The Office Diaries – Craif (part deux)

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Craif’s hand quivered with delight as he read the numbers on the screen over and over again. Each time matching them to the numbers he had selected on his lottery ticket.

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He read them again. They were the same numbers that he always selected on his lottery tickets. He had been using those numbers for as long as he could remember.

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It begged the question, why were these numbers so special to Craif? Were they the birthdates of his children? Nay. Were they the dates for his first date with his wife and the day they each said “I do?” Not even close. They were the GPS coordinates for the Hostess cupcake factory in Danville, KY. Craif’s own personal Mecca. He had always sworn to himself that in the event of a zombie apocalypse he would seek sanctuary among the little orange cupcakes that he held so dear. Craif didn’t like zombies very much.

Craif’s eyes moved from his winning ticket up to the top of the computer screen where he saw his cash prize. So many zeros. His lip quivered and he muttered under his breath a phrase that had become synonymous with victory, “… fuckin’ Craif.” It was his battle cry. All of the sudden he jumped atop his desk and shouted over the top of all the adjacent cubicles, “FUCKIN’ CRAIF!!!” He dismounted the desk and began walking down the hall. It was at that moment that a female member of Craif’s team approached Craif with a smile. She was a bilingual member of Craif’s team and she walked up to Craif with unsuspecting familiarity.

“Hola, Craif! I was thinking about talking to da Seelver Fox and asking for da raise in da money. Whatchu think I should do, Craif?” she asked with an innocence that made a person wonder if she was incredibly smart or incredibly stupid.

“Not now, Consuela,” Craif replied dismissively. “I’m in the fucking zone.” Her name wasn’t really Consuela but Craif had a hard time remembering things that “weren’t American.” As he walked away he heard her say, “I go get da money.” He paid her no mind. In the old days one bilingual teammate would have been sufficient for Craif’s team. However, El Conquistador had recently botched his standards exam that was designed to be so easy that even a nine-year-old Caucasian child could pass it. Evidently, El Conquistador had given up on caring about his own job performance. He was just counting down the days to when he could retire and teach people how to operate paddleboats. That was what El Conquistador was in to… paddleboats.

Craif’s first stop was his direct manager’s desk. A man who hadn’t said but two words to Craif in all the time he had been there. A man known only as Viper. Craif approached him from behind and observed him for a moment. He was making circles with Crayola markers on poster board and cutting them out with childproof scissors. Viper turned to meet Craif’s gaze.

“What is it, Craif? Cant to see I’m a very busy man?” Viper asked with a tone of superiority that angered Craif way down deep in the lower levels of his genitals.

“The fuck is all this?” Craif asked with contempt.

Viper gave Craif a look of confusion that only angered Craif more. “They’re my pie charts… they… um… they chart my pie,” Viper said. He then picked up two of the circles that he had cut out. At least Craif assumed they were supposed to be circles. They looked like something Michael J. Fox had cut out while riding Space Mountain. Viper held the circles in front of his chest and said to Craif, “And look Craif. If you hold them next to each other they look like boobies!” Craif stared in disgust. “… boobies, Craif.” He had a smile on this face that only a dipshit of colossal proportions could conjure. This motherfucker cleared $300k a year.

In that moment Craif’s rage came to a boil. “Craif!” he cried defiantly and shoved his foot through Viper’s chest leaving a hole just wide enough that it could be covered by one of Viper’s own pie charts.

Craif ventured down to the Silver Fox’s office. He didn’t even bother knocking. He walked in to find the Silver Fox staring intently at his own index finger. Before Craif could get a word out the Silver Fox said, “Can you believe this shit?” Craif had learned long ago never to answer the Silver Fox. It was best to just see how things unfolded. The Silver Fox held his finger out for Craif to observe. “Can. You. Believe. This. Shit?” the Silver Fox repeated slowly. Craif leaned in closely to observe the mans finger which smelled oddly of fecal matter. Craif noticed a small paper cut on the very tip of the appendage.

“You want me to get you a Band-Aid?” Craif asked?

“Weakness will not be tolerated!” the Silver Fox exclaimed. Just then, he drew out his dagger he had mounted on the front of his desk. He had strategically placed it there to “ward off the underpants gnomes.” With one quick motion the Silver Fox brought the blade down on the injured digit loping it clean off of his hand and into a Hello Kitty trashcan. He then took a burning cigarette from his ashtray and jabbed it at his new stump in order to cauterize the wound. As the Silver Fox seemed to come out of his warrior trance he appeared to be startled that Craif was still in the room.

“What do you want Craif? Giving away more of my money?” he asked with contempt. As he awaited Craif’s answer he proceeded to lick the blood from his dagger.

There was no turning back now. Craif was in the lion’s den. He walked up to the Silver Fox’s desk, unzipped his pants and proceeded to place his scrotum upon it.

“I just wanted to give you this before I left,” Craif said.

The Silver Fox stared at Craif’s man satchel for what seemed like several minutes. Then, he lit a fresh cigarette and slowly took a drag. As he exhaled he pointed to the room’s only exit and said to Craif, “Shut the door…” Too bad Craif didn’t get down like that and he quickly exited the building.

Craif left the building and spent the rest of the day collecting his lottery winnings and getting his affairs in order. The cashier at the Lottery Service Center asked Craif, “ Would you like a cashier’s check?”

Craif replied, “Nah bitch. Tens and twenties…”

The rest of the afternoon was a blur as Craif descended into madness. His first big purchase was a monster truck that had been retrofitted with the treads of an M4 Sherman tank. Craif had decided that this would be his “weekend ride.” As he drove around town something caught his eye in the Wal-Mart parking lot. It was his co-worker, Day Day who was like his friend or something. He wasn’t sure. No one knew why they hung out with Day Day. Day Day had just parked his silver Honda Civic at the very back of the Wal-Mart parking lot and had begun the half-mile journey up to the actual store all the while passing up closer parking spots that would have saved him some walking distance. Day Day always parked his Honda Civic far away from other cars because he still thought the outside of the car looked nice despite the inside appearing as though several homeless men had recently mated in it.

As Day Day left the Civic unattended, Craif got a wonderfully awful idea. “Fuckin’ Craif,” he muttered under his breath. With a quick turn of the steering wheel he proceeded to the parking lot where Day Day has left his beloved Honda Civic. Without a moment’s hesitation he ran over the car and crushed it like a beer can. Moments later Day Day returned to the pile of rubble that had once been his pride and joy. He saw Craif parked in the half truck half tank that he had been using to wreak his havoc.

“What the fuck, Craif! You had better buy me a new car!” Day Day screamed in a high pitch tone that resembled that of teenage girl.

“I’ll tell you what, Day Day,” Craif said with a sly grin on his face. “You stand right there and see if my badass truck queefs out another Honda Civic for you to play with.” Craif slammed on the accelerator and a cloud of black smoke rushed from the exhaust and into Day Day’s fragile little lungs. As Craif drove out of sight Day Day heard him yell, “Fuck you Day Day! Smell my queef!”

Craif spent the next half hour doing all the things a person is not supposed to do in a monster truck. He sped trough a school zone. He went off-roading in a nature preserve. He ran over mailboxes and stray cats. After about 30 minutes into his rampage he saw police lights flashing behind him. He pulled over and waited for the office to approach his driver side window. The officer walked up and put his aviator sunglasses in his front shirt pocket.

“Do you know what I’m stopping you for?” the police officer asked.

Craif replied, “’Cause I’m young and I’m black and my hat’s real low? Do I look like a mind reader sir? I don’t know.” Craif was known to invoke his inner Jay-Z.

The police officer was silent for a moment. “Why don’t you step to the back of the truck with me.”

Craif met the officer at the back of the truck and he saw what was pissing the cop off so much. “You’ve been dragging this kid for about a mile. He’s been screaming bloody murder the entire time.

Craif gazed upon the boy in disgust. He noted the skinny jeans, the nonprescription glasses and the wool cap in the 80-degree heat and Craif was quick to correct the police officer. “That isn’t a kid, sir. That’s a Millennial. They aren’t real people.”

The police officer considered this for a moment and then said, “Carry on.”

Craif reached over and took the officer’s sunglasses from his shirt pocket and put them on his own face and replied, “Oh… I will.” Then Craif climbed back into his truck and sped off down the road leaving a “queef” for the officer to behold.

As Craif careened down the road he suddenly remembered something that Day Day had told him years ago. Day Day obviously had a more eloquent way of putting it but it had something to do with giving money to charity or some hippy bullshit like that. Craif looked at his bag of money in the front seat and thought, “This bag is getting heavy as it is. Better unload.” He proceeded to roll the window down and began chucking bricks of money at people. Many people don’t know this but Craif used to pitch in college and he still knew how to put some stank on the pitch. His intentions might have been pure but what Craif failed to consider was that the velocity of the truck combined with the speed at which he was chucking the bricks of money caused the cash to collide with the recipients’ heads at a velocity of roughly 180 mph. Time and again a wad of cash would connect with someone’s head and burst into a shower of green and even the finest stripper would be amazed by. Men, women and children. No one survived Craif’s moment of philanthropy.

In the late afternoon Craif stopped in at his old orthopedic surgeon’s office. He walked up to the intake specialist, which is just a glorified secretary. Even with the aviator sunglasses on the secretary recognized Craif. “What can I do for you today, Mr. Craif?” she asked not knowing what to expect for an answer.

“Get him out here,” Craif demanded.

“Craif, we’ve been over this. 1) You have to make and appointment. 2) There is nothing wrong with your body. You gave up on your dreams of pitching in the majors to live a fulfilling life of a desk jockey. You chose a life of noble service instead of a life full of bitches and money,” she explained to Craif for what seemed to be the 100^th time.

Just then the surgeon walked in from outside and said, “Hey what douchebag drives a tank-truck and parked in my reserved park…” his eyes met Craif’s. “Oh… hello Craif,” the surgeon said with fear in his voice.

Craif walked up to the surgeon slowly and removed his sunglasses. He pointed to a picture on the wall. “You know what I’ve come for, surgeon.”

The surgeon looked to see what Craif was pointing at. It was a framed copy of a patent that the surgeon had secured years ago for a revolutionary new shoulder implant. It was designed to help amputees.

“Craif, we’ve been over this. There’s nothing wrong with your shoulder. You gave up on your dreams…”

“I’m not here to talk about pitching, surgeon,” Craif interrupted.

“Whatever your motivations are, I still cant help you. I could never get that device cleared by the Surgeon General. The review board said it was too powerful. They said that no mortal man could control something so fierce.”

“Do I look like a mere mortal?” Craif asked and then dropped his large black bag of money at the surgeon’s feet. The surgeon wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Craif, a shoulder that powerful will never be allowed on a major league pitching staff.”

“Oh no, surgeon,” Craif responded. “Its not silly sports contests that I ‘ve got my eyes on… I have much bigger plans in mind… much… bigger… plans…”

…. To be continued.