death insurance agent.
It is all rather simple really. The phone on your desk begins to ring. The light flashes with urgency, yet you do not pick up, knowing well that it is the operator's function to answer and direct the caller accordingly. After all, this is where people come for guidance and protection, and the company names, which are written on the folders stacked within a multitude of identical filing cabinets, take no subtle tone in declaring this. "Guaranteed life" reads one of them. I pause for a moment... and smile at the thought --- every time they mention 'life' as a part of their company name, or even the term 'life insurance' itself, they are only trying to say the opposite. Indeed, death is perhaps the only thing one is guaranteed by virtue of having been born. Forms are piled high on the desks, filled with similar-sounding acronyms I could not decipher if my very life depended upon it. The examiner prepares the tools of his trade, laying out a multitude of colour-coded vials across the table. His clean-shaven head reflects the day-glow, and I catch him grinning at me at me like an assassin as he packs the menacing-looking phlebotomy kits into his bag. There is something to be said for this place, but I won't be the one to say it --- I'm burried beneath an ocean of paper, staring at the screen as a prisoner would, through the barred window of his cell
