Cubicle Warfare

The brisk scent of freshly laundered armor hung in the heavily re-circulated air as stillness fell around the water cooler.

The entire sixth division of ACCEL-CORE stood at attention, their suits pressed to perfection, their desks polished to a shine. Not a keyboard sat askew, not a cell phone lay unmuted. Only a few mugs of coffee steamed in the dug out cubicles, the gleam of creamer shining under the bright overhead LCD.

Their general faced them from the corner office, eyes burning with passion. “Company, stand down.” she called, her grey hairs wrapped tightly into a bun. One by one they took their swiveled seats, eyes raised to the whiteboard.

“This, ladies and gentlemen, is our fourth quarter,” she spoke, her words ringing across ten-keys and file folders. “I don’t need to tell you what this means. This is our final chance to advance on our stockholders, show them that we are made of sterner stuff than those asshats in Reno.” Her hands folded neatly behind her, her glasses glinting cold. “If you want to keep that cushy 401K I suggest you each dig deep. There are no limits to overtime. No excuses for missed quotas.” With a loud crack her pointer extended to the graph. “Sales were up 40% last year. That was last year. You greenhorns should have more experience now. I want at least 55% before Christmas or you can kiss those year-end bonuses goodbye.”

Nerves shot with caffeine squirmed under the heavy atmosphere, but not a single worker moved.

“Now I don’t want to lie to you. Some of you may not be with us next year.” Her eyes scanned the crowd, boring into each individual like a hawk seeking prey. “That’s part of corporate life. You’re not happy little drones working till next payday, you’re well-honed machines aiming for promotion in five years. Whether you last that long is up to you.” Returning to her whiteboard, her pointer cracked again. “A - B - C - what do we mean?”

″Always Be Closing!” the room barked in unison.

“Excellent. I’ll keep this brief, since time is money. Anyone who has any questions, see me in my office. I don’t have patience for passive-aggressive emails or interoffice memos. You know your tasks. Do them.” With a nod, she finished, “Back to work.”

The sounds of rapid type fire rang through the open office layout. Within minutes the blares of ringing phones, the rattle of paper sheaths, and the angry shouting at computer screens rose up like a symphony of battle.

Inside her acoustically isolated corner office, the general sank into leather and sipped her espresso, smiling in victory.

They would hit their quotas, by God - or die trying.