Room Eethray-Entay.

The third floor (belfry?) of Franklin Hall is home to the Office of International Services, the Office of Overseas Study and, naturally,

A writhing nest of otherworldly cyborgs.

I'm not entirely certain how this came to pass. Indiana University's commitment to honor and serve anyone regardless of age, ethnic background, faith or affiliation is a beacon of hope to the Hoosier State as well as the world outside it. This sweeping open-door policy, naturally extended to staff as well as students, seemingly embraces those who, technically, are not human. Perhaps I should explain myself before friendly people with labcoats are dispatched to my devastatingly attractive office to bear me away to an undisclosed locale, having first fired a tranquilizer into my buttock - Dom doesn't go without a fight.

A Compelling, Yet Mildly Sordid Story

Room Eethray Entay is an extension of the Office of Student Financial Aid. Ensconsed in this extension room, android drones labor in semidarkness to work through the subtle, myriad complexities of awarding money to pitiful, broken hominids like myself with the full knowledge that there shall never, in ten thousand year's worth of dreaming, be a shot in hell that anyone will be able to utterly free themselves from the fetters of FAFSA indebtedness. Chortling mirthlessly, they amuse themselves with calculations of how many indecent acts performed behind truck-stop Dumpsters, in shadowy, urine-reeking alleys, and under graffiti-scrawled railroad trestles it would take to make a monthly payment that wouldn't doom one to eternal wretchedness.

Male Borg: Shouldwecalculatealsothetimeandresourcesspentrecouperatingfromthe
CarpalTunnelsurgery?
Other Male Borg: Alsoshouldwecountthepenicillinprescriptionandtheinjectionreleasing
thelockjaw?
Female Borg: Howabouthereconstructiveundercarriagesurgery?

*in unison* Ha.Ha.Ha.Ha.Ha.

A rash of recent child disappearances in Bloomington is under intense investigation, yet those who seek answers have but to paw through the tiny underdesk wastebins in their unholy lair; within, one may "happen upon" tiny skulls gnawed clear to the bone, soiled clown costumes and Happy Meal detritus - the borg's favored bait. A recently placed combination lock on the room's door was pathetic attempt to refuse entry to those with a pulse; because the borgs cannot reason, they ended up propping the door open with a slat of wood anyway.

The Borg Hierarchy

As with any other society, the borgs have created a hierarchy and "pecking order" that allows them to be more functional within the framework of their tiny, insensately evil fiefdom across the hall. To this end, they can easily be divided into drone, snarfblatt and queen, in the order of their societal clout.

Drones: The drones have a lifespan of about ten years or completion of the 25,000th loan application, whichever is sooner. Dressed awkwardly in ill-fitting and often mismatched outfits, the drones frequently disappear sooner than their destined time on this earth due to the voracious appetite of the queen borg. These borgs are nearly always female.

Snarfblatts: Exclusively male, the snarfblatt's only purpose - other than process financial aid applications - is to provide the queen borg with the 'support' necessary to continue a borg lineage. There are never more than three snarfblatts at any given time. Currently, the three snarfblatts are Kırmızı, Kamil and Güney, names which I have given them secretly to allow my coworkers and I to easily communicate regarding their nefarious activities.

Queen: The queen is seen infrequently due to her need to remain in the dark warmth of her lair. Nicknamed Sarışın, she dines exclusively on children and unnecessary borgs. She enjoys counted cross-stitch and watching Robert Redford movies and has always wanted to visit Venice.

****

The truth of the matter is that the inhabitants of Eethray-Entay probably aren't vile non-humans who feast on living flesh, but it sure is more amusing than the alternative reality: that the people in Eethray-Entay just don't interact with us at all. This is surprising considering the office climate at IU in general and more suprising still considering we work mere yards away from each other and share our disgusting bathrooms. You'd imagine that bonding would occur regarding the amusingly fetid stench emanating from our airless johns, over the rattling, ancient waterfountain, or on our ways to and fro in our daily franticness. I've worked here for two years and I've spoken to one of them maybe five times despite my attempts otherwise.

You know what I think?

[Well, it's probably for the best that you don't know what goes on in here]

I think that they feel they're too good to talk to me.

Oh yes.

I won't beg to be greeted. I won't plead to have a door held open for me even though I am a foot away when you slam it in my face. I won't wonder why, when I speak to you, you stare at me like I've just raped a kitten in front of you. Remember this, though:

Nobody, I mean nobody, disses Domonic and lives to tell about it.

So, what's it going to be? Say hello, or repose in a shallow grave?

That's right, bitches.

Until Friday, I remain,

Domonic