They're Gone

Benjamin Florence, professional stud

December 15, 2017

Volume III, Issue III

NEW YORK- Even as I sit, scripting prose on his desk, it’s been 4 hours since Gabe departed our company. The memory of his goodbye fresh on my mind, I recall the singular moment, one which I hope to never forget. As I stood there, regarding my dear friend, I was awash in only one thought, only one feeling, only one emotion –

(Gabriel Oldfield, prepared for departure.)

God, I have to poop. At first, I perceived the feeling to be endurable – Gabe was leaving at 8:30, and it was nearly 8:27. But as the minutes dragged on, my anticipation of his farewell turned into despair. 8:30. 8:31. 8:32. Would this man never leave? What have I done to deserve this, O Lord?! His tearful sobbing turning to hellish wailings in my head, his smile appearing like the jagged grin of the fiend sent by Satan to drag me into the depths of hell, his embrace – the tortuous squeeze of the devil himself. Just when my fate seemed absolute – I could almost picture the judges of Hades before me – he waved his final goodbye. What came next was sweet, sweet relief. Like the sailor back from war, who kisses the ground in pure ecstasy from his return, so too did I sit there and give praise to the Lord above for all His mighty deeds.

Also, Sam left.