Executive Button Presser

Perhaps one of the most vital people in this building. Well, that's what I'd say if it weren't deserted... ((The person behind this excellent picture is also the person behind this excellent blog.))

[executive-employee508]

Wow, I was inexplicably placed in suspended animation for about a week, and that voice in my head is telling me to pass on a message: I have to empty the contents of my room into plastic boxes and my creative energy/will to write has died. I apologize for my prolonged absence, but hopefully I'll be back on soon. I have no idea what that could possibly mean, but--

-Howard's words are cut off by a 6-inch layer of solid nitrogen-

[executive-employee508]

Okay http://desk-of-employee432.tumblr.com I read your character bio and that one bit about Jim being 'nothing more than another brick in the wall' reminded me of a Pink Floyd album. That exact line is repeated fairly often throughout ('cause it has to do with the psychological development of the character), but it's featured in this song most often. I dunno, I thought the coincidence was rather phenomenal.

[executive-employee508]

The (Currently) mute employee poked his head into the office. He usually didn't go up to the upper floors, there was no reason to. It was actually occupied, and by a /guy/ too.

This guy by the name of Howard happened to be snoozing loudly in his worn office chair, blanketed from head to toes by a filthy overcoat. As of yet, he wasn’t aware of anyone entering his office.

His dreams at that moment consisted of being chased by an anthropomorphic sheep wielding a set of shears. It wasn’t a nightmare in the strictest sense of the word, at least not to him. Also, the sheep was asking what the fuck is wrong with him.

A notepad on Howard’s desk was open to a blank page.

[desk-of-employee432]

Jim frowned. He wasn’t sure of what the real world was like, or it’s history but he was fairly certain that’s not what happened.

He stared at the passage written on the next page, before deciding to drop it. It was all one big boring wall of text to him. 

As the other man woke, Jim jumped a little, smacking into a cabinet. 

What /was/ he doing here? ….

He shrugged before scribbling something down.

'Exploring' it read.

[executive-employee508]

"Hey, be careful with that".

Howard’s Thoughts: Sheesh, what a klutz.

The cabinet Jim bumped into wasn’t actually precious, nor was it known what it contained. Howard never really wanted to find out, but the matter was too sensitive for an outsider to meddle in.

Exploring. Being unaware of any disability that would lead Jim to communicate on paper, this message goes completely over Howard’s head.

"Yes, that is a word. Not one that answers my question, but you’re making progress".

As he says this, his left eyebrow begins to raise itself, certainly as an attempt by a free-spirited soul to spearhead the revolt of eyebrows over their tyrannical human rulers, in the hopes that they might one day achieve the freedom to call out bullshit under their own will.

[executive-employee508]

The (Currently) mute employee poked his head into the office. He usually didn't go up to the upper floors, there was no reason to. It was actually occupied, and by a /guy/ too.

This guy by the name of Howard happened to be snoozing loudly in his worn office chair, blanketed from head to toes by a filthy overcoat. As of yet, he wasn’t aware of anyone entering his office.

His dreams at that moment consisted of being chased by an anthropomorphic sheep wielding a set of shears. It wasn’t a nightmare in the strictest sense of the word, at least not to him. Also, the sheep was asking what the fuck is wrong with him.

A notepad on Howard’s desk was open to a blank page.

[desk-of-employee432]

Jim was surprised that he hadn’t heard him snoring from all the way down the hall.

How long had he been here? Where there more people on the upper floors that he had missed by not investigating more often? Jim looked at the pad of paper. He picked it up, flipping through it, wondering if there was a clue as to who this guy was.

He could have left easily enough…but as luck would have it, he bumped into the sleeping man.

He panicked.

[executive-employee508]

One of the first few pages contained a drawing that without the paper ruling, resembled this:

Another page was almost torn off, save for a small section at the top which read:

"Then Tybalt, kneeling over Mercutio’s corpse, laid his hand on his flamboyantly pale cheek. It was cold and yet s—"

Jim was lucky to be withheld the rest of the text, along with anything else Howard may have written on the notepad.

Meanwhile, Howard’s dream was starting to take a nightmarish turn, with the sheep snipping off his hair tuft by tuft. Jim might’ve heard Howard muttering: “Please, let me do it myself”. With thanks to Jim’s jolt - and to Howard’s relief - the sheep rapidly turned orange and faded along with the lifeboat from whence it came.

At the same time, Howard wasn’t quite as relieved to be woken up at all. He pulled down the section of coat covering his face, wherein his awareness and suspicion was drawn to the orange-haired man standing above him.

"What are you doing here?"

[quackerthecrackerthegayest-deac]

Password is “Thisbitch21”

[executive-employee508]

Hello, I endorse this game and strongly encourage others join on the funny stuff.

[executive-employee508]

"S'cuse me, sir—if I sound rude," said Marlise in her usually quiet manner, "... but, who are you?"

Our hero manages to lean himself against a wall before this employee arrives. He arranges himself in a way that is assuredly ‘cool’ with hands in pockets. As the employee utters those words Howard came to relish so much, the man stares into a distance slightly past said employee. In this case, distance meant a fluorescent light fixture several ceiling pieces down, but it still displayed just the right combination of genuine interest and feigned lack of interest.

"No, not rude at all". With that, Howard paused for a bit, just a bit, to allow the tension (rather than what his sister explained was ‘awkwardness’) of the scene to rise slightly.

"Name’s…", Howard pauses a little more for good measure "Name’s Howard".

He mentally utters small prayer to the ghost of Sergio Leone. He then realizes he should probably ask the same from this employee. But no, that would ruin the moment.

[employee210]

Just by the look on his face, Marlise can tell that Howard’s mind is occupied with something, his thoughts reeling like mad. What he’s so intensely focused on is unknown. Must be important… or not.

The way Howard discloses his number (not to mention his gnawing on an unlit cigarette like a carrot) causes Marlise to narrow her eyebrows. She tries to put that haughty attitude of his beside her.  

"Marlise, Employee 210," she states.

[executive-employee508]

"I see".

210. Lower by level, and therefore, status. Yet perhaps an equal adversary. Perfect. Howard gives an acknowledging chew on the cigarette.

Christ, he’s really getting cramped. As a retaliation of such discomfort, he maintains a face cool enough to store turkey leftovers. Ooh, turkey. Remembering how hungry he was, he chews some more for small relief.

What should he do with this Marlise? Ask questions, learn more about her? Make a friend?

No, of course not.

"Tell me, Marlise. What are your opinions on the concept of lunch"?

Howard returns his gaze to the exit sign.

Maybe food is the real escape.

[executive-employee508]

((I'm bark. I mean bonk. I mean bickering. I mean binc.

That's it, binc.))

[executive-employee508]

((I'm going to a cottage for a few days, nestled inside the deepest reaches of my subconscious by which I mean a lake at the woods. I don't know when exactly I return, but I'll be cut off from internet connection and my understanding of human civilization will slowly degrade until I become a soulless husk devoid of culture and intelligence.

Sorry and bye.))

[sassykassandra]

HELP PLEASE MY FRIEND IS BEING HELD IN A HOUSE AGAINST HER WILL

My friend, Emily, url’s You-can’t-hurt-the-big-god-face/   whimsical-cupcake is in danger and needs help right NOW.

The gist: she’s an adult, age 23+,  her father found out she was trying to move back into her moms house and lost it. He’s threatening to hunt down Emilys mother and kill her if emily tries to move out.

If anyone knows her irl, please contact police.

[executive-employee508]

WHERE WOULD YOU MOST LIKE TO VISIT ON YOUR PLANET?

Planet?

Well... it's a bit more complicated than that. I don't know how to explain, because I don't know what it is.

It could have something to do with metaphorical thought manifesting in physical space on a level of existence entirely separate from the one in which I've been created according to my memory, but that's just the voice in my head telling me what to say. He also says the things he's telling me to say are 'out of character' and that he created me. He's also telling me to tell you that he's telling me to tell you what he's telling me. I think this loop goes on to infinity, but he told me to say that too.

But on earth? Well where haven't I visited? That's to say, where haven't I vaguely remembered visiting through a the haze of what the voice in my head calls 'drunken homelessness' but I'd call 'intoxicating success'.

Now you know where I'd really like to go? Nepal. Now imagine that: seeing incredible landscapes stretching to the horizon, learning and engaging in bizarre unknown cultures, and the literal pinnacle of such an experience, Everest.

Now that voice in my head would have you believe I'd slip into a crevice on my way to renting the equipment and die before I've even started, but... well... that voice is wrong. And I know it's wrong because it's coming from my own mind-- oh.

[executive-employee508]

The Hotel

((I know I should respond to threads, but I have a bit of a block and take a while completing good responses. What I'm thinking is if I post at least one thing a day, this blog will never become inactive and I'll respond to everything eventually. Remember, I love you all, your responses are fantastic and here's a back story thing to occupy you in the meantime))

This is the story of a man named Howard. Howard was a black haired, 5-foot tall asshole with a smelly coat. He resided among billions of other humans inside The Hotel.  His room number was 5010101008 and he was dead.

While the residents occupied rooms with different numbers (seeing as room 5010101008 lacked the infinite space required to allow otherwise),  they were all equally dead. In a sense, it wasn't so much a hotel as a 5-star mausoleum with a welcoming air. While Howard's instructions inside The Hotel were the same as the others: cope, don't mention who you are and enjoy, he was among the 36% who had difficulty with the first bit.

With all the major metaphysical funding The Hotel had at its disposal, it provided millions of programs and services to help residents follow their instructions, ranging from standard CBT (Cognitive Behavioral Therapy) to 10-year SSS (supernova spanking sessions). Working through all of it would take several millennia, yet that's just what Howard did.

The main reason Howard was unable to cope with his death was its cause: being murdered and weighed into the Mediterranean off the coast of Marseille. He disappeared off the face of the earth as far as anyone was concerned, and it hardly mattered. He tried looking for some of his friends in The Hotel, but it functioned in a way that everyone regardless of their memories and identities started a new life with a clean slate. It was fair in a sense, but Howard did not take starting anew without identity as paradise. For him, it meant that in all dimensions - physical or otherwise - he was several cubic meters of flesh (or metaphorical tangibility) from not existing at all.

You might say he became a bit depressed, and find hundreds of hotel residents passionately and angrily agreeing with you. Not even a Huxlian lifestyle complete with copious amounts of sex and drugs and all other sorts of unrestrained entertainment could win him over. Many of his neighbours, acquaintances and short-term partners found themselves dragged down by his defiantly passive behaviour. In The Hotel's eyes, this was a problem.

One sunny indistinguishable weekday afternoon, after Howard's PDST (Pornographic Dinosaur Skating Therapy) session, he returned to room 5010101008 to find it resembling the interior of a tree house. All the rooms in The Hotel were catered to their residents' preferences, and seeing as how tree houses weren't part of Howard's, this was clearly wrong. Entirely disoriented, Howard resolved to retire to his life-size marshmallow replica of the Roman Colosseum to relieve this confusion along with the aches and pains those dinosaurs introduced his legs to. He passed his elegant Victorian bedroom and found the atmosphere of bleak inequality and class struggle diffused by a picture of a smug-looking Karl Marx. The dining room where he'd find desolate orphans munching on raw cabbage and drinking from their own tears was replaced by a cheerful nursery playground. The living room filled with enough stuffed dead animals to put off a rabid hunter was replaced with a small forest sanctuary. And finally, the life-size marshmallow replica of the Roman Colosseum was replaced with a sherbert Egyptian throne room, where a man sat with a laptop and laughed to reruns of 'Oprah Winfrey'. Upon Howard's entrance, the man typed a bit and a windows message appeared out of thin air titled "FUCK OFF", with the body specifying where to fuck off to.

Howard didn't have much choice to begin with. As soon as he stepped out of what was now even more foreboding than his old room, he entered a relatively large office space.

The mahogany desk of the office space was occupied by a single woman, who sat there as if expecting Howard.

"I was expecting you", she said to Howard. Presumably, she felt it necessary to make that clear to him.

"I apologize--", was Howard's response.

"No, no, it's perfectly alright". Was the woman's polite method of beheading Howard's response. She quickly went back on that: "Actually, it's not alright. Do you know what the purpose of this plane of hypothetical existence is?"

Before Howard could evoke his memories of quickly answering the teacher's questions to the groans of his fellow high school students, the woman politely beheaded his response again. "Why do I bother asking, of course you do. We attempt to make everyone here utterly content with what they have instead of lives. We worked hard to develop this establishment, or establish this development or whatever it was since we first started dying--"

"Sorry, who are you?"

"Eethe, cofounder, director and complaints manager of--"            

"Isn't that 'Eve'?"

"They got it wrong, but I was making a point. We devoted ourselves to the happiness and contentedness of all post-persons. I've received direct complaints from many post-persons who regard you as a violation of their happiness and contentedness. Now you may be surprised to know we equally value your happiness and contentedness as well, even despite the fashion in which you've been described and continue to live up to that description. The nature of our concern seems to be--"

"Is".

"--that you are unsatisfied living in The Hotel, and everyone else seems to be--"

"Is".

"Shut up --unsatisfied with you living unsatisfied. As selfish and petty as their lack of satisfaction... is, it is still valid. Luckily", and this part disappointed Howard slightly, "yours is a fairly common case, which can be solved fairly easily..."

Eethe paused, as if to offer Howard a guess. Aside from his asides, he hasn't been given a chance to speak this entire time, and stood in stone silence until now. As soon as he opened his mouth, his response was politely beheaded again:

"We're relocating you. Specifically, to another plane of metaphysical existence where you'll surely be satisfied. We need not request what will make you happy and content, your many scarred psychologists have provided us with all the information we need".

Eethe paused again. She nodded to Howard, lips entirely sealed.

"Where".

Eethe uttered the last words Howard would ever hear from her "Find out for yourself", and vanished.

Where Eethe sat, was a cardboard box that smelled of the vaporous manifestation of passive aggressiveness. The contents included Howard's coat, wallet, and a few other possessions he presumably needed. At the bottom of the box was a nametag, which read:

"Bently, Howard 508"

[executive-employee508]

♫

Only two circumstances would result in Howard dancing:

Being forced by others

Being utterly alone and utterly intoxicated

In the first case, his dancing is about as awkward as one can expect from a person out of their comfort zone, with all the usual slight shuffling and halfhearted arm circley thingies.

In the second, being alone and chemically drained of all social consciousness is a different story. To get a good understanding, imagine the mun trying to do the twist when he was five years old and lacked any coordination of his hips. Better yet, watch the bit from the disturbing half of ‘Don’t Hug me I’m Scared’ where the puppet characters go into some form of spasm and flail their limbs in what resembles a dance, and subtract any uncanny horror from the image. There’s directionless arm flapping, something that resembles rapid punching, a thing that looks like a cross between hopping and jogging on the spot. It is for the most part really really silly, like a child finding creative ways to simultaneously suppress his anger and urine (which may very well be Howard’s inspiration for such a revolutionary movement). I could come up with more and more analogies until The Assassin’s Creed poison dagger wears off.

[executive-employee508]

You're Orpheus.. But you aren't. You are not my Orpheus, are you?

"I’ve told you before, my name’s Howard".

Now he’s getting somewhere with this. Howard pulls out some documents from his wallet to drive the point home.

"See here? Bentley: driver’s license, expired. Debit card, expired. There’s an expired passport, expired health card, expired social security, life insurance… redeemed?"

Howard looks at this paper for a while, eyes widened and jaw dropped. With a sinking heart, he drops it in a conveniently placed wastepaper basket.

"I’m about as expired as a carton of milk in a fungus incubator. If you have to know, I’m no less lost than you are".

Oh god, saying this is a bit too much. Howard adds, “But if you need help with just about anything else, come to me”.

Howard adds in his thoughts: especially if that means ensuring passage to your ideal afterlife. Shame that’s kinda obsolete now.

[employee317-blog]

Reminders of your old life, yes? {Emma nods sadly}

It is up to interpretation I believe…You don’t exist? Well you seem quite real to me although that does not mean much, myths are quite real to me as well. Well y-yes he did fail but at least he tried! You won’t even try, would you? How dare you.. {she looks like she’s about to cry by his comments of Orpheus. Her lip quivers} W-what are you talking about.. There was no oxygen shortage, we were all just put her.  N-no you are not “Howard” you are are Charon. I give names, that I believe fit.. {she folds her arms across her chest, pouting}

[executive-employee508]

"I was hoping I’d stop existing by now, but my thinking hasn’t gone away. Who was it that said ‘I think, therefore I am’, Winston Churchill? Yeah, I think that was him".

No, Howard wouldn’t try to escape. He was brought here under his own will. While near isolation isn’t what he had in mind, it’s best for him. At least that’s what they said.

"Even if I could escape, this is where I want to be and I got what I asked for. If you want to escape, why did you come here in the first place?"

Oh. It seems Emma holds her myths to really high esteem. This isn’t good, by any extent of Howard’s reasoning. He resolves to soften his attitude, and says with what is hopefully a sympathetic tone:

"Okay, maybe he isn’t that bad. A little fixated, but he’s got his heart where it… errm… counts. Hell, his music was pretty good, from what they say. Uhh…"

Let’s see what Howard remembers before his coma: a group of hands engulfed him in darkness, his breathing slowed down and a general sense of calm washed over him. Not much to go by. “Well maybe it didn’t affect you, but where I was, it knocked me out cold for months on end. It’s a bit annoying, you see, so I’m not in exactly the best of moods”.

Charon? Now that’s a bit harsh. The only person Howard ever brought to this barren electrically-wired hellhole was himself.

So Emma blames her problems on those who tell her things she doesn’t like. That’s not too bad. He’s known people like that, like his shock therapist who broke Howard’s legs when asked to stop breaking Howard’s legs. That time, he managed leave the hospital in only a few days, so recovering from a meeting like this shouldn’t be too hard.

"Hey, now—"

How would Howard recover? Well, for one, by not contradicting Emma.

"Okay, that works", as antagonistic as it is. Better apply praise here. "Nice use of… uh… impressionistic symbolism?"

Here, Howard feels a great need to punch himself in the stomach.

[curiousmotion-blog]

movement and posture headcanons!

send a symbol to find out how my muse…

⋀ stands ♚ sits ☞ talks ➔ walks ♞runs ♐ fights ♫ dances ☾ sleeps ☻hugs ♦ kisses ☼ you choose!

[executive-employee508]

"S'cuse me, sir—if I sound rude," said Marlise in her usually quiet manner, "... but, who are you?"

Our hero manages to lean himself against a wall before this employee arrives. He arranges himself in a way that is assuredly ‘cool’ with hands in pockets. As the employee utters those words Howard came to relish so much, the man stares into a distance slightly past said employee. In this case, distance meant a fluorescent light fixture several ceiling pieces down, but it still displayed just the right combination of genuine interest and feigned lack of interest.

"No, not rude at all". With that, Howard paused for a bit, just a bit, to allow the tension (rather than what his sister explained was ‘awkwardness’) of the scene to rise slightly.

"Name’s…", Howard pauses a little more for good measure "Name’s Howard".

He mentally utters small prayer to the ghost of Sergio Leone. He then realizes he should probably ask the same from this employee. But no, that would ruin the moment.

[employee210]

In the long and rather torturous silence, Marlise can’t understand why the man is giving the “thousand mile stare”. Nothing interesting stands behind her. Is he seeing things that she can’t? Maybe he has a little schizophrenia, who knows. Marlise is certainly in no position to judge that.

"O—kay… Howard. Quite a name…” She stands tall and does what she can to appear normal. “Haven’t seen you before. Mind telling me your number?”

[executive-employee508]

Right, what do cool irresistible people do? If Howard isn’t mistaken, it’s contemplate irrelevant details under the pretension of being profound. He spots an exit sign and decides to contemplate on its deeper meaning in relation to the lack of any exit.

Perhaps the sign and its official looking nature satirizes our tendency to trust the rationale of authority regardless of it’s actual credibility.

Perhaps it doesn’t refer to exiting the office, but our very souls.

Perhaps it’s symbolic of humanity’s desire to find escape from the pain and torture in their lives, without the realization that there is none.

"Nope, haven’t been here long". Howard’s coma would probably be a bad thing to mention at this point.

…508”.

As an emphasis of such an epic number, Howard pulls a cigarette packet from his coat pocket and places a single stick in his mouth. Howard remembers he forgot his matchbox, but it’s okay. Chewing on the end will create the same effect. This also turns out in his favor, as there’s a ‘no smoking’ sign located and conveniently obscured behind his back.

And now, the final blow. Howard looks this employee directly in the eyes (which he notes before instantly omitting are quite nice) and says:

"You?"

[executive-employee508]

You're Orpheus.. But you aren't. You are not my Orpheus, are you?

"I’ve told you before, my name’s Howard".

Now he’s getting somewhere with this. Howard pulls out some documents from his wallet to drive the point home.

"See here? Bentley: driver’s license, expired. Debit card, expired. There’s an expired passport, expired health card, expired social security, life insurance… redeemed?"

Howard looks at this paper for a while, eyes widened and jaw dropped. With a sinking heart, he drops it in a conveniently placed wastepaper basket.

"I’m about as expired as a carton of milk in a fungus incubator. If you have to know, I’m no less lost than you are".

Oh god, saying this is a bit too much. Howard adds, “But if you need help with just about anything else, come to me”.

Howard adds in his thoughts: especially if that means ensuring passage to your ideal afterlife. Shame that’s kinda obsolete now.

[employee317-blog]

{Emma looks both confused and concerned as the man pulls out cards} Redeemed? Why do you have so many cards..? Expired..? Ah, you believe this to be the afterlife, yes? It is not a bad theory, it seems quite possible. I believe we are all lost.. I do need help with something, I am in need of a new name for you, before I thought you were going to save me and take me to the outside world like Orpheus tried to do.. but I was wrong. 

[executive-employee508]

Howard breaks up the cards with a bitter grumble and throws them in the bin.

"They’re just reminders".

He tosses the empty wallet in as well.

"Afterlives don’t exist". Howard, looking for a matchbox, searches through his pockets. After a bit of thought: "I don’t either".

Nor does anything.

Howard’s thoughts are only further aggravated by Emma’s questioning. He already gave her a name. Hey, that’s a good one: “I gave you my name”. Shit, he said that wrong.

'Saving'? Howard's never been much good at that. The most he ever did was attempt to fix a bird's wing when he was five. Without any medical degree, it's safe to assume he only did worse for the bird, let alone its children.

Hey, he failed to save the creatures.

"But wait, I thought Orpheus failed miserably in the end. The man couldn’t help taking one too many looks at his sexy dead lover and pushed her back inside. He’s no savior, just an overly obsessive necrophiliac".

If Emma wanted to be saved from this place, she never should’ve come in the beginning.

Howard is fully aware of his increasing immaturity in her presence. The thing is, he hoped politeness would stop mattering along with everything else by the time he died. If nothing exists, that may still be the case. Of course, Howard’s consciousness is always the sticking point.

"Excuse me, I just woke up from a rather severe coma. If I’m not mistaken, it was from some sort of oxygen shortage.

"You can call me Howard. It’s a perfectly good name. ‘Howard’. It sounds nice, doesn’t it"?

[executive-employee508]

The (Currently) mute employee poked his head into the office. He usually didn't go up to the upper floors, there was no reason to. It was actually occupied, and by a /guy/ too.

This guy happened to be snoozing loudly in his worn office chair, blanketed from head to toes by a filthy overcoat. Someone with no understanding of the context might have thought it looked like a body bag. As of yet, he wasn’t aware of anyone entering his office.

Howard’s dreams at that moment consisted of being chased by an anthropomorphic sheep wielding a set of shears. It wasn’t a nightmare in the strictest sense of the word, at least not to him. Also, the sheep was asking what the fuck is wrong with him.

A notepad on Howard’s desk was open to a blank page.