The Suit

And after man has made everything, everything he can
You know that man makes money to buy from other man
---James Brown and Betty Jean Newsome, "It's a Man's Man's Man's World"

I overheard, last night, at the bar, an unusual conversation between a patron and one of the bartenders. Not to worry: the gentleman's secret is safe with me. In fact, I wouldn't even have brought this up, except that I was reminded that there are creatures at The Wulfshead and in the world(s) beyond, that can be far worse than any ill-tempered washroom attendant, one might have had the misfortune of running afoul of, drunk or sober. Take the Suits, for instance. It is said that they are masters of camouflage.

While the Greater Suits are easily identifiable, there are those who claim that "being a suit" is something more insidious . . . a sickness that's difficult to detect, yet highly infectious in an enclosed office:

Some Suits are people who are capable of setting aside their feelings and ethics for the sake of serving a wealthy company. (This variety can be identified by its plaintive mating call: "It's only a job! It's only a job!") Others are humans who define their identity by their job titles, define "loyalty" as unquestioning obedience, and justify their actions by their salaries. If an oil tanker crashes in Alaska, if someone in the Third World works slave wages while making cheap goods for the Company, or some "cog" in the machine of a corporation is driven to drink by his dehumanizing job, that's someone else's problem. Habitat: Most suits remain confined in the fortress of their workplace from nine to five, but lately, this guideline has become less accurate, The "workaholic" will often stay at the office quite late, while the descendant of "yuppie scum" can carry out his duties anywhere thanks to the assistance of laptops, cellular phones, beepers and other similar devices. Identifications: Suit society requires elaborate rituals, many of which are performed for inscrutable reasons. Like a hive of bees endlessly dancing around each other in a hive or a swarm of cockroaches endlessly paying obeisance to a pile of dung, a team of suits slowly make their "dances" more elaborate as they gather credit in their bank accounts. The philosophically inclined insist on making finer distinctions between the species of suits. Can someone infiltrate a team of suits and still remain human? If someone isn't paid a lot by a corporation, can he still be a suit or is he merely a victim? Is the distinction between a "suit" and a "cog" merely a matter of salary? Some suits also show signs of wanting to be human, such as organizing company volleyball games, dancing to bad '80s rock and drinking cheap beer whilst wearing ties around their foreheads, or insisting that they're just doing their job to support their families. ~The Autumn People, by Deirdre Brooks and Brian Campbell~