Staples thwip into the cubicle wall beside his head, bisecting a Dilbert comic. He shoulder rolls to the next desk over, and checks to see if Runion left a letter opener in his drawer.
“Jacobs, Jacobs,” jeers Simonson. There’s a metallic hiss and a clack as he reloads. Jacobs pockets Runion’s three-hole punch. “You know how this goes. You saw the numbers. It was a bad quarter. Downsizing’s inevitable.”
Jacobs doesn’t say anything, just listens. There’s a footfall, a breath, and he jumps into Runion’s chair, rolls backwards, throwing paper clips.
Simonson bounds over the wall, twin Dengisches blazing.