I’m the new guy at the office, so it’s my turn to be hazed. I’m running The Gauntlet: a three-mile-long sprint between a double row of office drones. At the end of it, I have to punch out a TPS report. As I’m running, they’re playing all kinds of inoffensive yuppie rock/elevator music, tearing away my soul one note at a time (Okay, I love Bea Miller’s Young Blood, just throwing that out there, don’t you judge me!). Pencils and paperclips are pelting me, office chairs are rolling in my path, their seatbacks turning in sinister circles, and I’m pushing forward, lungs burning, legs jellying. Suddenly one of them screams, “HE’S A WRITER! CASTRATE HIM BEFORE HE REFLECTS OUR OWN LACK OF CREATIVITY BACK UPON US DOOMED PENCIL-PUSHERS!” Oh no. It’s like a scene from The Walking Dead as they converge on me in a mass of angry, bespectacled, no-chinned faces. I see my death coming at me in a sea of pinstripes and business casual. Open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. Suddenly Kenny G appears on a floating podium, blowing sweet yuppie jazz into the mob’s ears. The crowd halts, their heads moving from side to side in hypnotized twitches. Kenny G flies away, tooting out his yuppie magic, and the office drones follow him as if he was the Pied motha duckin’ Piper. Whew! Saved!