Ragavan

I turned on the computer, sat down on my uncomfortable chair, and felt two sensations: crotch chafing and coffee gut. I looked around my surroundings. They did not have a desk or computer for me, so I am sitting in Ragavan’s cubicle, or, as I prefer, Raga’s cube, which sounds mystic and magical. It is clear that he treasures his two young children and their horrific artwork, which consists of a mixed race dinosaur (really more of a dino-bird-rat), other unidentifiable creatures, and some sort of depressed kite with a single coloured string stapled to its face. In truth, Ragavan is a dashing young man with an attractive wife. The picture above could be any Ragavan, any children. There is the man, and there is the legend.

There are other little trinkets and mysteries here. Miniature plastic Asian dolls, a large box of salt, a bag of instant honeyed ginger drink, and a note which states: Hope you like our muffins?? Ragamuffin = Peanut butter + jam. Sitting at Ragavan’s desk makes me squirm a little. There are ten pairs of shoes under the desk (fungus?) and a big tub of Vaseline – more fungus? I can’t reveal to you where I am employed; that information is classified. Let’s just say I work in the civil service.