A petite older woman was standing at the door, umbrella in hand. When she saw my car pull up, she smiled and waved. Despite the rain, I was definitely glad to have a chance to finally get out and stretch my legs. I climbed out of the car, grunting a little bit. I wasn’t a small person by any means, almost 325 pounds of fat. The car was not comfortable at all to climb in and out of. Despite my troubles, I smiled at the woman, and offered my hand, which she took and shook vigorously. “Hello, I take it you are Mr. Orious?” She asked me.

“Yes ma’am, I’m Owen Orious. I have an appointment with Mr. King today. 2:30…but it might have been 3. I hope I’m not too early!” I said to her, my heart pounding away nervously in my chest.

“No sir, not at all, you’re running just fine. Mr. King has been extremely interested in finally meeting you! He’s been asking about you for the past 2 weeks.” She said.

“Really?” I frowned. That was extremely puzzling. I didn’t know this Mr. King, never even talked to him. I wasn’t some huge renowned designer from California or anything, I was extremely small time.

As I wondered to myself in silence, the woman shrugged and gestured for me to follow her. Obviously she didn’t want to keep standing out here in the rain while I pondered the mysteries of my new employer. We walked into the office building and I waited silently as the woman closed up her umbrella and lead me down a short hallway to a receptionist’s desk. The inside of this place was extremely…red. The walls were covered with wood paneling; I suppose to try to make the place more appealing. The rug was a sickly bright red color with ugly yellow specks. The small paintings on the wall were all created with variants of red and a little brown. The place was definitely new; I could still smell the pungent aroma of paint from the ceilings, and above the wood paneling where the pictures hung. I noticed there weren’t any windows anywhere to be found, even when I peeked into the open doors leading to various cubicles…all of which were carpeted with a darker red.

“Mr. Orious, this is Angie Hanover. She’s Mr. King’s personal assistant, and she’ll be helping you with anything you might need.” The woman said to me, pointing to the young receptionist sitting behind a vast desk, work papers and electronic gizmos piled up all around her.