The office of Squirrel Recruitment had the faint, sweet smell of damp documents and quiet despair. A single, wilted fern drooped in a corner, a silent testament to forgotten ambitions. Behind a desk sat Kafkett, a man whose suit had the bewildered look of something that had been through a car wash.

Across from him sat Normalson, a man so thoroughly beige he risked blending into the walls. Normalson clutched his CV like a holy text.

Why was I responsible for the Bishop’s funeral? Sure, I’d been attached to the diocesan office for a couple of years, but only because Bishop Pfister had wanted to, in his words, “keep an eye on me.”

Shortly after my ordination, he said to me, “You’re a real degenerate, you know, of course.”

What could I say? I nodded.

The students shuffled in dribs and drabs into the first class of eleventh grade. Some had arrived ten minutes early, while others entered to the serenade of the late bell. For the most part, they were tired and sunburnt and achingly hormonal. They sighed en masse, preparing wearily to leave butt sweat marks on the blue metal seats. The teacher walked in haggard and hungover, but he managed to hide it quite well, because he had a Masters degree in education. His presence inspired immediate annoyance. A burp rang out, a toaster strudel fanfare.

Wake up one morning and realize that you’ve changed. It’s not just the ravages of time and age: your cranium is now a literal beef patty, encased in a pillow of bun, slathered with onion, ketchup, special sauce. You’re not sure how or why you’ve gotten into this predicament (you almost said pickle) but you know this is something that’s not supposed to happen in life.

My phone buzzed at midnight. “We’ve got a situation,” my boss said. “Someone let the exclamation points out of their cage.”