It is 3:49 am. You are paralyzed in bed, eyes wide open and bloodshot, sleep so far away from your body clock that you are still engulfed in your restlessness, that getting up and doing anything besides lay in bed would be known as a feat worthy of human achievement.
The mere thought of showing up to work in a handful of excruciating hours makes you sick to the pits of your colon. It eats you alive, like you ate the four-day-old kebab in your fridge, much to your colon’s dismay. The job drains you of so much of your being, self-worth and life that nutrition has become but a sick passenger at the back of the crazy train.
Getting out of bed may as well be the end of you, only to show up to work at the edge of your wits, the grinding of your teeth, and the fumes of your willpower, just to put up with the constant barrage of menial, hand-waved tasks from higher-ups. You are dug in deep, cleaning up the consistent messes of hierarchical fecal matter dumped on you by clients, overloading the urinal-dumpster that is your cubicle.
Your only solace, your only salvation, being the obscure forum site of an MMORPG whose glory days were once past. You are treated like the niche, micro-celebrity you are, living day to day from the validation of those with their lives in just as much disorder.
The minutes tick by, and the thought get more and more invasive. Before you know it, the luminance of the sun invites itself through your blinds. You can’t take it anymore.
Turning over to face up for some fresh air, you notice something in your way. Odd.
A half-naked, well-built man who’s sleeper build woke up for good at the tender age of 9 kneels over the battered and broken husk of your body. You avert your eyes, doing your best to avoid eye contact with his herculean physique, clad in nothing but a pair of ranger shorts and a lanyard with the logo of the company you loathe with a passion dangling between the valley of his hefty pectorals, just dangling there, glinting and teasing you. You try to wiggle your way out of his massive, muscular arms but to no avail; he has you in a vice, dead to rights.
He leans over, ID card smacking you in the face, and you feel his guttural, putrid breath through his warped and disfigured Garfield mask muttering the last words you heard that day:
“Kash these nuts on your face 
”