“Jonesey, this is the new guy,” said Mr. Mort. “You’ll be training him for today and tomorrow.”
Jonesey tried to keep his eyes level. He extended his hand and hoped to God the new guy would shake with a hand rather than a hoof. He did.
“Dan,” the new guy said. His hair was in a long ponytail and his beard was shaggy and his clothes–or shirt, at least, since he didn’t wear pants–was a toga-like strap of leopard skin, but worst of all he smelled like what he was.
“Jonesey,” said Jonesey, breathing through his mouth to keep his smell receptors at bay. He wanted to ask “Where ya from?” but thought that might be insensitive. He didn’t know what to say, so he said, “Charmed,” in a very awkward faux-British accent. Mr. Mort raised his eyebrows at him as a warning to behave. They were desperate for new people, and Mr. Mort was sensitive about discrimination lawsuits after the Incident.
“You’re in good hands, Dan,” said Mr. Mort. “I’ll leave you, ah, fellas to it.”
And he sped away as fast as his short legs could carry him without running.
Dan began picking his fang-like teeth with his nails lazily. “Sho,” he said with his fingers in his mouth, “what’sh on the fuckin docket?”
Off to a good start, Jonesey thought. “Well,” he said, “I’ll take you to your cubical first of all, and we can…” he tried to step around Dan, who backed up and blocked Jonesey’s path with his hindquarters.
“Ah shit, sorry, Joey,” said Dan, clopping out of the way, his tail swishing and smacking Jonesey in the face.
“Oh fuck me, damn,” said Dan before lifting his tail and spilling a mound of droppings onto the office floor. Faces began leaning out of cubical walls to observe. Heads shook. Jonesey swore he heard them whispering the c-word, but it might have been his imagination.
“You got janitors, eh?” said Dan. He turned around, his hoofs stomping little horseshoes into the shit. “Oops. Ah, God…” He wiped his hoof off on the floor in little sweeping brushes, like he was counting. “Well, fuck it. So yeah, cubicle’s this way?”
And Jonesey, avoiding stepping into the shit himself, followed the centaur to his work station.
He wanted to say, Centaurs are barbarians. Literally. They are beasts. I don’t care if I get fired, I don’t care if it’s not PC, we don’t allow horses to work in our office so we shouldn’t allow centaurs. It’s as simple as that.
But HR was watching. Sharon, with her beady little eyes, her massive ears, always listening for another Incident.
So Jonesey said nothing, and wondered just how long it would be before he inevitably stepped in shit.
Today’s three random prompt categories were, “Fangs,” “Centaur,” and, “Surrealism.”
Be honest. Centaurs are just the worst.