Desh Mangle gets a Job (mini request)

	The man did not want to be here today. It was his day off, and that meant he shouldn't be here anyway. That's how these things work. You don't spend ten years as a loyal employee to a company only to be called in at the last minute to cover for your boss when you're on vacation; and you're sick; and it's you're normal day off. Yet here he was, in the store bright and early to interview a bunch of snot-nosed kids looking to hock kitchen appliances and smart-phones while his manager jetted off to Florida for some all-week conference.
	And what amazing competition there was for him to review. Who would he choose to take home the title of stock-boy trainee? Would it be the twenty year old mother of three who paused her interview twice to talk on her phone? Or maybe the angry kid who threatened to sue him when he pointed out that having neon-green hair and a tattoo with the word “fuck” written across his forehead was against company policy? Or perhaps the guy who smelled like a dumpster-fire and was clearly sporting an erection under the table? His options were staggering.
	With a sigh, the man shuffled the applications in his hand and called in the last prospective employee. It was nearly noon now, and the fever was starting to get to him. Through exhaustion and a hazy mind he forced himself up straight as some sort of large gray cat monster entered to room and took a seat across from him; smiling nervously as it shifted in place and waited for him to begin. Blinking a few times, the man forced himself to remain calm. This was clearly his fever’s doing, and he'd be damned to let it beat him this close to his departure. Inhaling sharply, he loosened his collar and returned its smile; resolved to get this over with quickly and incident free.
	“So miss... Fitzgerald? Jeremy Fitzgerald?” he squinted down at the application in his hand. “That's you?”
	The cat thing seemed confused for a moment, but quickly nodded in agreement, as if suddenly remembering something.
	“Yup. That's me, normal average working person, Jeremy Fitzgerald. I've got a social security number and everything.”
	The cat's grin widened in desperation, but by this point the man was far too strung out to care.
	“Okay, well uh, I wanted to clarify somethings before we begin. Just a few discrepancy on your application.”
	“Sure. Yes,” it nodded again. “Happy to help.”
	“Okay, number one. For sex, you put: Yes! Hahaha, JK I'm a lesbian.”
	The man looked up across the table, waiting form the creature across form him to respond. Seconds passed before it registered that now was its time to talk.
	“Well, I mean, I’m probably a lesbian. I have a girlfriend... sometimes. It's weird. And like, we've been intimate and stuff, so, yeah. I've had it. Oh, and sometimes her friend that sort of looks like me gets involved too. Which is cool. I mean, I'm into it, you know? Sometimes I feel kinda left out though, 'cause they work together and I feel like that makes their bond stronger, so when we're in bed they say all this dirty stuff that I don't really get, and one time I tried to interject and be a part of it but then it just got weird and-”
	“Please!” he silenced her. “That's quite enough information. Thank- uh, thank you for clarifying.”
	“Oh, okay. That's good, because the rest of the story gets a little personal.”
	The man rubbed his hand over his sweaty scalp; suddenly questioning if any of this was real. Maybe he'd passed out and this was all some kind of crazy dream, or maybe it was a prank by his boss. That jackass certainly seemed like the type to set this up. On the off chance that the majority of this was real, however, the man did his best to concentrate and continue.
	“So, it says here that your contacts are Bonnie, the other Bonnie who's always laughing at everything, and Jeremy Fitzgerald.”
	“Yes, that's correct.”
	“And none of them have any contact information aside from Jeremy Fitzgerald, but you've written under his number that we shouldn't call him.”
	“Yes, well, I'm not sure how he'd take it if he found out I knew his phone number. I mean, you can call him, but like, just don't mention me. He's really nice though. You'd probably like him.”
	Opening his mouth, the man found he didn't quite know what to say, and the two of them stared at each other for a moment before he found it within him to continue.
	“Right, okay. And this is... another Jeremy unrelated to you?”
	“Oh, we're not related. He's another guard over where I work. We're really good friends, even though he's always grumbling and looking at me funny. Kind of like how you're looking at me right now. That's why I think you two would get along so well.”
	Another moment of silence was shared between them.
	“Okay, ignoring almost everything about what you just said, that actually sort of segues into my next question. For your work history you wrote: possible former performer at Freddy Fazbear's, possible current night-guard at Freddy Fazbear's even though everybody acts like I'm not. I'm pretty sure it's not even worth bringing up at this point, but would you care to comment on that?”
	“Well... sometimes when I'm alone I start to wonder stuff, like: How did I even get this job? And: Why is it that sometimes I live in a pizzeria but then other times I'm sharing an apartment with an alternate version of Toy Bonnie? I mean, I'm not even sure how I found my way into this building. I don't own a car or anything, you know? Also I'm pretty sure there were like, seven other version of me at one point, but I haven't seen any of them in years. And whenever I bring them up, people just tell me to drop it and pretend it never happened. It's like my entire life has been a series of random, barely connected events that are constantly shifting over time. So, yeah. I'm like ninety-nine percent sure that that's my employment history, but I figured it was worth accounting for the possibility that it wasn't.”
	“Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about any of that,” the man reassured her; all of this seeming a lot more acceptable now that he had decided to simply stop caring about any of it. “All young people tend to worry about their place in the world and how quickly their lives seem to change. It's a natural part of growing up. Anyway, just one or two more questions and then I think we're set. Uh, number one: Why do you want a job here at BestBuy?”
	“Um, well, a lot of people already think I work here, and I already have the cloths for it apparently.”
	“Sure, that makes sense,” the man nodded; scribbling a little picture of his boss burning on a steak in his notes. “And number two: What do you believe you can offer to us that other potential employees can't?”
	“Uhhh... oh!” she perked up. “Sometimes I have extendo arms like Inspector Gadget, and also I don't need to take bathroom or lunch breaks. I probably will though. I'm just saying, I don't NEED to.”
	“Great, okay. That wraps this up. It was nice meeting you, Miss Fitzgerald.”
	“Oh, please, call me Mangle.”
	“Sure, whatever. Anyway, I need to go spend the rest of the day throwing up in my toilet, but I'll tell you right now, your chances of getting this job look good.”
	“Really? Was it the extendo arms thing?”
	“God no. Mostly I just want to punish my boss and humanity in general for making me get out of bed this morning. But aside from that, you actually had the best interview out of everyone I spoke to today. I mean, it was either going to be you or that guy who kept touching himself when he thought I wasn't looking. So congratulations on meeting the bare minimum requirements for employment here.”
	“That- that's the nicest thing anybodies has said about me all month,” she stammered. “So uh, when can I start?”
	“Oh, about a week from now, I guess. Whenever my boss comes back. I'll let you know,” the man said before slumping over and blacking out from his untreated fever.
	Happily trotting out of the office, Mangle was excited to start her new job, only to forget all about it and move on to something else as soon as the story ended.