NO JUSTICE FOR ASSISTANTS

(Morning. ASSISTANT, seated at desk, types quietly. "STEVE" office door opens. Enter "STEVE", glancing about furtively.)

"Steve": Ummm, Rejectionist!

Assistant: Your latté awaits!

"Steve": Oh! Thank you! It's not that-- er-- this is embarrassing, but I have to ask--

Assistant: ?

"Steve": Erm, you didn't, er, by any chance, eat some Triscuits yesterday? That were in the Kitchen Area?

Assistant: ?

"Steve": Because they were, well, they were Cretinous's Triscuits, and the thing is, well...

Assistant: ?!

"Steve": The thing is, he's quite upset, and he's sent-- well, he's sent an email, er, around the office-- he's asked us, the agents, he's asked us to ask our assistants not to eat his Triscuits.

Assistant: !

Assistant: !!!!!!!!!!!!

Assistant: THE ASSISTANT DOESN'T EAT TRISCUITS

"Steve": I know! Of course! Of course I know! I told him you only eat health food! But he's-- (whispering) you know, we don't like to upset him, and we did all promise to tell our assistants not to eat the Triscuits, so I just-- I had to--

(ASSSISTANT turns toward office of Cretinous van Poopypants. Lasers shoot out ASSISTANT's eyeballs. Cretinous's office explodes. Assistant eats a bowl of granola. ORGANIC granola. MADE AT HOME. ASSISTANT rests.)

FIN