Negotiator

 
One day at work, we strained like cats and dogs. Buried up to our noses in regrets that we couldn’t go where we wanted, where there were things we wanted to see and to smell and to taste and to vomit back up afterwards. “It’s dangerous out there!” they would say to us, our watery eyes burning with pleas for freedom. “We don’t want you getting away, because we’d have to chase you and maybe put up posters.” So we languished in our pinstriped suits and mellowed leather briefcases, full of things that were of the utmost importance and no importance at all. We wished they would slip out, fall through the grates and drown in the sewers, pulp melting into the fabric of disgusting nonsense.

What would we do then? Handshakes and smiles, so we could sign the contracts at a reduced price and always – always – remember to lock the door after us. They weren’t kidding when they said it’s dangerous out there.
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Playing on my iTunes at this very moment:
Time-Lapse Consortium, Come Back Boomerang