It's Like the TB Ward in Here
The guy next to me sounds like he has the whooping cough. The woman a few cubes away sneezes every five minutes or so, and follows that up immediately with a groan which suggests she's thinking "Is that part of my brain that came out just then?"
These undead shamblers come by every now and then, dragging themselves to the restroom to eject some lymph into the plumbing, and cast their rheumy gaze upon me.
"Don't cub neah be. I'b sick."
"Really?" I inquire. The line of mucus dangling from his nose had already tipped me off. I try to breathe shallowly.
He gets a little nearer. "Really. Can't --RASP!-- see by desk. "
I back up against the wall of my cubicle. "Why are you here?"
"Can't leave. Too --AAAAAGGUUUHHH!-- buch work. "
"Go home! Why are you here infecting me?"
"Dark angel --SNNNNNKKK!-- calling be. Mother! --RASP!-- I see you! I'b cubbing home!"
"Is that a death-rattle? I'm calling HR, you bastard. You shouldn't be here phlegming up the place."
"Oh at least go die in your own cubicle!"
And so it goes. Listen to me, people of Earth. If you're sick, stay home! You're spreading germs and frankly you're putting me off my food.
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