Il n'en peut plus

Night upon night Atan sits behind a cherry roll-top dolling out the brains. There appears to be no method to his decisions. He's his own random number generator, as it were. After all this time, and this endless procession of helpless big brown eyes, the masses passing by effect no consideration within him. Each winces, their due feeling like a swat on the behind with a wet rolled-up towel.

Atan wears a double-breasted pin-stripe suit with a mint button-down and a cornflower polka-dot tie. No one can fault his sense of style. The job has become rote, and Atan is restless. Another fellow stands before him. Nothing about this one is different than any of the others.

"I can't take anymore," Atan says. "You can have mine."

He cracks his own skull. The fellow works his hand in there and flees with the useless prize. But as a brain-in-head is worth ten-in-hand, the fellow doesn't notice the slick mess on the floor. He slips, falling against a rusty bandsaw someone's left running in the corner. The queue erupts into peals of laughter. A robotic mop bucket arrives, followed by a replacement. He cuts a fine figure too.

"Congratulations, you've been promoted," he tells the brainless Atan.