Harold fairly sang through the next day. He had tried to help someone. He felt like Olivia’s hero yet slightly dirty because of the circumstances of their meeting. The only other valiant effort he made in life lately was to try and lift the crushing existential horror at work by telling people jokes and acting crazy. Work crazy, not crazy crazy. Luckily he had memorized jokes in the major categories that humans found humerous and was always ready with a zinger about work, sex, or farting, when the time came.
“How are you doing Harold?” The question came from Peter the Dwarf. Of course no one called him this but he was in fact very short in stature, and named Peter, so the name fit in Harold’s mind.
“Oh fine thanks, just finishing up this work.”
“Coming to the party this weekend Harold? All the boys will be there.”
If by, “the boys,” Peter meant the psychopathic group of probable date-rapists that comprised the database sales division, then he would have liked to miss it.
“Yes, Sir, of course I am coming. I will bring a ham.”