People complain about their jobs to me all the time. “It's killing me,” they say. Sure it is. If you were here this morning when Ed fell into the acid vat, you might see things a little differently. Boredom doesn't kill people, but I feel for Ed and his family, I really do, but now someone has to clean out what's left of him and I just know it's going to be me. I don't know what I was thinking when I took that promotion to clean up crew. At least I got out of the castle once in a while when I was just another entry level minion. Now it's nothing but work, work, and more work.

I hope you haven't come around looking for a job. I mean, sure, we're always hiring, but you don't really look like you have what it takes to make it in this business. The management is the worst, the benefits non existent, and at least half of us don't get paid at all. To be fair, it's not all bad. You get plenty of travel opportunities, and you're always meeting new people, nevermind that most of them want you dead. Just don't make the same mistake Amy made at last week's bingo night, when she tried to get us to unionize. No one's seen her since, but the python that lives in the moat out front got a little rounder in the middle.

So why put up with it at all, you ask? I guess I'm here because I need the work. After the boss razed my ancestral home to the ground, it didn't really have a lot going for it, other than the truly spectacular sunsets (something to do with all the poisons that got released into the air during the fighting). The other survivors moved back and tried to make the best of it, but they made it clear that I'm not welcome to join them. Apparently they think the whole disaster is my fault, since I forgot to lock the front gate the night of the attack. One little mistake, and they act like it's the end of the world. I think I made the right choice when I decided to come here, instead. Sure, the decor is a little dreary, and the constant screaming can get on your nerves after a while, but the place certainly has its charms. If I do particularly well and keep up with my backstabbing quota, I'll be promoted up the corporate ladder to “yes man” before you know it.

Sadly, not all my coworkers are as well adjusted as I am. Some of them really haven't grasped the reality of their situation and join up with the first “destined hero” that crosses their paths. Let's be serious here, folks. For every hero that's walked these corridors, at least two more met their fiery ends with the flamethrower embedded in the front door. I guess they didn't bother learning what the trick was to opening it. (Hint: try the handle before you break out the lockpicks.) We're up to fourteen heroes this month alone, and so far, no one's even made it upstairs out of the dungeon. I miss the good old days, when heroes were made of sterner stuff and regularly had it out with the boss in his throne room. They didn't stand a chance, but my old squad used to camp out in the gallery with some popcorn and watch the fireworks just the same. Good times, my friend, good times.