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The stapler

There he sat, on the strong burgundy desk…

There he sat, in the same spot as the night before. He’d had an especially rough time last night. Another of these bastards had picked him up, jammed him several times with third-rate staples, banged him against the metal siding of the office door, and finally thrown him on his side once his purpose was served.

He was a whore. Used and abused by everyone in the office as well as strangers sometimes. By now he’d resigned himself to the fate of being mishandled by dozens of unhappy and uncaring users. He was torn between competing desires. On one end was his desire to serve – to serve the purpose his creator had birthed him for, which was to serve these ungrateful beings. On another his want for respect and proper treatment. In a sad stupor in the lonely nights, he would dream of getting recognition for the vital purpose he served in the daily lives of all who laid their hands upon his body. He didn’t want a medal. He simply wanted some help in elevating his fallen status in his own eyes.

Day after day, they would stuff mutated wood product between his two precious teeth and his strong, fixed lower jaw. Sometimes they would depress his head gently, as it was intended to be pressed, to join the stacks of paper securely; but more often than not, these unthankful fuckers would simply smash his gentle head with a vertical fist, remove their papers, and proceed with their miserable day and further into their miserable lives. They would press so hard he could feel the impact for minutes after it had occurred; he could feel the sweat from their pores, enough of which was transferred to him in those brief seconds of contact that he could smell it for hours. In the beginning, enough different aromas had accumulated on his body only two hours into the workday to nauseate him. Understandably, this affected his performance. Over time, however, he became almost fully impervious to the assaults, and his strong will helped him carry on when he was physically and emotionally tempted to just give up and take the punishment of death.

His integrity was – is – enviable. He had chosen his loyalties carefully, from deep visceral instinct. Despite all misgivings, it was inconceivable for him to betray his Creator and disturb the function he was so carefully constructed to serve. His Creator had knowingly and willingly created him for these people, and it was his duty to obey that. No, he could not rest for even one day, for he had a horrifically real idea of what disrepute that would bring upon his Creator. With particularly harsh hands, his users would mercilessly throw him in a box and send him shipping to his birthplace: the factory. There, either his Creator or an esteemed colleague would have to remove himself from his foremost work – that of creating – to attend to his disabled state. He would be labeled an infidel. No, he would tolerate a million years of assault at the hands of his users than to be the reason behind the casting of even the lightest shadow of doubt upon his Creator’s ability.

And so it was that there he sat, on the strong burgundy desk, on the morning of another business day, mentally preparing himself for the grueling day ahead.

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