Chapter 1

“Cook called for you, and…you’ve got an e-mail. From Michael. He told me it’s urgent and you need to
read it as soon as you get in.”

Mickey sighs as he takes the papers Pam’s offering him, sitting down hard in his chair. Fuck, it’s a good
thing they ended up getting the chairs. Otherwise his ass would hurt like a motherfucker at the end of
the day, and who wants that? Who gives a shit about the copier anyway? He barely uses it, has fucking
Dwight make all his copies by sending him threatening e-mails. Dwight, or Creed. It’s amazing what
anonymous e-mail addresses can acomplish in this office. And he has a few.

Jim’s already sitting at his desk, wearing his boring blue shirt, and sneaking peaks at a pregnant Pam.
Yeah, third fucking kid, woman’s popping em’ out like it’s going out of style. He’ll never understand it, in
more ways than one. Yevgeny’s all he’s got and kids ain’t all they’re cracked up to be. Before he can take
a look at the email, Dwight walks in, sporting his classic mustard shirt and brownish-greenish pants.

“Good morning, Mikhailo,” he says genially. Mickey ignores him as always, especially when the fuckhead
uses his full name. He can’t believe he has to sit across from this idiot. The guy’s a massive suckup,
arrives at exactly nine every day, wears the same goddamn ugly shirt without fail, and is the most
annoying shitstain Mickey’s ever encountered.

“It’s customary to respond in kind when someone wishes you good morning.”

Mickey sighs for the ninth time, it seems, and stares down at the e-mail, seeing but not reading. He can
see Jim, in his peripheral vision, peering between them, looking for some early-morning action to start
the day off right.

“Morning Dwight, can you fuck off now?”

He has no idea how he ended up working in a corporate environment. He has no idea how he’s up here
instead of down in the warehouse. He has no idea how he became a salesman. But here he is, and fuck,
if the salary isn’t nice. He’s got a house, a car, a mortgage, a son, and a fucking dog. Yevgeny lives back in
Philly with his mom and stays most weekends, giving Svetlana a much-needed break, and he… he’s
relatively happy with his life now. It’s peaceful and that’s all he can ask for with the way he grew up. The
Electric City is boring, but boring is good. There are some nice bars in the heart of the metropolis that he
frequents whenever he needs to get himself some, and there are some nice food joints too. And if there
are two things he likes, it’s sex and food, so yeah, he’s done well for himself.

He’s not looking for anything serious right now anyway. He’s been living out in the suburbs for just
under a year and is still getting used to it. Besides, relationships aren’t his thing. 27 years old and he still
hasn’t been in one.

He knows he doesn’t fit in here, in polite society. His language is fucking awful, his formal wardrobe,
measly at best, and his social skills leave something to be desired. But he can charm the fuck out of Wall
Street exec if he needs to and he supposes that’s how he got this job. That, and Michael seemed to take
an unhealthy shine to him.

“Foul language falls under the third item on the conduct guidelines for Dunder Mifflin,” Dwight says
shortly, taking a seat and re-arranging his Darth Vader bobblehead.
“Guess that makes it pretty fucking important then, huh?”

By this time, Angela’s shooting him her dirtiest look which she reserves for when he’s gay, non-believing,
cat-hating, AND foul-mouthed. Oh, and messing with Dwight. He’s always been haunted by their
relationship. Any relationship involving Dwight is rather alarming to imagine.

“You need to be more specific, Dwight. You make it sound like we’re supposed to curse,” Jim weighs in.
He was wondering when douchebag was gonna add his two cents.

“Very well,” Dwight says clearly, going into pissed mode. He opens his second drawer and takes out the
Dunder Mifflin conduct guidelines booklet and turn to page two.

“Offensive language in the workplace:” he begins, standing up for effect and adjusting his glasses.
Mickey still doesn’t look up but can tell that everyone’s following along by now. Fuckers… there’s never
enough to do around here; everyone’s always on the lookout for a soap opera. Hell, Ryan and Creed
work here and no one knows what the fuck their job titles even are. “Employees are expected to keep
their language respectful, refined and courteous at all times. Swearing, slurs, abusive language, and…”

Across the room, around Dwight’s awkward frame, and Phylis’ awful head of hair, he can see Stanley
snort. Good old Stanley, Mickey can always count on him.

“Can we not do this now, Dwight?” The old hand begins, revving himself up. “I’m trying to do my
crossword and you’re not helping.”

“Ah, Stanley. We can address more inappropriate behaviour in the workplace if you’d like, because using
company time for personal benefit falls under rule 3.4 in the…”

“Doing crosswords are not for my benefit. They keep me sane in this hellhole, and that’s for the
company’s benefit,” Stanley says with finality, looking back down and effectively ending the
conversation.

Dwight’s miffed and opens his mouth to speak, but before he can get into it, Michael sashays in, waiting
for someone to wish him good morning.

“Hi Michael, you’re early,” Pam, ever miss goody two-shoes, greets.

“What do you mean, it’s 9:12.”

“Michael, you’re usually not here until 10,” she says politely.

“Bffff, me, ten? What’re you…what…” He trails off as half the office nods along with Pam.

“It’s true, Michael,” Oscar chips in. Fuck, another guy he despises. Oscar has gotten on his nerves since
the very first day when he refused to shake the guy’s hand. He doesn’t shake hands if he can help it. But
Oscar took major offense, decided it was because he was gay, and even when Mickey came out to his
coworkers, Oscar still held that grudge. And the guy never shuts up about the trials of being gay… If only
he knew what Mickey had to deal with… Ha, fucking spoiled bitch! Mickey avoids talking to him as much
as he could, though his paycheck comes through the guy so it’s often necessary.
Kevin is next to speak and Mickey braces himself. What the hell is that guy’s problem and how did he
snag a job? Why isn’t he on disability? “Sometimes, I wonder if you’ll ever come in or not,” Kevin states
boldly. “Do managers start later than the rest of us?”

No one bothers to give him an answer, but the door to the break room opens and Ryan walks out,
sporting a polka-dotted bow tie and a cashmere sweater. Mickey looks down and busies himself with
the slinky he keeps in his drawer. It’s a handy device for when he needs to appear busy and wants
nothing more than to be left alone.

His relationship with Ryan is complicated. He’s the guy who showed Mickey the ropes when he first
started at Dunder Mifflin and for a time, Mickey’d had a passing thought… well, a bit of a crush, on him.
Sure, he was a shrimpy fucker who could use to gain about fifty pounds, and sure he was a pompous
bitch, but… he had a nice face. But anyway, that was a long time ago, and Ryan is as friendly to him as
anyone, just glad that Michael’s obsession had been transferred to Mickey in his stead.

“What did I miss?” he calls out, hands in his pockets.

Phyllis answers. “Dwight was reading the rulebook because Mickey was cursing and now Michael’s
claiming that he’s never late.”

“Haha. That’s a good one. Well, I’ll see you guys later,” he exclaims, disappearing. The guy was high half
the time and ridiculously flighty the other half, so much so, that it was hard to tell the difference.
Mickey’d gotten baked with him once or twice but when he realized he was dealing with a real junkie,
he’d immediately put a stop to those jaunts.

“So, you got my e-mail?” Michael asks him discretely, once the office settles down.

“Yeah. Still haven’t read it, though. You inviting me to another ‘bro hangout’? Cuz’ I ain’t down for that.”
Mickey’s learned that the best way to deal with Michael is be as straight as possible. Don’t play into his
games. It’s how you force the clown to get to the point and give you what you want. And he’s such a
pushover; Mickey can get anything out of him. So his ‘relationship’ with Michael is actually very
amicable, one of the best in the office.

“No. We’ve got a meeting with that potental client at lunch and I want you there. Real business this
time, I swear. I swear,” he adds in a strange, high-pitched voice.

Mickey doesn’t humor him with his attention, but fucking Jim has to pipe up.

“Um, what?”

“Ray Liotta. Goodfellas? I swear to my fucking mother…?”

“Michael! I was just reminding everyone about the importance of avoiding foul language in the off…”
Dwight begins, his face pink with exertion and fury.

“Yeah, calm down Dwight. What’s the point of the rules, we’re having fun here. Having fun, it’s what we
does…” Michael then double-steps his way into his office, leaving everyone to do a spot of actual work.

Mickey calls Cook and finalizes their order, he reviews a couple of complaints, he files some paperwork
and then he goes to the roof for a smoke before the lunch meeting. He hopes Jim’s not coming along.
Anyone but Jim. He’ll take fucking Dwight or Phyllis in place of the 6’3” asshole. Yeah, that’s a major
contributing factor to his despising the older guy. How’s he supposed to like someone who’s nearly a
foot taller than him, looks at him like he’s an exhibit, and always seems to be laughing at a private joke?
Those kinda people never lasted long in Hunting Park, but the days of giving a good beating to guys who
piss him off are long gone. He’s respectable now.

Mickey heads back in, meeting Creed, who for some reason, in sixty degree weather, is wearing a black
frock, on the way down. What the guy was doing coming down the staircase from the roof is something
he doesn’t want to know and doesn’t particularly care about. He applies the makeup he uses on his
fingers for client meetings quickly and expertly, used to the procedure.

Michael lets him leave them uncovered in the office, which he’s inifintely thankful for. It’d be a real drag
having to cover them up from nine to five every day. Michael finds them fascinating and very ghetto,
which he’s alwas quick to point out. The first words the guy ever spoke to him were “So you’re from ‘the
hood?’ while trying to hide a gleeful smile.

Since then, he’s been called into Michael’s office many times to discuss “hood matters” and “slum
ettiquette”, all for professional purposes of course. In fact, Mickey had to sit through a ‘welcome
meeting’ where Michael tried to teach the rest of his coworkers some ghetto slang so he could feel at
home. At the end of the day, though an absurd guy, Michael means well, though it’s often hard to
discern.

“So who’s the big fish?” Mickey asks as he clicks his seatbelt in. For some ridiculous reason, Ryan was
deemed the tag-along and the guy is too cool to ask for the front seat. Mickey thinks Michael considers
the two of them his A-team, because of their good looks, even though Ryan is not in sales, and he’s not
close to experienced compared to many of his coworkers. It may be why some of the other salespeople
resent him…

“It’s a start-up. Family business,” Ryan answers from the backseat, reading off of his tablet as Michael
swerves to avoid an oncoming biker. “Father and two sons, apparently trying to grow their beer brand.
They want to print their own labels too.”

“That’s where we come in,” Michael adds helpfully, starting to sing along with some Smokey Robinson
playing on the radio. It’s turned up by Ryan’s request and soon they’re both singing and Mickey is forced
to cover his ears.