Ditzy Donna, the secretary - she has to be a Donna, and she has to be ditzy, stereotype is alive and kicking in a place such as this - is there too, nibbling mouse-sized crumbs of a sandwich. She is always eating, that girl, but never seems to put on an ounce of weight. Perhaps she has made some kind of under-the-counter deal with Satan, or with the Lord of the Wolves.

She regards him with suspicion, as if weighing up his mood before speaking. "Havin' a good day, Bear?"

He wags a finger. "Tell me: when's it ever a good day in this place for someone like me?" Heart-burn bubbles in his throat. "At least you don't have to constantly meet these unachievable sales targets, day-in, day-out. You don't know what it's like… To not know whether you'll be able to pay your mortgage at the end of the month."

"Was only askin'. Christ on a bike, if Rog's upset you again, don't take it out on me." Donna's jerky head movements and nervous twitches become even more mouse-like as her unease deepens. "God Bear, you're like a bear with a sore head at the moment," she squeaks, before exiting. Maybe she thinks the bear-Bear thing is funny.        

Sam Elton is a tall awkward man, ill at ease in his own skin. He is extravagantly moustachioed, although it is almost as if the moustache acts as a disguise to cover the rest of his face. Colleagues have unimaginatively nicknamed him "Bear" because of his appearance in a daft ironic way like "Little" John in Robin Hood stories. Later, it is Sam's Monthly Review, and he is petrified. Roger has already dropped barbed hints that Sam's figures, and even his interaction with others leave a great deal to be desired. Cups of tea will only placate the irrational animal for a short while, soon he will surely grow tired and swat Sam's insistent buzzing with those great arms of his.

Roger, the ebullient, charismatic but limited Sales Manager paces threateningly behind the closed door. He is like a caged tiger, and Sam is the sacrificial lamb, on the outside with a tray of hot drinks. With a crash, Roger beats the door open and knocks the tray from Sam's hands. Disaster has struck. Sam cowers on the floor, scooping mountains of upended sugar into his bare hands, his knee steadily dampening at the touch of hot tea.

"The hell's the matter with you Bear? Why are you incapable of doing even the simplest things?" Roger growls. "Get up off the floor. You're like a wounded dog grovelling about like that. Get Donna to clean it up. You and I need to have words."

Sam hastily climbs to his feet and follows Roger into his office. "I'm sorry Roger; I was trying to knock…"

But Roger's initial anger has burned itself out. He is not the slow-burn type as Sam is, and he has now completely forgotten his bad mood of seconds earlier. "Now then Beary-Boy, we might as well start your review, but first, try and answer me this question. Heard this at the golf club yesterday I did. 'How many animals of each type did Moses take onto the ark?'"

Caught way off guard, Sam really wants to give the right answer and thinks long and hard, before answering: "Two, of course."

With a sneaky grin, Roger knows that the mouse-trap has snapped shut on Sam. Lured by the cheese of the easy answer, Sam has been undone.

"Pfffft. Bear, you truly are a stupid twat." He spells out the words, as though speaking to a dunderheaded child. "You're a balloon. A window-licker. It's Noah built the ark, not bloody Moses. What planet are you on? Honestly, I don't know why I give you a job in first place."

Sometimes it is the slightest breeze which pushes us over the edge; sometimes the most miniscule amount of pressure causes the pipe to burst. The footprint of a small mouse which treads just that tad too heavily upon the beam can cause the whole house to collapse.

With a bestial roar, Sam suddenly snaps. The undercurrent of anger, the swirling eddies of disbelief at the treatment which has been meted out to him swell to the surface; the lack of pizzazz in life, the lack of opportunities, the humiliation.

His eyes burn ursine yellow, thick black hairs begin to push through the outer layer of his pale skin, his hand thicken into fists and then huge paws. With a deafening crack, the bones in his back and shoulders stretch to twice their normal size in order to support ballooning musculature. Sam is now powerfully built, covered in a thick musty smelling fur with short powerful limbs.

Shockingly, he now also has a short tail which waggles aggressively.

Rearing up, he now reaches full majestic height. Sickle-like claws have broken through the soft insides of what are now unmistakably boxing-glove sized paws. Drool pours from a snout which has metamorphosed from his whiskery moustache and nose. The pungent aroma of rotten-meat emits from his opened mouth which now roars again, and the air is thick with the cacophony of jungle drums as he beats his chest. Lumbering forward, Sam has now backed Roger into a corner.

Now Roger has lost all control of his bodily functions and is gasping for breath. Sam hears air catching like a fist in his former boss's throat.

There is no killer blow. Doesn't need to be. This is how every monthly review in every job in the world goes, whether that job is lead husky in a sled team, or lead insurance salesman in a sales team. You're either the assaulter or the assaultee. It's all threat and cringe. Snap, bite, and kicked-dog yelp.

There's no need for Roger to pawprint a goddamn form to say Sam has passed his induction. Through sheer jawy aggression, Sam has forced himself onto the team, into the security of the lair.

Roger will waste away, forced to feed on scraps now. His beer-belly will collapse in on itself. He'll be on the tea run before Sam, Niall, Mark and Gerard even know it.

Sam begins to take more care of himself, licking his hair into a slick now, polishing his shoes. He's on the up, ready to take the insurance world by storm. Take it between the teeth and shake sentience out of it.

Facts of bloody life.