The Tenwolde

"I don't like the way you're looking at me?"

"Sorry, come again."

"I wasn't looking at you."

"You are now."

"Only cause you...wait, hold on.  If we're going to sit across from one another, this can't go on."

"I agree completely.  So stop looking at me like that."

Harris buried his face in his hands for the umpteenth time that morning.  Transferring offices was never easy, and that difficulty is only compounded when you sneeze and cause the human resources drone to spill its coffee.  That's how you get seated across from The Tenwolde.

Generally speaking, using an article with a name denotes a family, as in referring to the Bergmans, or the Smiths.  However some individuals are so singularly peculiar as to require such use for them alone, as most people hope that there is not a family of similar abberations at home.

The Tenwolde snorted, muttered something in a foreign language, presumably Klingon, and went back to brutally attacking his keyboard.  Harris was beginning to notice a pattern.  Some patterns are soothing.  Other patterns slowly wear away at your sanity and make you want to gnaw at inedible things while having horribly dark thoughts.

Rather than let his thougths get too far, Harris decided to make a run to the supply closet for more pencils.  Yummy, comforting pencils.

The End

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