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Sauce: https://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles...ack-metal-to-our-corporate-office-environment

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Short Imagined Monologues

I Bring the Soul-Defiling Spirit of True Norwegian Black Metal to Our Corporate Office Environment

By ROWDY GEIRSSON

Sometimes I like to screech grim, indecipherable lyrics about the downfall of the human race while staring at my computer screen after long, ungodly conference calls. Hoarsely uttering ritualistic chants about Satan and his army of unholy demons usually works wonders for my efficiency with the whole array of soul-damning Microsoft products. And every time a different program crashes, I channel my wrath into an onslaught of pure fucking armageddon on that machine. On the off-chance that I start feeling pathetic and weak and not evil enough, I'll open up the top drawer of my file cabinet, lean over the rotting bird's corpse that I like to keep inside there, and let the stinking stench of death drive me onward through hours and hours of blasphemous, office-oriented multitasking.

Also, formal attire doesn't mesh with my lifestyle or religious beliefs. Loafers, dress pants, and buttoned-down shirts are just way too Yanni and not nearly enough Gorgoroth. That's why I wear these black leather pants and arm sleeves that are all decked out with sharp, foot-long metal spikes. And as for the corpse paint covering my face and chest? Yeah, I applied it myself last year, and no, I never wash it off. I stand for true corporate black metal and the world's gradual, downward spiral into a state of complete and utter bedlam.

When I send emails, my automated signature reads, "Count Blashyrkh, Infernal Account Manager of Chaos" because I've cast off the shackles of my deceitful Christian job title in favor of something truer to my actual function here - behaving heartlessly, without love, without compassion, and without joy for myself or anyone else who savagely promotes profit at the expense of human decency. And for those worthy few whom I admire for conducting especially ruthless and hateful deeds of their own, I usually forego the urgent icon and instead attach a photo of a fragmented human skull before I click send, so they understand the respect that I have for them loud and clear.

Some of you may have noticed my unorthodox observance of the profane tradition known as "casual Fridays." That's when I bring in my Jackson King-V electric guitar and 40-watt amp and desecrate my work space with a decapitated pig's head and two buckets of goat's blood for the diabolical show that's about to digitally ensue with my accounting software. Then I get down on my hands and knees in front of the inverted cross that I've pinned to the wall above my company policy manuals and carve a pentagram into the floor of my cubicle because that's how it's done.

My puritanical misanthropy usually reaches new euphoric heights when I take my lunch break and go across the street to Starbucks. While I wait in line I ponder the meaninglessness of life and every time I growl for my order of coffee to be as black as the night's blood (grande sized), I have to repeat myself because the barista doesn't understand the rasp of the devil's tongue. Then I hang out for a few minutes, etching an illegible, highly-ornate, hell-spawned version of the company logo into a table in the back corner while swiping away on Tinder and trying not to impale little kids with my massive metal spikes.

When I get back to the office, I construct a miniature paper church of transmittals and memos past and present and light the thing on fire, watching it blaze down to a smouldering pile of ashes as the spirit of darkness and total chaos takes one step further towards ultimate victory. And then I go into Per-Olav's office to inform him that we're still waiting for marketing to send us their report and that I'm going to head over to their part of the building, force those posers to watch me while I cut myself repeatedly with a crooked blade next to their water cooler, and then threaten to put them all on the next train to Transylvania if they don't get their shit together soon, if you know what I mean.

And I guess that pretty much does it for me. I think Runar's up next to tell us about his newborn baby and what all he did during the mandatory four month-long paternity leave that he just got back from."
Of course, in the eternal "mine's-bigger-than-yours" cockfight surrounding amp wattages, and as the owner of a unit advertised as rated at 180 Watts, I have to complain that the mere 40 Watt amp our protagonist takes into work on Fridays is far too puny to really be metal…
 
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