The Hēathernet 20oz. to Geekdom

CWW: Boggart and Boogin Scribbling

(Creative Work Weekends:  On Fridays The Heathernet will feature a completed or in progress work of creative writing. Constructive feedback and ideas/prompts for more CWWs are always appreciated in the comments.)

Read: Boggart and Boogin Scribbling

Note: There's no story here. Without any direction for my protagonist I had no idea what I was trying to accomplish here. I knew I was trying to be silly, but silly without a reason... is simply silly.

            No matter how much the occasion called for rapt attention Paul would still let his mind wander. It was as though he had no choice. Sometimes the circumstances would seem to actually demand insubordination from within his cranium. Now was certainly such a time. The office was the surely the biggest room in the entire building. Lavishly decorated and subtly lit, it was as if Paul had passed from the bland and fluorescent hallway through a door that represented a backwards leap to an era where beefy workmen in dungaree coveralls did the bidding of monocled gentlemen straight off the Monopoly board.

            His eyes scanned, and scanned, (and scanned,) the length of desk. He fancied himself a clever thought, wherein he realized that his desk was probably an eighth the size and three feet deep in paper work while this desk was adorned with nothing more than a bankers lamp and a golden pen stand. 

            He wondered if anyone had ever had the thought to use the desk as an air hockey table.

            He wondered what the weather was like outside.

            He wondered how many rhinoceroses could fit in here.

            He wondered if “rinocerosi” was a word.

            The man behind the desk laid the pile of papers flat in front of him and set his glasses to the side. While pondering the information in the papers he stared intently at the resting spectacles. That seemed backwards to Paul, but who was he to judge, he wasn’t the man behind the desk. That was Mr. B.

            No one knew his full name. From the day you arrived at Boggart and Boogin Incorporated you knew to be wary of Mr. B and no one had ever referred to him as anything else. It was always “Mr. B isn’t happy” or “Mr. B needs to see you” or “Mr. B said no croutons.” True, he must be either Boggart or Boogin, but with only a fifty percent chance it wasn’t worth the risk of being wrong.

            “Mm,” Mr. B said.

            “Mm?”

            “Paul.”

            “Yes?”

            Mr. B picked the papers up and added the glasses back to his face. He was round and white haired; he was Santa Claus sans facial hair, especially if all the friendliness of St. Nick was kept in the beard. He was also mostly bald, but for some reason held on to the tuft protruding from his widow’s peak, like a rabbit was sitting backwards on his head. The little white orb was like one of those deep-sea fish, dangling it in front of your eyes, and hypnotizing you while he prepared to strike.

            “Do you like root beer?”

            “Yes.”

            “Mm.”

            He took a pen and marked some things down on the paper. He flipped the page over; cross referenced some items on the other pages, and made some more marks on the front and back.

            “That was ‘root’ correct?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Ginger?”

            “I haven’t tried it.”

            The glasses came back off and the papers were set back down. Paul felt Mr. B’s truth scan wash over him.

            “Very well,” he said after a moment.

            He separated the pile of papers meticulously into two, held the divided halves up, cast looks at both sets, and shredded one under the desk. Then he set the remainder back down on the desk.

            “Birch?”

            “Uh, occasionally.”

            “Paul, this is big time, we’re going to need big time answers.”

            “Yes, then, yes.”

            “Very well.”

            The pen went to work again. When he was finished Mr. B stapled the pile and stamped it twice with two different stamps. He reached under the desk and pressed an unseen button.

            “Lucy.”

            Lucy appeared, all in gray.

            “Put these in his file.”

            She passed back out through whatever door or elevator she came from.

            Mr. B looked to his left and sighed, put his glasses back on and looked to the right, sighing. Finally he looked at Paul again.

            “We’re done.”

            And Paul left, never knowing what this was about.