Back at the warehouse:

    It's our game to see who can show up the most hung-over, fucked-up, or at least appear dragged out of bed unkempt and uncombed.

    Tushka is the first to stumble out of the truck clutching a Red Bull in one hand, a cigarette in the othe
r. He slept in his clothes and hasn't brushed his teeth. Staggering, disheveled and giggling through his swagger, Tushka wins sloppy seconds in the morning bummed-out contest.

    But it is Koepke, our King, our Lord and Savior, who takes home the trophy. He doesn't get out of the truck, he falls out of the truck, in pieces, bit by bit, preceded by dropped tools, scattered newspapers, a cloud of smoke and dust, and a half eaten Carl's Jr. bacon breakfast snack which is scooped up and devoured by my dog, the company mascot.

    Just like the Grand Pooba, Koepke lets his retainer, his litany of courtiers precede him and pave the way for his royal entrance. Instead of a fanfare of trumpets, there is a belch and moan emanating from the truck cab. My dog barks wild and mad, on the verge of epileptic seizure, like a cheering crowd greeting the conquering hero. With a final scrape of smoked butts and the crash and shattering of a beer bottle, Koepke emerges from the royal Ryder litter with his twisted blond hair matted like the deadly Medusa.

    Keep your head down, humble. Do not look into the dark soul of our King's eyes for fear of punishment or death

    Not that it matters, since he is wearing pitch black sunglasses.