DAY FIFTY-FOUR (I think. Later than this morning, most likely in the . . . I’m going to go with mid-afternoon, now, probably? Also, I’m pretty sure the dates on this diary have gotten a little mixed up.)

Fridays. Yuck.

Locked—as is so often the case—in the bathroom.

Just woke up in the middle of a large—and seemingly quite important—business meeting and hastily excused myself to use the lavatory. I have no idea who any of the people in that boardroom were, or what level of the dungeon I’m on, or even what the presentation was about, precisely, although judging by the overhead slides it appeared to be on the topic of some major developments within the Exceptionally Evil Corporation, particularly with regards to purchasing . . . something?

Developing something? Acquiring, exploiting, and then—presumably—re-selling something? Subsidiaryizinging something, or maybe hostile-takeovering . . . something else?

Building, maybe, like, a stirge-powered nuclear reactor or whatever?

Hmm. I really ought to figure it out before I go back in there and finish giving the presentation, I think.

Everyone seemed enraptured by what I had to say, at the very least. So that’s good. A couple of people were even crying, which I take to be the mark of good management. It means they’re engaged, emotionally and intellectually.

Come to think of it, it might actually have something to do with a new slew of employee healthcare options, benefits, or a retirement plan. I certainly do seem to be clutching a large number of sweat-dampened “Understanding your New 401(d6 slashing/piercing and force) Package” pamphlets. A lot of them have notes scribbled in the margins, too. And there’s a big picture of a large, bloody axe on the cover, along with a wildly spinning severed head.

Maybe I should read these over.

Also: Where did I get this briefcase? It’s quite nice. That has GOT to be half-halfing/half-centaur-skin leather. Pretty impressive, honestly.

And . . . am I wearing a suit-coat?

ALSO: Don’t care. Date tonight.

DAY FIFTY-FOUR (after work)

Man, my job is annoying. Right as I was punching out, the stupid bosses—Dark Lord Torkelheim and Stonnehyldd the “Smokin’-Hot” Stone Golem, and also Heywood Rantoul, the cowboy naga lich—all wanted to talk to me about something to do with the company picnic this weekend, especially the topics of the kickball tournament, logistics for hosting the Haunted Home Office in, I guess, some pavilions or something, and especially the exact, most-current locations of the t-shirts for the event.

The three of them all kept interrupting each other, so that was funny. They seem really worked-up over this. Especially about the stupid pavilions.

Also, I think I’m in charge of the BBQ cook-out. Possibly also the fireworks. And something about a three-legged race, although there was a great deal of consternation as to whether or not that term was politically correct or not, or if it was racist, technically, or just insensitive, and whether the company could get sued over it. It was amusing to hear Heywood Rantoul argue about sensitivity training more and more shill-ly (if that’s a word) and at increasingly higher volumes in his thick redneck accent.

He seems pretty sensitive about not having legs.

Or hands.

Anyway, I was pretty sure that my go-to answers of “don’t know, don’t care” to all of their queries wouldn’t have looked particularly good, so that was a problem. Fortunately, at that exact moment, Jimbo and Princess Leafy showed up with the t-shirts for the event. Apparently, I put them in charge of the t-shirts. So that’s good.

The t-shirts are quite festive, made of a unique bright-neon-orange hypo-allergenic cotton/lycra/toxic-slime-mold blend designed to fit any size from Diminutive to XXXL Colossal-Plus, and they all have “Azathrax, Hastur, Hastur, Stonebook, Fronkuhnshteen, Devil-Guy, Hastur, and He Who Shall Not Be Named But Who Is Nevertheless a Founding Partner of This Very Large Multidimensional and Exceptionally Evil Corporation Company Picnic” printed on the front and the back in screaming neon-green, along with whatever stupid made-up date it is this year and our company motto.

Our company motto is, apparently, “Monsters That Will Kill You, since -872,931 GQM.”

I’m presuming that’s a different stupid made-up date, but from a very long time ago.

There was some argument, then, about whether we were going to get into trouble for not having shirts ready for Fine-size and smaller creatures, especially since one of the heads of the accounts receivable department of the Mostly Submerged Frozen-Lake Dungeon is technically a sentient ebola virus, as well as whether or not using the term “Fine” was bordering on harassment—sexual or otherwise—of some kind. This devolved into several people shouting over one another about whether some sizes are not, in fact, “fine,” as well as whether it’s wrong (and, more importantly, legally actionable) to say that someone’s outfit looks “fine” if you really mean that it’s properly sized for a creature two size categories smaller than Tiny, and also Princess Leafirellha started crying . . . which made Dark Lord Torkelheim start crying, too.

I think he’s under a lot of stress. I understand, man. I understand.

So, during their talk, I snuck out.

Don’t care. Date tonight. Must try to see if I can get reservations to . . . a restaurant.

Also, must attempt to locate clean pants.

DAY FIFTY-FOUR (date in t-minus 45 minutes)

No luck finding clean pants. Or a restaurant in this stupid dungeon that isn’t booked solid on a Friday night for seven o’clock dinner. Or, now that I consider it, any money to pay for dinner, a movie, and maybe dancing if I play my cards right.

I’m supposed to pick Abliguritia Thundersmasher-Roth up at her place on Level 3 very shortly, and it’s not looking good.