Yet Even More from Forlorn. A novel by Ira Idlebaum. Con't from Chapter One.

“Did you check the blog yet today? asked the Ensign, oat flecks spilling from his beard.
“Check it!?” exclaimed the Cmmdr. “We’re on it, now, even as we speak.”
“What?”
“Never mind. What’s that sack in the backyard, by the way?”
“Nothing,” muttered the Ensign.
“It looks like animal feed.”
“It’s not, it’s…nothing.”
“What the fuck is it?”
“ Whole oat groats, in oat bran.”
“Jesus. Next thing, you’ll be bringing in a trough for Christ’s sake.”
Suddenly, the phone rang. The Cmmdr, his eyes lit by hope, jumped to answer it.
“Hello,” said the simpering, sycophantic little freak. “Oh, hi! … Yes… Really? Thursday? You’re kidding? … Oh my god! … That’s fantastic…”
The Ensign listened, as if to distant ominous thunder. This seemed to be good news, and the Cmmdr may very well be in the process of having something. He felt himself implode, collapse, become as a cave, empty and dark in the glow of the other little man’s good fortune.
“Of course, I love the role too, ” the portly failure continued.
I should die, the Ensign thought. Let me go now to dust, let me leak into the earth leaving only my worthless bones behind to lay on the ground, broken and dishonored.
“Wow,” said the fatty little fuckball. “This is just amazing.”
Spooning up the dregs of oats from the bowl’s bottom, the Ensign winced at the Cmmdr’s words. He has, I am rubbish. He is, I am not. He felt his whole being twist, as he turned the corner to oblivion. Finally the Cmmdr ended the call. There was silence.
“OK,” the Ensign squeaked. “What is it?”
“It’s a call back, for a small role in Two and a Half Men.” The Cmmdr looked down at the floor, his mouth tartly curled in bitterness. The Ensign perked up. “A call back?” asked the acerbic Semite.
“I killed last week, it’s a tiny little role, now they have to have me back?” exclaimed the forsaken fool.
“Well, you could easily get this,” said the resentful Hebe, brimming with negative empathy.
“But who would want it?”
“’Nuff said,” replied the abrasive bundle of Hebraic annoyance, getting up with a bounce for more oats. “Not me!”