“The boss wants to see ya”.
Greg pointedly ignores the interruption. His fingers dance across the iPhone screen in front of him, constructing the perfect tweet. He doesn’t have the time or patience for Akis’ nonsense this early in the morning.
“I said the boss wants to see ya!” Tony’s tough guy Boston accent grows stronger, but continues to fall on deaf ears.
Greg smirks, hits send, and rises from his chair, brushing past Mr. Xypteras. He strolls toward Akis’ office, taking the long route just to be difficult. The sweet sounds of preseason college basketball drift down the hall, penetrating the still air of broken fandom. Greg peeks inside a room, completely ignored as Bryant furiously scribbles nonsense on a legal pad, scouting late second-round picks as apricot-tinged spittle clings to his unkempt beard. Greg shakes his head, quietly closes the door, and heads to the elevator.
“What the hell am I doing here? I could’ve been a Nuggets fan.” Dark thoughts haunt him for the hundredth time that day.
Fourty-four floors later, the high speed contraption leaves him standing in a gilded entryway, marble busts of Ziller’s cat strewn about with reckless, yet tasteful abandon. Double oak doors bar his way to the master’s realm. He doesn’t bother to knock, shoving his way past the gaudy barrier. Akis sits before him, huddled behind a mahogany desk piled high with stacks of Vivek-mined bitcoins. A whiteboard with the Sactown Royalty draft board and free agent writer targets rests behind him. Signed copies of the Vivexpendables adorn either side of the wall, with a signed James Anderson jersey claiming the premiere space between the two masterpieces of written word.
“Who do you think you are? Zach Randolph getting back on defense? What took you so long?” Akis demands.
“I was working on some side projects. You’ll see. What do you need?” Greg asks.
“We need clicks! More clicks! We’re in this business to get clicks, not provide quality content! WHERE ARE MY CLICKS!”
“I can get you clicks. I can get you more clicks than you can handle. I’ll take care of it” Greg replies cooly.
“See that it’s done. No more free breakfasts until we’ve doubled our site views. I’m telling Brad you’re cutoff from the kitchen and his brilliant culinary masterpieces. Say goodbye to your ramen noodles with slices of American cheese and PB&J Quesadillas until further notice.”
Fuming, Greg leaves the monstrous office and heads to the bottom floor. He passes the negative echo chamber, ignoring the accusatory cries of trolls, Justin Jackson stans, and Gavin Maloof burner accounts as they feast on all-you-can-eat peaches, never realizing the forbidden fruit is precisely what keeps them in their miserable, fake-loyal state. He rounds positivity corner, the newest edition to STR Headquarters, and feels his pocket vibrate as his phone dings with a confirmation. He glances at the TMZ headline: “Ariana Grande, Pete Davidson Break Engagement.” He laughs aloud for the first time in weeks: another marriage ruined. They’ll never know it was him.
Finally, the mustachioed master of Twitter reaches the stairs of despair. A tattered burlap sack hangs on a crooked peg just before the first step. He slings the bag over his shoulder and descends the walkway. A deep sigh unconsciously escapes his lips as he pulls a copper key from his pocket, unlocking the door, entering one of the ugliest places in all the world, second only to D’Alessandro’s Disastrous Dayroom.
Two near-feral creatures glance up from a rough-hewn workspace. Ink-stained fingers tremble with exhaustion as they set down their quills, worked down to almost unusable nubs. Hundreds of letters rest easy in envelopes, stamped, addressed, and ready for the post office.
“How’s it coming in here?” Greg asks, ignoring the mingled scents of Giraffe sweat and Redding.
“We finished, just like we promised!” Will replies.
“May we go outside for a few moments, maybe munch on a few leaves?” Tim asks, hope shining in his ungulate eyes.
Greg tosses the mailbag onto the table, scattering the carefully organized mountains of replies.
“The boss needs clicks. Fill it up. I don’t get breakfast ‘til this is done, which means you work until I get breakfast.”
“But…but…but…” Will struggles to comprehend the task set before him.
“Butts are for pooping.” Greg replies.
He strides out of the room, already having forgotten the pair of pitiful workhorses. There’s only one thing on his mind: where to get some breakfast.
Welcome to the Royal Mailbag: session two! Will and I are happy to answer all of your Kings inquiries and are under no duress, need no assistance, and certainly aren’t begging for rescue from the bowels of Sactown Royalty Headquarters. To ask a question:
-You can comment below
-You can reach us by email at: email@example.com
-You can tweet the @SactownRoyalty Twitter account, or tweet/DM us directly at @WillofThaPeople and @TimMaxwell22
-You can ask our Sactown Royalty Facebook page!
-You can send a care package to 911 Steps of Despair Road, PleaseRescueUS, California, 95842