A Sunset of Rage

Chapter 12

"Check it. New prisoner," Cristobal smirked, chewing a cinnabon. He was also force feeding the new prisoner cinnabons. New type of torture.
"Help," it said, its voice choked from cinnabons.
"What planet am I living on?" Damien asked.
"Ooh!" Frederic exclaimed upon seeing a shiny new rhinestone mousepad.
"HEY! THOSE ARE MY DIAMONDS, A**HOLE!" Cristobal yelled, smacking him with his large hand.
"Cristobal, those are cheap plastic rhinestones made in China," Damien corrected.
"Give me that. THAT!!!" Cristobal screamed, pointing frantically at a Mountain Dew bottle while expecting an employee to fetch it. It was almost disturbing how precise he was in his directions.
"I believe we have a case to work on," Damien said intelligently, sitting at his cubicle.
Cristobal collapsed on the floor from eating too much. His bad habits were catching up to him. The employees just kind of ignored him. The sooner he died, the closer they were to freedom.
"Here, Cristo. You can hug my stuffie," Frederic offered, holding out the plush capybara he'd had since he was a newborn. He carried it everywhere for immediate comfort. That, and vodka.
"WHERE'S MY HAMMER?!" Cristobal yelled. He was dreaming aloud again, yet another dream in which he took on the mystical form of his hero, Thor.
"Aww, he's so precious when he's sleeping!" Frederic cooed.
"Frederic, he's an elderly middle aged morbidly obese FBI manager who's broken half of your bones at least 30 times in the past year," Damien corrected.
Damien teared up. His emotional problems haunted him. "E-Ever since Glenn died...nothing has been the same. I've forever wandered in this vast universe of pain. True, he may have been the only life stolen by Negan...but it feels like every life for me..." he murmured.
"Wow, my self esteem," Abraham complained.
"Yeah," Spencer agreed.
"Yeah," Carl added. He had to be included in everything.
"CARL!" Damien screamed, hugging the wimpy teen. Carl feebly tried to push him away.
"Ew, I'm edgy," he grumbled, going limp.
"Carl, please don't die. If you die I'll have no one left. First my wife, then Glenn, and now you!" Damien sobbed, wiping his eyes.
"Wahhhh!" Negan cried, mourning at Carl's grave.
"Negan, leave."
"Dami, I need my feed," Frederic insisted. Damien rolled his eyes, spoon feeding the tall drunken man cheetos. He ate happily.
"Look at my painting," the blonde said, holding out his proud creation.

Damien cringed, holding back vomit at the sight. It was truly an insult to art. Only a true artist like him could create a painting. Frederic's massive mixing of colors and abstract concepts on a drunken level was just an insult to him.
"Your royal highness! Instruct Frederic to dispose of that monstrosity!" he ordered.
Cristobal rolled over. "Why, I think it's f*ckin beautiful. This deserves a spot on the FBI wall of fame," he chuckled, happily taping it on the wall. Frederic beamed proudly.
"Wall of fame? Wall of SHAME!" Damien yelled.
"I think we should call it, The Ship of Candles and Onions," Mr. Pearce said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin.
"ARE YOU ON DRUGS?!" Damien screeched, ripping hairs out. He politely threw them at Frederic.
"HEY! YOUR BEHAVIOR IS AN INSULT TO ART! BOW DOWN TO THE HOLY PAINTING AND APOLOGIZE OUT YOUR A**!" Cristobal shouted, kicking Damien with his stubby, kneeless leg.
"Dami, I think you'd be a great artist," Frederic encouraged.
"Tsk. Sorry, but my talent is reserved solely for the world of literature," Damien scoffed.
"NOT TRUE! PRACTICE!" Cristobal hollered, grabbing a pencil and paper. He was passionate about bringing out the best in his employees. He gave Damien a picture of a random most wanted criminal. "PORTRAIT TIME!"
Damien stammered, jumping to his feet. "T-That's the Fat Jennica!" he exclaimed, pointing frantically. True, the most wanted portrait was none other than the fat monstrosity. Her fat face, her evil chuckle. Yes, it was all coming back to him.

"Draw or I kill you," Cristobal ordered, rolling back to his station, where a pile of twinkies awaited him.
Damien grumbled to himself, angrily sketching the portrait. Frederic watched happily over his shoulder. Finally, he was done.
"Done, Cristo," he growled, slapping the drawing on the desk.
Cristobal happily rolled over, eyeing it. "WOW, GORGEOUS! YOU'RE A NATURAL, P*RNELIUS!" he praised, giving Damien a slap on the back that kind of knocked the life out of him for a second.
Frederic rolled the drawing up and cooed into it, the sound echoing throughout the office. The employees were getting annoyed. "STOP!" they hollered. Frederic chuckled. No mere human could order him around. He only answered to the law of the Great Capybara.
He fed the paper to Woollen, who munched happily. Papers were a great treat to Woollen. That was why Frederic lost all his FBI files. Not like he'd work on them, anyway.
"That is the tube of Satan," Damien commented.
Suddenly, boom. Explosion from outside. "OH SH*T! IT'S 9/11!" Cristobal hollered, grabbing popcorn and positioning his chair to look outside.
"T-That's not funny! 9+11 is 20, add two zeros it's 2000, which is the year Jadelyn was born, so I'm really offended!" Damien yelled.
"Dami, I think we need to evacuate to the Walking Dead store," Frederic ushered.
"Ha! Not falling for that one, scumbag!" Damien chuckled. Although, the thought of the store was tempting.
"NO EXCUSES! ALL EMPLOYEES REMAIN IN THE OFFICE! ANYONE WHO EVACUATES WILL BE SHOT FOR COWARDICE!" the manager warned.
War was imminent...