Greg’s eyes spring open. He is awake. Again.

Another day of work. Another day of declining Bryant’s request to fly to North Carolina to scout Zion Williamson. Another day of trying to ban 1951. He rolls out of bed, showers quickly, and gets dressed for the day in his Vivek-approved velour sweat suit. Downstairs, Greg hears his family chatting cheerfully over breakfast, but he’s still under an Akis-instituted breakfast embargo until the clicks increase threefold.

He descends the staircase, kisses the wife and kiddos goodbye, a hungry rumble coursing through his tummy as his eyes trace the delicious buffet before him. Greg heads toward the door, tucks his wallet into one pocket, his phone into another, and grabs his lunchbox and keys. Mrs. Greg calls from the kitchen “Don’t forget to mail out that card for my parents!” A deep sigh slips from his lips. “Yes, dear!” He snatches the envelope from the counter and tries to slip it into his backside pocket, but it’s far too wide to fit. Annoyed, he balances the stupid thing on top of his lunch and traverses the path to his car.  

He fumbles the door open and throws the lunchbox and envelope into the passenger seat, and begins his journey to Sactown Royalty Headquarters. Halfway to work, his Bluetooth signals an incoming call. He answers: “Hey Tim, what’s up?”

“Hey Gregaroo. I just wanted to let you know that I’ve got another piece ready to publish.”

“Is this going to piss off the Kings?” Greg asks

“I only called someone a useless fop. That’s about it”. Tim replies

“That’s probably your most level-headed article to date. I’ll take a look at it when I get into work.”

“Sweet”

“Oh, and Tim?”

“Yeah?”

“Call me Gregaroo one more time and your marriage will be over faster than a Ty Corbin coaching experiment.”

“Understood, Gregarooni”

Greg disconnects the call. “Why do I keep that guy on staff?” he whispers aloud. And then he remembers. There’s a reason everyone calls Tim the Zach Lowe of Sactown Royalty (Editorial Note: Even though this is fan fiction, we want to make extra clear that only Tim calls himself that). The rest of the ride goes smoothly, no further interruptions.

Greg pulls into his reserved space. “Assistant to the Regional Editor” gleams proudly in front of his car. He turns to grab his lunchbox and remembers the presentation he has due today: “How to get more clicks and more Vivek funds in one article”. The Powerpoint deck sits printed out on his backseat, alongside a laser pointer, and his laptop. He takes a moment to create a plan, and gathers everything he needs to carry inside. His wallet and keys go into his right-side pants pocket, phone into his left, and the laser pointer in his back pocket. He then stacks his lunchbox on top of the stack of papers, which is already stacked on top of his laptop and then precariously balances the odd-shaped envelope as the cherry on top. Greg carefully walks the fifty feet to the front door and manages to reach it without incident. And then he remembers. Will installed newfangled security systems last week. He now has a work badge. It’s sitting in his glove box.

Growling in frustration, he walks the awkward stack back to his car, pins the laptop between the side of the vehicle and his leg, and reaches into his pocket to grab the keys to unlock the car. Everything seems to go smoothly until he attempts to open the door. The computer shifts against his leg, and everything crashes. The laptop smashes into the asphalt and Greg hears the screen crack. His lunchbox falls on top of the computer, opens, and drenches the computer, an Apple MacBook that was a gift from Kevin, with the leftover Ramen and cheese soup that his best friend Brad made him. The envelope flutters to the ground, landing in the only puddle within a 50-foot radius, soaking through in a manner of seconds. The Powerpoint deck scatters to the wind as he was planning to staple it once he got inside.

It’s all too much. First the call from Tim, then the new badging system, and now everything falling apart. He falls to his knees, weeping. Minutes pass. Greg slowly puts himself back together, angrily wiping the combination of snot and tears that has poured into his goatee. He shakes his head and gathers his things, wondering how he could have avoided this disaster. And then, an idea strikes. He should’ve borrowed one of his wife’s purses! They’re fashionable and functional! No wait, he couldn’t do that. Richard would make fun of him with his cool-guy, hipster attire. He doesn’t need a purse, but he needs something similar. Maybe a backpack? Maybe a satchel? As he trudges toward the door, Greg mutters to himself

“I just need a male bag.”

(Editorial Note: We are so, so sorry)

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