I was editing the company newsletter today, and there was a piece written by one of the field technicians that was written so awkwardly that I had to rewrite huge chunks of it...to my own liking, of course, meaning I turned pieces of it into baroque master-passages of ungainly literati.
* * * * *Once the impacted soil had been defined, several groundwater monitoring wells had been installed, and the data began to pile up, the pieces to the puzzle began to unfold like the giant petals of some monstrous, yet ineffably shy blossom. However, no matter which way they were turned, the pieces just didn’t seem to fit. Why were higher concentrations of hydrocarbons measured in the upgradient wells than in the wells immediately adjacent to the identified source? I pulled my feet away from the dark wood of my desktop and swung myself over to the file cabinet, manically sifting for the answers to…something. Anything.
There was a knock on my office door. It was Deidre, my secretary.
"There's some guy here, boss," she said in between smacks of chewing gum.
"He says he's an old friend. A Mister
Rogers."
I looked up. Reaching into my coat, I fingered the cold barrel of my gun. Still there. Mister Rogers ain't here to be my neighbor, that's for sure. He's here for the scoop on the dissolved-phase hydrocarbon plume.
"Let Mister Rogers on in, Deidre."
I tensed myself for the bastard's entrance. Nobody screws me over at my own game...no matter how much he wants to be my neighbor. I'll show him how we do things here in Ven-tura.
* * * * *
