The daily grind continues, with all the office denizens serving as puppets to the whims of their boss and company. But the strings aren’t all pulled from the top. As we’ve seen it is never easy to spot who is pulling the invisible strings. Seen or unseen, they are nonetheless pulled. And we all dance to their beat.
One day a voice of reason will shine a lantern of truth powerful enough to catch the stings in action. Until then, we have little choice. We conform. We obey. We don’t cross against the light, make waves, or color outside the lines.
Even our least actions are thought out carefully and regulated to keep all operations on an even keel.
The incident with the apple is not typical. We are a fruit-free workplace. But the apple came in uninvited and found an unoccupied space to borrow.
The next thing we knew, we had a batch of fruit propaganda inserted into the company newsletter.
Big and warty, and not so much green as a sick yellowish brown, he almost vanished into the woodwork around him. What fabulous woodwork it was, though. Fine walnut panels, stained clear grained red oak floor, and hand-floated plaster-work above the wainscoting on the walls and ceiling. Even the paint was exquisite, a base color rag rolled with several lighter tones gave the walls an interesting depth and left the eye unsure of its actual color. This was not the room of a poor frog. But then, the old toad was anything but poor.
He’d made a fortune twice over from his tales of an imagined faraway land filled with feuding families, warring tribes, magic, mischief, dragons, and thieves. But his readers always wanted more. More bloodshed. More treachery. More surprises. More chances for the lost to be discovered and reclaim their birthright. He had spent a lifetime on his stories, and he no longer knew how he had intended them to end. If he ever had intended them to end, even.
But the millions of fans demanded an ending.
And here he sat, an old toad at his typewriter, trying to find the knot that could tied up all his loose ends and put an end to it all.
The rats in the walls are smarter than they look. They may not talk much, but they listen. And they hear a lot. After all, who suspects that a rat might be listening? And even if they suspect the rat, who imagines that the rat understands?
Of course, to carry information out, the rats need to learn to write, which you already know.
They are almost due for another round of alternatives.
With the right tech selected, the rats can carry their messages further and faster.