You will need a Phillips head screwdriver, hexagonal wrench, a profane altar formed by a naked virgin (pref. female), 500 cones of patchouli incense, 33 candles set in the pattern of an inverted hexagram, and a gallon of human blood (grape juice may be substituted). Wear protective materials, otherwise your clothes and hands may get dirty.

A. Attachment nodules (2)
B. Beezer (1)
C. Beezer® rod
D. Beezer® lubricant (16 oz. can)
E. Groon® (2, 1 replacement)
F. Smasheee® (1)
G. Rod (1)
H. Phillips head screws (8)
I. Deus ex machina (1)
J. Heretical texts (40)
K. Familiars, Pomeranians (2)
L. Defenestrator™ Unit, Model #7823 (1)
M. Imp of the Perverse (1)
N. Gin (1 Fifth)

Replacement parts may be ordered by calling Eunicorp at (800) 555-DEFN. Allow 2,000 years for delivery.INSTRUCTIONS

Assemble Defenestrator™ according to illustrations and heart’s desire.
Turn on switch marked “ON.” Ignore “OFF” switch at this point.
Remove gloves and hold hands aloft at the first sight of the Defenestrator™.
Shout hosanna! Glory! Hallelujah! Glory! Hallelujah!
Flee. God will recognize his own in the ensuing carnage.
To deactivate, loudly clap hands twice, if your hands still remain attached to your body at this point.
Repeat above as necessary. Allow unit to cool down between crusades (see below for storage and cleaning instructions).

TESTIMONIAL FROM A SATISFIED EUNICORP® CUSTOMER

“Dear Sirs,

It is with great satisfaction and heart-sweating terror that I write to you about the effects of your infernal machine on my office and fellow workers.

Squat, fat, with Grecian Formula hair in a tight pubic curl, Randall Edmier oozed the charisma of a chancre sore. Friendless, loveless, and never been kissed, he thoroughly applied himself and his excess energy to his job at Eunicorp. Well, more accurately he applied his excess energy to complaining about his job at Eunicorp. I barely knew Randall--nobody did, really--but his job dissatisfaction was epic and legendary. As is the case with most folks of his stripe, his duties weren't readily apparent. He had the title of systems facilitator, but he was actually the corporate scapegoat--a self-appointed duty he took to with relish.

Never seen doing work, many of us believed that his main purpose was to make us thank Christ we weren't him.
Slouching towards your cubicle he came, dressed to disgust in a sweat-stained, blue-striped, button-down shirt, and one of three sets of pants that were all the colors of the rainbow except black, grey, or beige. His breath stands out most in our collective memory; breath that stank of cheap wine and the choke-and-puke cheeseburgers he favored for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. How his nostrils would flare and how that breath would scourge your olfactory stamina as he recounted for you

How those bastards were fucking him up the ass again
How those bastards were bending him over and screwing him blue
How those bastards were forcing him into a systematic program of sodomy by expecting him to
a. turn in his work on time,
b. show up for work less than a hour late, and
c. maybe not conduct his strolling whining minstrel act more than five times a day, at least when the home office brass from Holland was visiting.

Repeatedly, Randall held the upperhand by swearing that this time, goddammit, he'd resign, he'd do it, don't test him. All this took place between him and Mr. Smant, department manager and Randall’s personal Weltschmerz sponge. Smant looked like everyone's favorite granddad, and he might well have been Randall's, since we suspected that it was at Smant's behest that Randall hadn't been axed by some young middle management tool by now. We suspected the two shared a father and retarded son bond. Randall being Randall, and Smant being too kindly to see the stupid shit get squished after being kicked from the company car onto the highway of life.

So, while the talented and conscientious came and went--whether quitting, fired, retiring, or simply never showing up again--Randall endured. We tried not to make sense of it. We let Randall whine away, knowing that no matter how many times we told him, informed him, pleaded with him, "Please, Randall, I really need to finish this," he'd only give a witless response of sudden sympathy that you too were the personal flesh sheath of the upper management dildo.

Naturally, all that made what happened all the more perplexing. Still waters run deep, but rapids run angrily and shallow, the foamy turmoil atop disguising the jagged rocks that lay below.

We never underestimated Randall, we just weren't entirely sure what we weren't underestimating. Did we expect him to come to work one day in a blaze of gunfire? Nah, that would have required too much effort. If he couldn’t have cajoled poor old Clyde--the west side cubicle guy who really carried the corporate cross--to bring in a carbine and whack us one-by-one while Randall pissed and moaned that he would do it himself if these goddamned bastards weren’t loading him up with so much friggin’ paperwork, Randall would have sent out a general e-mail requesting us all to bring in a pistol the next day and systematically blow out our individual brains while seated at our desks. No, what came was entirely unforeseeable. I guess.

***********

When not complaining about his workload, Randall was demanding little luxuries to make his life even easier. Free pastries were high on the list, followed by work hours access to the company health club (where they had a widescreen TV), and an under-the-desk foot massager he swore to God he read about the Japanese having as standard equipment in their offices. The pastries he got, the logic being a mouth fstuffed with flaky crust and oversweet frosting is less likely to grouse (wrong). Smant developed a knack for putting off the other things, citing requisition forms and blaming those thieving union bastards down on the mailing dock (after twenty years Smant spoke “Randall” fluently). Randall’s latest request, however, was unique. Smant’s open-door policy provided the proscenium to the exchange.

"Mr. Smant, I demand a window," Randall said after arriving to work at the crack of ten a.m. and stomping into Smant’s corner office.

Smant sighed and rubbed his face for the 10,734th time.

"Now, Randall, I don't mean to be harsh, but we've discussed this. I looked into it, but my hands are tied. These are nonremovable windows." He tapped the window behind him. "They're hermetically sealed to keep the outside out and the inside in. Besides, what possible use could an openable window be? The winds up here are so stiff, we'd all blow away." Smant grinned weakly and offered a few “heh heh heh’s.” Randall’s flabby wattles and jowls remained set in granite-hard outrage.
"Atmosphere," said Randall, "I can't breathe in here, I've got the agoraphobia. Refusing me a window is a violation of my civil rights. It's unconstitutional. It’s unconscionable. I'll sue!"

Smant was thoughtful for a moment. "I thought agoraphobia was a fear of wide-open spaces."

Randall smirked a know-it-all smirk, "Shows how much YOU know, Smant. Agoraphobia is a fear of enclosed places. I contracted it when I was a kid and I can't get rid of it since. I need a window otherwise I'll burst, I'll just friggin’ burst! Plus my productivity will improve."

"I don't believe you do anything here, Randall," Smant replied.

"What? What? What? That's an insult! I demand retribution or I'll quit. I will. I'll go to my desk and retrieve the resignation letter I keep for just such outrages."

Smant sighed, rolling his eyes, "No, please don't quit, Randall. I understand. We'd all like window...” he began. By this time, most bosses would follow the unwritten rule of effective management by telling Randall to get his fat ass back to his desk in 5 seconds, else it would leave a streak when it hit the sidewalk in 10. Smant remained Smant, however, and talked to Randall like an old dog that couldn’t help but soil the couch once in a while.He rambled on about the miracles of ergonomic office design and environmental engineering that guaranteed an enjoyable view from all section, providing at least 46% satisfaction of all Randall’s panoramic viewing needs.

“My window views the hotel next door,” Randall informed Smant, “I have at least a 46% chance of viewing someone’s bare ass on any given morning. And I need the fresh air. How the hell can I get anything done without the fresh air. Huh? Why kind of gulag are you running here, Smant?”

“Randall, Randall, Randall,” Smant replied, shaking his head like a maraca, “I’ll tell you what. Draw up a proposal and petition, get as many signatures as you can, and I’ll present it to the board. Will that help? There’s only so much I can do. You know why.”

Smant was not unintelligent. Randall’s button was pressed. It was those bastards in the home office. Those Dutch bastards who bought us out ten years ago, most likely with the express intent of making Randall’s life a living purgatory, etc. Randall nodded at Smant with sad understanding, and without another word backed out of the office. Smant slumped and wondered how much time was left before retirement. He painted another red X through the day on his calendar.

***************

Outside a high-altitude spider wove its web. Randall glared at it through the 21st floor window beside his cubicle.
"Stupid spider!" Randall shouted, spittle peppering the glass. "It is so wrong that you have so much, while working men like myself have nothing!"

Filled with boundless arachnid-fueled rage, Randall sat down at his computer. Pushing aside a stack of reports and the toy tanks and army men with which he decorated his desk, he called up the word processing program and began his proposal.

**************

A day passed, then two, as Randall devoted his precious, precious time to the proposal. It was a fine proposal, outlining all the basic necessities and benefits of having a casement window. Randall pulsed with pride at what he had wrought, and while it lacked the coloratura of a final page ripped from a typewriter, his recovery of the proposal from the printer tray was no less satisfying. Gathering up the 333-page document, he knew where he should make his first stop: Blake’s office.

Tall and broadchested, with a fondness for aviator’s glasses, marine haircuts, and too much cologne, Blake was, in essence, an asshole. One of those guys who is generally disliked, knows it, but doesn’t let that get in the way. To Randall, Blake was the only one who truly understood him. To Blake, Randall was an amusingly weird five minutes in-between Internet porn searchings and sexual harassment sessions.

Blake no longer attempted to cover up his Internet discoveries when he heard Randall's familiar shuffle. With all other employees he used a smooth fluid motion to close whatever covered his screen. Randall, conversely, could be trusted, and, more importantly, could be bought off with porn. At home, Blake figured, Randall blasted whatever sexual frustration he’d worked up in 45 years of virginity into plush toy animals. Half the fun of finding weird porn involved seeing Randall’s reaction. Onscreen today was a picture of a donkey fellating a bull.

"God DAMN, will you look at that? Will you look at that?" Blake proclaimed, grinning up at Randall from his chair.

"I will look at that," Randall claimed, his eyes large and round. His mouth opened up into a soft wet hole.

"It's getting to be the kind of world where a guy like me has unlimited access to porn they couldn't have conceived of in Christ's time. I don't even know what the hell kind of sins I'm committing or law I'm breaking just looking at that!" he gestured at the screen. At that moment, the picture had finished downloading. It was animated. The donkey pleasured the bull at length. Then a robot walked onto the scene and manfully deflowered and befouled both beasts.

"GOOD GODDAMNED CHRIST ON A CRIPPLED CROSS!” Blake yelped joyfully like a man discovering a cure for cancer, “Now what do you make of that, Randy?”

Randall remained wide-eyed. “Can you...” he stammered, “C-c-c-can you s-s-s-s-send that to me?”

Blake smiled wolfishly, “You bet, Randy.” He pressed a button and forwarded it to Randall’s treasure trove of porn.

“Androidal bestiality, eh?” Blake thought, “Randy, you and the sick fuck at the other end have to be the only guys into this shit, and I brought you together. Fairy tales do come true.” Blake turned and winked at Randall, “There you go, man. I enclosed the URL as a bonus.”

“Th-th-thank you, Blake,” the papers creased and became soiled in his sweaty hands.
Blake noticed. “So. How’s your brown eye, Randy? What have you got there? Are they boning you again?”

“This. Oh, Yes. Again,” eternal pissy flame flared up, “I asked that bastard Smant for a window...”

“And he didn’t give it to you, even though you’re right next to one.” Blake said, peering over his shades, “Don’t know why you put up with it, Randy.”

“I don’t. I won’t. Here, sign this petition. And we’ll get those bastards to install one for everyone.”

“Install?” Blake said. He took the proposal and looked it over. Flipping through, he lingered on an illustration on page 56.

“What are these? Drapes?”

“I thought it would make it homier.”

Most would have told Randall he had taken one step beyond. Blake merely thought it was another opportunity to stir the company’s shit.

“Well,” he said handing the proposal back, “That’s a right fine idea, Randy. I’m behind you 5,000 percent. But what you lack is FOCUS.”

Blake reached behind himself to a small shelf of books that gave the how tos and wherefores of management, sales, marketing, and general schmoozing. Blake was an asshole, but he was also a rainmaker. Randall had Smant’s Christian sympathies, but Blake stuck around through devout salesmanship. He selected a thin hardcover book and handed it to Randall.

"Read this, learn it, apply it to your project and the world is your toilet," Blake said. Management Secrets of Hassan I Sabbah by Chuck Bohoki, read the book title.

"It's like those other historical management technique books. Seems this guy ran some sort of band of thieves out of Turkey, or a spa or something a few hundred years back. 'Nothing is true, everything is permitted.' That’s what the Japanese call Zen, Randy. Bohoki here--what a motivator. I saw him speak last month. That guy could sell horseshoes to an Eskimo."

"I will read this," Randall said.

"You should live this," Blake answered with a wink.

****************

We might safely call the above apocryphal.

Blake gave that as his official story after it all came down, usually only to the pretty new hires who heard about what transpired before their time. Randall took six sick days in a row, bringing to six the number of sick days he was already over. In that time he perused Blake’s book, transitioning impactfully to his now electrical interpersonal skills. Whereas before his power to annoy only extended to the 10-foot area of a cubicle, we could now feel him halfway across the building. It may safely be said that no one expected Randall’s sudden development of psychopathic charisma. Yes, no, that definitely blindsided us.

We didn’t notice anything at first. Randall the prophet was much like, if not more than, Randall the wandering pain in the ass. Always a hairy SOB, Randall sprouted a full chest beard. Two Pomeranians accompanied him wherever he went, licking at his calves and gazing up with semicomprehension when he spoke to them, referring to them as “his emissaries.” His breath acquired twin companions as well, namely the stink of patchouli and the 80-proof booze that practically trickled from his pores. The robes were a change from the Technicolor pants, though they weren’t so much robes as three big ponchos. Randall at least gained more points for personal appearance for having disposed of the striped button-down shirts. Floating above all this mess were his eyes, a gaze that fired twin bullets of white fire with every glance.

Using deadly charisma, Randall created his cult within the company. Following his old wandering pattern, he gathered his flock. Most people smelled him before he entered their cube. Looking up, they either locked eyes and were his within the ten minutes it took to make his spiel, or twitched and looked everywhere BUT Randall’s face until he left. Harry couldn’t take the stink and intensity after five minutes and crawled the back wall of his cube to escape, landing in Seth’s kung pao chicken. The first time she saw him, Naima, the Islamic woman in accounts receivable who came to work in full Hijaab, began ululating her head off. Cindy the receptionist and an avid Christian locked herself in the women’s bathroom, refusing to leave until she read that Bible she always carried and proved to herself that Randall couldn’t be...HIM...could he? He preached. He preached a gospel of eternal ease and lethargy, of unearned vacation time and compensation for cosmetic dental work. He preached the word of letting someone else do it, and of the necessity of overthrowing the bastards, the assholes, the dickwads, the dildonecks, the stumphumpers, and the Dutch shithooks who were keeping us down. Above all he preached for the provision of windows, brought about by something called the Defenestrator™.

We had to look that one up. Didn’t do much good. Didn’t exist.

The Defenestrator™ was the litmus test of allegiance to Randall’s new order. He mentioned it from the beginning, but I wasn’t paying attention when he approached my cube. I smelled him coming and hid in the cafeteria till he passed. I didn’t really hear about the Defenestrator™ until I attended one of his stockroom masses. I slipped in with Eric and Matt, who thought I only needed a little extra push toward Randallism. They promised answers and great wisdom. They promised easy sex and imbibition of something called “God’s Cajones,” a hallucinogen generated from a genetically manipulated coupling of peyote and lemur bile. When they promised free bagels and cream cheese, I was all theirs.

Most of the meeting rooms having been blocked out that month, the stockroom became the de facto catacombs for Randall’s sermons. I squeezed into a storeroom packed with fifty true believers without betraying any allegiance to sanity. Randall’s underground office following had grown, the scale undoubtedly tipping when he convinced Simon and Paul in IS to join him. Locked onto their subconscious desire for a messiah, even so trollish a one as Randall, the poor bastards couldn’t say no when he approached them barefoot, bug-eyed, and with 13 disciples in tow. Half the office staff stood elbow-to-elbow in the stockroom. Randall sat up in front on a throne of requisition forms. Smant...where was Smant? Probably filling his smiley-face coffee mug, looking around blankly and checking his watch to see if he’d missed lunchbreak.

Randall began. I hunkered down behind a stack of memo pads to avoid his baleful gaze. Randall gestured across the crowd with two fingers pressed side by side.

“Truly, truly, I say to you, one of you will betray me.”

A ripple of shock went through the chosen as they looked at each other askance. A mousy voice arose from the center of the room. It was Judy from customer service.

“Is it I, Randall?” she said, a small catch in her voice.

Randall leaned forward, squinting.

“Yes, Judith, I’m afraid it is.”

Judith managed a mouse squeak of a scream as many hands pushed her down and many feet kicked at her sides. Subdued, two came forth and carted her broken body off to the mailroom, where they overnighted her to Boise.

Randall raised a hand. I noticed that Blake stood behind him, sipping at a latte, and scanning the crowd behind aviator’s glasses, still inscrutable as to whether he believed all this or was just following along to see how it all turned out. Word was he had become the avenging arm of Randall’s crusade. More likely he was in it for trim fallout from Randall’s spent concubines. Yes, concubines. Cindy, her faith broken against Randall’s newly indomitable will, sat at his feet, adoration writ large on her face.

The sermon began. Thus spake Randall.

“I speak of the Defenestrator™, management is something to be overcome. Let sealed windows be anathema.”

"Randall, I believe in what you are trying to achieve,” Shelly, the new age administrative assistant opined, “Within, we are all seeking that window."

"I seek the window without," shouted Randall, "I seek it within a few feet of my desk. I seek the fresh air and blue skies and a place I can rest my eyes besides a sheaf of papers, goddammit."

"Yes...yes... Speak it, SPEAK IT!" Mary whispered, breathing heavily and clawing at the front of her dress. The musk of womanscent rose up. The heat of the storage room was also rising appreciably. Randall's charisma massaged the withered egos of his fellow workers. He noted this and, in carefully modulated tones, told them what they wanted to hear.

"Come the Defenestrator™, we shall all be free. Come the Defenestrator™, we shall be as one in one comfort. One in one body. One in one."

“And will we all have windows, Randall?” Suzy asked plaintively.

“Come the Defenestrator™, yes.” He paused. Anticipation buttered the air. “Even those on the west side, facing the hotel.”
Release, a shared exhalation, shining joy on every face. Randall smiled, then got down from his throne and touched the faithful's faces as he passed.

"Neither machine nor man, neither temp nor full-time employee, the Defenestrator™ shall enter and walk past the devil managers, and proceed to open the outside world for us."

"But won't security stop the Defenestrator™?" Roy dared blaspheme. Randall was forgiving, a tender look on his face. He framed Roy’s head between his hands.

"The Defenestrator™ shall not be stopped...and though his way be blocked by fourscore of demon management security minions, he has suction cups to allow approach from the outside walls."

"And if the suction cups break?"

"He has hooks. Tiny climbing hooks on every part of him"

Roy pressed too far.

"And if the hooks bend?"

Randall's eyes alit with the sun’s fire. Clenching his hands into tiny fists, blood ran from the nail gouges like stigmata. He grimaced and gritted his teeth, hissing saliva as he spoke.

"If the hooks fail, then he shall find some other way! Perhaps a light aircraft of some kind! Do you lose your faith so easily, oh Roy?"

"No, lord, no," Roy uttered shivering and looking into his chest.

"Then keep your questions and seek answers in myself. I am the promised one, I am the chosen, I am the one those goddamned Dutch bastards are always boning in the ass. In the ass! I never get a break here."

"No, Lord! Your ass is fair game to those Dutch freaks in the home office!" the throng answered.

"It never stops. It's always give, give, give. Jesus, what do they think we are friggin’ robots?"

"No, lord, we are not robots. Are we robots?" the Web kid said quizzically.

"No, we are not. And we shall not be boned again!" Randall answered, shaking a fist.

“No, Lord!”

“And why not? Because they can shit on our plate...” Randall screamed.

“BUT THEY CAN’T WIPE THEIR ASS WITH OUR BISCUIT!!!” the crowd rejoiced.
The chanting began, small then large, while the group crossed their arms above their heads and pounded in time to the chant of,

"No BONES, no BONES, no BONES!"

Randall looked about himself at what he had wrought and smiled broadly. At last, he was getting some goddamned appreciation around here.

Randall held a palm up. A shush went through the crowd.

"Now," he proclaimed, "Now let us have with the penis and vagina group sex."

As fifty untoned bodies shivered out of their clothing, I saw Blake standing in back doing the same, but without the look of blankness that covered everyone else’s visage. Blake saw me look and gave with a wink. I hit a nearby light switch and escaped, barely able to eat my bagel when I returned to my desk.

**************

While John the Baptist must have appreciated the break, he probably wondered what to do with himself when Christ showed up. Besides having his head cut off, that is. Randall's usurpation arrived within three weeks of his advent. We didn't feel sorry for him when it happened so much as we noticed our--that is the non-Randallite coterie--brief respite from his whining was at an end.

Smant slowly understood that Randall’s leaving him alone for several weeks provided no comfort, only sick anticipation. Randall managed to avoid running into Smant in the halls, letting Smant see only his heels or a bit of poncho as he rounded a corner. Smant asked a few of us what could the matter be with Randall, but Blake had instituted a policy of omerta. One person, Patty, noted to Smant that Randall was pilfering office supplies. Smant said a few notebooks and paper clips was hardly cause for alarm. Patty wanted to explain that she meant computers, desks, and quite possibly the microwave and other break room appliances, but she looked across the room, saw Blake putting a finger to his lips, and choked back the accusation. Later she discovered someone had slashed her tires, scrawled “GODDAMN DILDONECK BASTARDS’ BISCUIT-WIPING TOOL” in felt-tip across her computer screen, and beheaded all the Hello Kitties populating her desk. She kept mum.

It began. The office vibrated with the sense that it was coming to a head. That morning, 25 of the more quick to apprehend employees called in sick. I chose otherwise, wanting to see the Apocalypse. Randall walked in with the stink of piss-drunk wafting about him like a fluffy yellow cloud. Even his most ardent followers felt swoony from huffing the secondhand fumes in his wake. Randall drew himself up and stumbled over to the break room, surrounded by the multitude. There, Smant was preparing some chamomile tea.

"Mr. Smant? Mr. Smant, it is time," Randall murmured.

Smant sniffed.

"Randall? Randall, are you drunk?" Smant asked.

"No, I am not. It is time." A gin cloud expelled from between his lips, gagging Smant most assuredly.

"This is an unfortunate thing. I have no alternative but to suggest perhaps you might want to submit to counseling," Smant said,lip quivering.

The college kid hired to work on the company Web site ran up and smacked Smant full on the face with the unabridged dictionary from the company library. Smant fell hard, his smiley-face mug shattering into six bright yellow shards. Many hands reached for him and lifted Smant up.

When Smant awoke, he was sprawled out on the boardroom table. His head spun like a 78 record. Looking around he saw Randall and his followers decked out in crimson robes. Looking more closely, he saw the robes were the plastic tablecloths used to cover the picnic tables during company picnics. Around him was scarlet and darkness. The missing computers’ screens were punched out and converted to candle sconces. Five desks were pushed together to form an altar doused black with photocopier toner. Smant was stretched out upon this altar, each arm held down by two Randallites. Smant smelled unnatural candy smells. The candles came from the chintzy card store in the basement. One was hot pink, an apple-red heart smack-dab in its center. Wax dripped over it, pink and bloody.

The first letter-opener slid through Smant’s hand like a knife through Vaseline. The second hit bone, and after two more jabs broke in half, shooting the crucifixion’s balance all to hell. Smant barely noticed, still gapemouthed, still looking as if he had been hit in the face with an unabridged dictionary. Randall stood atop the desk, straddled Smant, and extended his arms forward, towards the window. The throng chanted and pumped their fists in unison. “Come O Defenestrator™, come. Take this management devil, this assaulter of rectums that I offer thee! Come O Defenestrator™ come, and set us FREE!” The room crawled with the haze of a thousand candles, and the stink of strawberry, vanilla, and pine. The room temperature soared into the hundreds as bodies pulsed and pushed against each other, rubbing and pumping and chanting. At an unspoken command of Randall’s, the crowd disrobed and fell into an orgy no classical sculptor could be distasteful enough to reproduce.

Come!

Potent sex magick rose up from the sweaty bodies of temp and accountant, administrator and systems manager.

Come!

Fever pitch.

Zenith.

Acme.

Apotheosis.

The sprinklers burst, spritzing their limits across Randall, Smant, and the rest. The candles extinguished and turned to red steam. Randall ran wet with sweat and blood oozing from his forehead, a tiny ugly vein in his forehead ceased.

Come!

A silence. An airless silence as all in Smant’s office drew breath.

Then a creaking.

Then many creakings, and scrapings, and pizzicato cracklings of glass and plastic and metal rubbing against one another. A thumping could be heard in the relative distance of the office’s length.

“I am come!” a tremulous yet forceful voice--not terribly inhuman--shouted.

Fervent belief is a funny thing. It is an occupying force, and how one fills the tiny little boxes that make up a life when one runs out of one’s own ideas. One fills and fills, knowing that THIS is important, that being a believer and devoting one’s life to one’s belief is beyond worthy. The anticipation of the conclusion of one’s belief system is the frame upon which a life is draped. The major and minor religions recognize this, encouraging their continuation, but only having the vaguest notion of what to do when the dream comes to fruition.

Messiah shows up. Buddhahood is achieved for all. What now? No, really. What now?

Randall’s “what now” was then and there. When all had run to see what the bellowing was about, they found Clyde, dressed in recyclable armor, running the length of the hallway and throwing himself against the window near Randall’s cube. A large red lipstick X was smeared across the glass. This was the target of the ClyDefenestrator™’s rage.

Clank-clank-clank-clank... Whump!

“I am Defenestrator™! I am come! I am become the Defenestrator™, the remover of windows!” the Defenestrator™ howled.

Who knew where the hell Clyde found the time to build the armor, or how the hell he got it past security? Diligent old Clyde, the west side cubicle guy. First one in the office, last one out, we figured he lived here, picking up the slack from Randall, Blake, and the rest of us. So much goes on undercover here: the Internet surfing, the affairs, the pilferage, the pastry hoarding: why shouldn't Clyde have found a backroom to build his armor? The armor was pieced together from recycling bin pop cans, paperclip chainmail, and--the crown--the microwave oven helmet. Duct tape, metal epoxy, and bulldog clips pulled it all together. He looked ridiculous. He was ridiculous. He was the Second Coming to half of Randall’s flock who, seeing their anointed one so fervently at The Work, ran to offer him words of praise.

"I am become Defenestrator™, shatterer of windows! Follow me puny humans!" Clyde thundered.

He was so quiet most of the time; who knew he had such a beautiful speaking voice?

Randall was delighted, right?

Of course Randall wasn’t delighted.

Randall was watching the faith he had formed, the religion of bitching of which he had believed himself to be righteous pontiff, schismatizing. The promised end does little for those in authority when it finally arrives. Sure, they might get their eternal reward, but all that tasty prestige is kaput when the real boss shows up. As Clyde stumbled back to his starting post for another run, he flashed a look that only Randall and I saw. A look that said, “Take this, you lazy shit, and eat it!” Randall complained long and loud, all the day long, but we always suspected he knew that Clyde was the wheelbarrow that carried his sorry ass. Clyde the toiler, who always deserved, never asked for, but was now getting a little recognition around here.

Which, of course, drove Randall over the edge of the edge he was already over.

“False prophet! Sinister avatar!” Randall spat the words. “Come to me, my flock! By our example we shall exorcise this aluminum beastman!”

Randall didn’t need to say much else. He merely pinpointed Web kid with those gimlet eyes then gestured at the window opposite the one on which Clyde maintained his attack.

"Behold the Defenestrator™! I am come" shrieked the Web kid. Throwing his bony arms upward in the manner of a kamikaze, he ran with a ragged gait toward the window.

Wump!

Web kid was deflected like a superball against concrete. He stood up again, eager to throw himself into the nonexistent breach once more, but Randall's eyes met his and silently ordered him to the beginning of the line.

Frederica the administrative assistant was next, but at 100 pounds Randall doubted she would do much better. She stepped back farther than the Web kid, broke into a rapid gallop, then jumped and threw herself headlong into the glass.

Wump! The glass endured.

On the Defenestrator’s™ side, Clyde ran forth again. Avoiding high-fives for fear of losing momentum, he made a slight dive, coming down and colliding with the glass.

Wump! Creak.

The glass yielded. The fire of true belief overcame more of Randall’s immediate flock--some passing out, some forming a gauntlet of encouragement for Clyde’s 20th pass. Randall was besides himself by this point, not used to seeing his kvetching come to fruition. He gibbered like a madman; he foamed like a can of shaving cream roasted in a microwave. Clyde walked gladiatiorally through the lines on either side of his path. Cans and office supplies hung limply from sliced strands of tape, and the physical effects of metal-encased flesh meeting unyielding glass manifested itself in a nosebleed. He snorted the blood back into his nostrils, and shot another icy look at Randall before continuing his stride.

Clank, clank, clank, clankity-clank-clank, clankity-clank-clank clank-clank!

Clyde made a long jump headlong toward the glass, screaming like a Viking as he tumbled through the air. He twisted, he glided, he soared forth like Michael the avenging archangel with his flaming sword. He hit the glass microwave-oven helmet first. High-altitude windows aren’t supposed to shatter, but this one did. You can’t blame the builders, really; how do you test for something like this?

Clyde made a breakthrough. Clyde kept breaking through. Sliding from our world into the next, he was transformed into God’s avatar in the eyes of Randall’s flock’s. To this day, many swear Clyde kept flying. Some saw God’s hand snatching him from the air like a flying jack, manually ascending him into Heaven where windows are cheap and plentiful. Others think they saw Clyde sprout aluminum wings, stopping only to turn and offer a sermon from the air before flitting off to the window robot home planet. As the only fence sitter, I’m sorry to report that it just wasn’t so. Last time I saw Clyde, he was being removed the hideous modern sculpture out front with a high-pressure hose. Small matter. Randall’s flock was already retrieving the casement window frame they bought at the home improvement store and installing it before the gaping glass wound as Clyde’s body twisted toward the earth’s unforgiving surface. Cindy was nearby, preparing a perfectly lovely set of drapes for later hanging.

Coming out from behind the safety of a filing cabinet, I walked over to the window to find Randall peering downwards at the ant-covered streets below. Despite what is suggested by animated cartoons, the exit portal did not take on the form of the defenestrated. It was jagged and cruel--a starburst of shattered glass, rags of Clyde’s clothing flapping inwardly, a thin rivulet of blood tracing its way down the center shard. A cool breeze blew through the 21st floor, a breeze unfelt since the building was a black skeleton 15 years before. The outside blew in, and I felt the chill through my pores, eyes, and bones.

Smant, done playing the sacrificial kid goat, strolled over to where we stood, rubbing at his hand wounds. The bleary look of shell-shock was smeared across his entire body. Unsteady, he approached Randall from behind, looked at the busy workers diligently following Randall’s orders to the letter, and patted Randall on the back.

“My boy,” he said dreamily, “My boy, have you ever considered middle management as a career option?”

Randall shrugged off Smant’s hand and drew his poncho more tightly about himself.

“I’m cold, Smant,” he said, “Mr. Smant, I am cold.”

Thank you,
D. Kelly, Homemaker
Chicago, IL

TROUBLESHOOTING

Motor doesn’t start

Repeatedly pull ripcord until a loud, mocking, caterwauling sound is heard inside your head. Do what the voices tell you.
Apply clutch at proper moment (within five seconds of ignition) while roundly cursing man and God.
Take care to remove your foot from Area “B” through intense concentration and supreme will.
Replace eyes, which have started from their sockets during stage of awesome wonderment.Window is unevenly shattered
Are you praying hard enough? Try again, this time without thinking of nasty, wet tongue-sex. Oh yes. Oh yesyesyesyesyes. Hisssssssssssssss...!
Bulletproof glass may be resistent to initial assaults by Smasheee® device, but will gradually yield within 30 to 45 minutes. Gently apply several tight groups of high-caliber, teflon-coated bullets to three-inch area at window’s center.

Defenestrator™ (Model #7823) Another Supremely Adequate Eunicorp® Product™

SAVE THESE INSTRUCTIONS

Defenestrator™ (Model #7823)

Another Supremely Adequate Eunicorp® Product™