If she calls me chief one more time, I am going to hack off her head, I decide. If she calls me by one more supposedly endearing nickname. I will kill her. 'Lima bean.' 'Pootie.' I will ask her to follow me into the breakroom, I will make up a story about a private matter that must be discussed or a juicy bit of office gossip that I need to tell her. Her curiosity will guide her in my footsteps; I will quietly approach her and she will follow me into the turquoise room. When she walks into the kitchen, I will strike her pretty skull with something heavy, the coffeemaker or my earthenware mug. The item will surely shatter, its pieces will scatter on the floor. Her blood will mark the tiles. When she has fallen, after I have hammered her into unconsciousness, I will take one of the dull kitchen knives from a drawer and with steady hands and graying sight, I will carve out her voicebox, sawing through rubbery skin and durable cartilage until I have what I seek resting in the palm of my hand, dripping. It will look like something alien, a misshapen waxy thing, red and wet. Later, someone will come in and discover me crouched over her corpse like some sinister ape, hooting, pushing the pieces of her around the tiles, painting myself with blood.