Oliver Smertz finished sharpening his pencil, then turned casually. Five temps in monogrammed Polos blocked the door. Wendell from H.R. stepped forward, pointing. “That’s my pencil!”
Oliver sighed. “Your point?”
Sneering, Wendell flicked the tip off Oliver’s pencil. “My point.”
Oliver turned away, placing his pencil back in the sharpener. Grinding and woody incense followed.
Grabbing Oliver’s collar, Wendell snarled, “Defying me is pointless!”
Oliver spun, shoving the No. 2 up Wendell’s nostril. Wendell screamed. Blood spurted as the graphite penetrated deeper. Temps scattered. Wendell collapsed, shuddering on the linoleum.
Oliver plucked a pencil from Wendell’s pocket protector. “Point taken.”