Ah, New York!

  The city that never sleeps—though I suppose that’s only partially true because I’ve seen plenty of people on the 6 train at 3 a.m. who look like they’ve been in a coma.

  Good Times Coffee, the mecca of overpriced lattes, buzzes below in the usual coffeeshop hustle. I sip my far-too-expensive brew, surveying my humble domain from my south-facing penthouse of middle management atop a jumbled heap of paperwork, leftovers from last week’s lunch, and the lingering smell of yesterday’s takeout.

  My name? Alex “the Axe” Hill. Yes, that’s right. They call me that, mainly because I have the uncanny ability to chop through the workforce like a lumberjack who’s lost his way in a corporate forest.

  Today is Monday; magnificent and dreadful like that one insane uncle you only meet at family gatherings. I love how the office buzzes to life around me.

  The sound of keyboards clicking in rapid succession fills the air—some motivational cacophony, surely the symphony of ambition for those seeking to rise above mediocrity. I chuckle softly, for I hold the power—the glorious power—to decide who stays and who goes.

  “Alex!” Amanda from Marketing shimmies in, her floral dress flaring like an obnoxious flag on a particularly windy day. She’s now two cups of caffeine away from breaking through the cosmic barrier of annoying. But bless her, she’s our annoying, and that counts for something. “Have you seen the pitch for our collaboration with ConCrafters? I think they’re going to love the fresh branding—”

  “Actually, Amanda,” I begin, leaning back, balancing the weight of a thousand invisible sighs. “I haven’t had the chance to review it yet. I was too busy preparing for… the next big chop,” I do a mock-chopping gesture with my hand for effect. “I think I’ll let you know when—and if—I decide to take a look, alright?"

  Her smile falters. You can practically hear the gears grinding in that caffeine-fueled brain of hers. “Right… So, uh, when is that? Because the deadline—”

  “Not today, Amanda.” I turn back to my laptop and allow the sweet sound of her retreating heels to serenade my brief moment of triumph. Yes, I wield power over peoples' fates, and it feels good.

  Well, it feels chaotic, which is somehow deeply satisfying.

  As I continue clicking through a seductive array of spreadsheets, Mr. Thompkins, my boss and the embodiment of upper-management dread, enters. What is he even doing here? I fumble with my coffee, spilling a few drops onto the work-in-progress report titled Reinventing the Wheel: Why It's Still Round By 2025. Cute, huh?

  “Alex! You got a minute?” He shuffles across my territory like a crab on a beach, ready to steal my lunch without even acknowledging my existence. “We need to discuss—”

  “Sure, as soon as you are done drafting my resignation letter,” I say. My finger strokes the ‘mute’ button on the incessant dinging from the chat app long since forgotten. His burly presence looms over me like a wall of wet cardboard as I brave the storm of apathy in my heart.

  Stolen story; please report.

  “Right. Well, we are looking to optimize productivity. You know how it is. With the economy being what it is, we need stronger teams. And I think…” He pauses, likely to choose the most insipid management lingo possible, “We need to make some, uh, cuts.”

  Ah, there it is! The proverbial axe! I’m already envisioning it: the pink slips flying out of the printer like confetti at some apocalyptic party suited for losers. I can't help but relish this power.

  “Cuts?” I lean in, feigning curiosity. “As in… greater efficiency?”

  “Exactly! If one of your colleagues is underperforming—”

  “Oh, yes! Underperforming!” I half-laugh, half-scoff. “You mean, like Rick? I mean, bless him. He once thought a ‘word cloud’ was literal, like, clouds that… contained words? Remember that?”

  “Alex,” Mr. Thompkins whispers, glancing around suspiciously as if Rick might be hiding under my desk. “He’s a good man. He just needs a little push.”

  “A little push? Thrown out of an airplane without a parachute, possibly,” I mutter, then quickly recover. “I mean, of course! Let’s optimize!”

  With that, Mr. Thompkins leaves, oblivious to the little storm brewing beneath my spivvy surface. I conjured visions of firing my least favorite coworkers—translating them to a digital graveyard of ‘please remove from inbox.’ That power still sparks electricity up my spine, brighter than the neon signs splattered across Times Square.

  I shake the thoughts away, marching dutifully to the supply closet for a post-caffeine breath—a much-needed escape among the cacophony of what-could-have-beens. It’s cramped and filled with the scent of dry-erase markers and regret—which I find oddly comforting.

  From there I overhear conversations—like Jorge lamenting that he really, actually wants an office plant, and Charley daydreaming about moving to Oregon. “I’m serious. I could work remotely, write poetry among the trees!” And Sarah saying, “But Charley, wouldn’t that be, like, super cliché?”

  It doesn’t matter, right? This is Manhattan; clichés thrive in Manhattan the same way I thrive on the power to dictate life here.

  Before I can ponder it any further, the phone rings, buzzes, and then whoosh! It’s Amanda, again. “Alex! You never looked at the pitch!”

  “Didn’t I?” I pretend to flick my hand as if swatting a fly. “Bold strategy!”

  “Look, if you can take a moment, I can explain the branding. It’s… um, it’s a homey vibe. Like a warm cup of coffee on a cold winter morning.”

  “Warm coffee, exciting times. I’ll note that down!” I finish the call as I glance at the screen, the seven-word summary of our latest strategy stabbing my mind like a thorn.

  Suddenly, inspiration strikes me, and I start composing an email to Mr. Thompkins that includes every terrible pun and cliché I can think of, all the while hoping it tips the scale for Rick.

  “Once I start, there’s no stopping me! May the best candidate chop!”

  But just as I hit send, and I feel an electric thrill, I look up and catch Amanda’s eyes, her brows furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing?” she demands.

  “Sending a message to… uh, the universe?” I say, radiating confidence through my half-true verbosity.

  She doesn’t let up. “You need to look at that pitch. If you could just spare fifteen minutes…”

  I nod vigorously and, with a casual stride, volley my way back to my desk, where yet another glorious pile of paperwork dances like a waiting rubber stamp of doom. “Yes, Amanda, let’s collaborate on this collaboration of collaboration.”

  The day rolls like an off-key piano, each note a random colleague crying out in pain over spreadsheets and deadlines. The hope of freedom flickers like an old fluorescent light. But I keep on; the power is mine, and in this massive metropolis of chaos, I thrive in the knowledge that I can still bide my time and swing my ax.

  Then the final strike, oddly enough, strikes me as the clock ticks toward 5 p.m.—a full tilt of absurdity and productivity wrapped into one.

  “Goodbye, Rick,” I whisper, grinning, blissfully oblivious to the chopping I was about to recieve.