The Trials of Gladstone (as told by Franz Kafka)
Someone must have been spreading rumors about Gladstone because one morning, without warning, he awoke to an alarming e-mail from Cracked.com Editor In Chief, Jack O’Brien:
“You’re through, Gladstone.”
On any other day, Gladstone would have attributed the note’s ambiguous brevity to Jack’s crippling addiction to Madonna and techno raves. So many other Editorial notes had trailed off aimlessly while Jack chased chemically manufactured joy and glow sticks: “Like the new Hate By Numbers. Like… a virgin. Where’s my pacifier? My jaw hurts.” But this email was no mere rambling. It showed a dark certainty that Jack had not exhibited since mandating ass-less chaps Fridays at the Cracked offices. Gladstone turned from the screen and looked for comfort in his normal routine. But things had changed. Now when Gladstone shaved closely around his sideburns, a few gray hairs appeared. His navy blue suit, which had once been his HBN armor, showed fraying at the cuffs. And the leather-masked gimp in his basement revealed a zipper mouth of sadness (although, Bucholz might have just been in one of his moods). Through a Byzantine labyrinth of corridors and passageways, Gladstone found the Cracked offices, but was greeted only by Seanbaby and a closed door.


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