Summary: Explaining a work confrontation to the "big boss."
Pairings: Just Sands.
Legal Stuff: R.R. equals Sands; Me equals screwy imagination
Nine Times Three
"Mr. Sands. Sheldon J. Sands."
The agent stood and casually strode into the office. A wiry man in a dark blue jacket sat behind a maple desk, clipboard in hand.
"Ah, Mr. Sands. Please, have a seat."
He remained standing.
"It has come to our attention, Mr. Sands, that you recently had a…problem with one of your co-workers. Is this true?"
"His name is Clive. Who wouldn't have a problem with that?"
"Sheldon," Sands' skin was crawling, "this company does not approve of fighting amongst our employees…"
"We weren't fighting. I bit him and shoved a pen through his grubby little hand. He merely screamed." Awfully matter-of-fact and rather – bored.
The man at the desk scribbled something down on his clipboard. "Would you mind, Mr. Sands, telling me why you did such a thing?"
Sands smirked. He was surprisingly calm for being strung out on coke. The agent turned and walked toward the door through which he entered, stopping at the threshold.
"He stole my stapler."
Author's Notes: Thanks to my science teacher for continuously quoting Office Space. It was only a matter of time before my brain linked this, too with a Sands story.