rand the hatchet
My job is to write programs and develop systems to streamline productivity in my company; my job is to get people fired.
I imagine that there used to be a guy who would hand-deliver paper memos from one person to another, running frantically throughout the company, until some asshole had the unique idea of using email. "Yes, it's more efficient, but what about Mike the mail-guy?" Fuck Mike - send him back to the carwash from whence he came. I get to be that asshole.
Molly: "Hey Rand, I was thinking... I have to do all these tedious steps, and it takes me hours to do."
Me: "Is your work subjective or do you follow a formula?"
Molly: "Oh, I just follow a formula!"
Me: "Give me two days."
Molly: "Great! Now I'll have a lot more time to read the paper."
Me: "Make sure to browse the classifieds while you're at it, bitch."
It'll take me two days to write a program to replace Molly, with her twenty years of experience. Molly wasn't hired for her mind, nor for her physical ability; Molly is a non-physical laborer. Molly follows a mindless process to work with data, but my program, appropriately named 'Molly 2.0' does it better and faster. It also means that we don't need George around to double check everything Molly does, since Molly's bound to fuck up every now and then.
Molly logs onto her workstation.
Computer: "User account not found."
Molly: "Rand, my computer isn't working!"
Me: "Oh, I have your job automated now - I think you were fired or something."
Molly's freaking out as her boss steps in.
Boss: "How's Molly doing, Rand?"
Me: "She's doing her job perfectly."
Molly's color returns to her face as she lets out a sigh of relief.
Molly: "Phew, so I'm not fired then?"
Boss: *blushing slightly* "Oh, I'm sorry Molly, I was referring to Molly 2.0. I'm afraid that we don't need you anymore."
Molly's former boss touches her on the arm compassionately before congratulating me on a job well done.
My younger brother is a manager at a gigantic firm. He basically does high-level consulting for mergers and acquisitions. He studies your company, puts a pricetag on it, and determines if the company is salvageable. If it is salvageable, my brother determines what would need to be changed to improve its performance. My little brother can make a recommendation that gets hundreds of people fired in one sweep; he's the fucking grim reaper. I'm only in the position to improve processes, I therefore only deserve the title of 'Rand the Hatchet'.
I want to write programs to get everyone around me fired. I want to write a program that tells them they're fired. I want them to lose their severance packages if they don't go through the public company ritual of putting their heads on a block while I act out their executions.
The floor I work on is huge. I'm picturing all the walls being torn down so that they can fit my desk on it. My desk is basically a square slab of oak that fills 90% of the floor, with a hole in its center for my chair. It's embarrassing, but I actually have to walk on my desk to get to that hole in the center, but it's worth it for the intimidation factor, while you're standing on the other side of my desk, talking to me by intercom, wondering, "How the fuck does he get over there?"
Ted's still on my floor - it's just Ted and me. He has a small workstation set up on the other side of my desk, pressed up against the wall. At 11:24 AM, my intercom blurts out, "How's the program coming, Mr. Hatchet?" "Good, I'm afraid. Ted, I don't know if you're aware of this, but the deli across the street is hiring." There's no response, but he really is appreciative of my concern. Ted wipes back a tear, even though he knows that I'm too far away to see it. Ted's delivering my lunch next week; lucky for him, I tip well. A tumbleweed rolls across my desk as I chuckle to myself.