Seymour looked comical in his too-small chair. His broad carapace jutted out on both sides, and the chair legs must have been titanium to survive him.

  It’s strange, being adopted by a Labrador-come-lobster. On one hand, he’s not Jothin. On the other... well, you know that smell of the sea? Not the crisp ocean breeze, but the kind where the seaweed’s been lying on the beach too long. That’s Seymour.

  “Hey… hey, Keith. Keith… it’s almost my turn.” He hopped excitedly from side to side, his spined legs clacking against the tiled floors.

  Jothin was hitting his final, soaring note. On the screen behind him, a bar graph illustrating Nancy the filing clerk’s impeccable attendance record ratioed against the count of pleasant greetings and joyous smiles. The display dissolved in a burst of digital fireworks. The accompanying string quartet held a dramatic chord for a moment before lowering their bows. He took a deep, theatrical bow to scattered, corporate-mandated applause.

  “Seymour,” a voice called out. It was Janice, the affirmation counselor. From what I could tell, her entire job was to ensure that all affirmations raised the company’s high bar. She was well-groomed, her brown-grey hair in a tight bun. Three stars adorned her sleeve, marking her as a corporate officer with a direct line to the CVO, the Chief Value Operator. The one in charge of the Cheer Response System. Certainly not someone to upset.

  Seymour stood up excitedly, pulling me up with him. He held a tattered piece of paper, complete with wax-crayon writing, up to his eye-stalks and began to read:

  “My friend Keith.”

  Oh no.

  I tried to position myself behind one of Seymour’s giant claws, but he nudged me forward.

  “Don’t be shy, listen to my affirmation—it will make you warm.” The volume of foam escalated dangerously.

  “My new friend Keith, he’s awesome. I was in the cafeteria this morning, and it was just another day. Then he got there, and it felt like a party.

  There were balloons! And the ghouls were dancing! And the star I made? He let me put it right on his chest—that’s a good-friend thing to do.”

  He looked straight at me.

  “I hope you come over soon for a sleepover, to see my trains. I’ve got a Royal Scot, mint condition, HO scale... and I’m gonna let him run it.”

  His eye-stalks drifted apart in dreamy bliss. I nudged him. He startled upright.

  “Th-thank you.” He sat down.

  I looked across the circle of chairs; one of the pom-pom girls from my cheer-leading effort sat there, tissue in hand, wiping her eyes. She waved shyly. I lifted my hand in acknowledgement.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  Janice checked her affirmation rubric and started to scribble: lacks tangible deliverables, emotions clearly stunted, and only 1 of 7 ghouls crying.

  “Seymour, we have stack ranking here. I don’t want to have to performance-manage you, but I will.”

  I am not sure why, but I was enraged by this. “Janice?” I stuck my hand in the air. “Yes, Keith?” she replied** **smugly. I ranted, “How did ‘Crying Ghouls per Speech’ become a north-star KPI with a seven-unit cohort and no operational definition? As an OKR—Objectives and Key Results—CGR, Crying-per-Ghoul Rate, is a statistically underpowered read and a lagging vanity metric. There’s zero instrumentation or controls.”

  A flicker of annoyance crossed Janice's face before the plastered smile snapped back into place. “See me after this session, Mr. Flannery.”

  Seymour’s indomitable will was not deflated by the reprisal; in fact, he had his crayons and papers out, jotting down self-improvement notes to ensure the receivers of his accolades were sufficiently joyous.

  “Don’t you worry, Keith,” he said, with the determined air of someone who has just cracked a code. “Next time I affirm you, it is going to have the most tangible deliverables you have ever seen. We’ll get at least three ghouls crying. I’ll make a chart.”

  Janice lingered as the employees filed out, her expression retained that eerie smile that definitely wasn't.

  I glanced around for Seymour, but he had already scuttled stage left. I think he’s a little afraid of Janice.

  “Mr. Flannery,” she began once the door was closed. The room was surgically white. “I am going to be generous. We will officially log your… outburst… as ‘exuberance.’ A teachable moment.”

  Her smile didn’t move. “However, I received the following.”

  She unrolled a golden scroll across her desk without another word. I recognized the letterhead instantly. Jothin. She started to read:

  “Despite my best attempts to establish rapport, Keith continues to ignore my advances and refuses even the most basic of office pleasantries. Given this unseemly behavior, I recommend that the Joy Committee conduct an immediate Smile Audit, and that Mr. Flannery undergo an Emotional Compliance Review.

  Yours ecstatically,

  Jothin L. Brandshaw”

  With a soft snap, she rolled it closed. Her pen tapped once on her clipboard. “Jothin requires three affirmations from you by end-of-week. I trust he will register as ‘delighted,’ Mr. Flannery. The oversight committee is very quick to scrub employees who fail to meet their joy KPIs.”

  Janice left, and I followed suit, wondering what in the devil's domain a scrub was, when the doorway was blocked. It was one of the cheer ghouls, specifically the one that had cried at Seymour's affirmation reading.

  “Flan-Flan,” she whispered urgently, and pressed her fingers to her lips.

  I read the bold glittered letters that adorned her outfit: BETHANY.

  “Your name’s Bethany?” I asked.

  She raised her arms in the air in a silent cheer. Dropping them again, she leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “Flan-Flan must have joy or... he get brain scrub.” She mimed lifting her brain out of her head and scrubbing it, with significant elbow grease.

  “You mean they do brainwashing?” I asked, confused.

  “Uh-uh,” she murmured sadly. “They scrub clean. Big brush. Ouch.” She indicated towards her own head sadly.

  The reality hit me like a brick: ethereal lobotomy.

  The clock chimed, and the front doors unbolted. For the first time, perhaps ever, I looked forward to the end of my workday.

  “Thank you, Bethany.”

  Something in me shifted slightly, and without authorization.

  “Would you be open to mutual arm-based encirclement?”

  She stared at me blankly.

  I gave her a brief, professional hug. She raised her arms in another silent cheer and left the room, maintaining her cheer pose.

  Heading out the door, I noted a large yellow bus; of course Immortality-Corp had employee transport. I boarded the Forever Express, and it smelled of leather and candy floss.

  I looked around. Not one employee out of place. The bureaucrat in me rejoiced, but the natural order was not bureaucratic. My internal temperature dropped as the hairs on my neck rose again.

  Home. Sweet, structurally sound alternative to the bus. My neck hairs were still traumatized.