It was a dastardly day for sales, that's how Mook Mickleman thought about it.
The phones hadn't rung, the door hadn't jangled, the showroom was deserted, the weather beyond the display windows was tuned to a dead channel. Mook mentally credited Bill Gibson, the assistant sales manager, for that metaphor. Bill was a fan of oxymoronic literature.
"Saaay-faaay," drawled Mook affectionately. Bill glanced over.
"So Mook, got time to embellish your monologues I see?" said Bill. Bill was of the journalism school of business; at work, Bill never drawled, cajoled, exclaimed, ejaculated or yelled. Bill said things. Even when he questioned, whether rhetorically or in fact, he never asked, he said. As Mook pondered this facet of Bill's character, he wondered how a man could make a question without inflection, not even a rising intonation, but Bill managed it.
"Bill, I'm having a lousy sales day," complained Mook.
"By that you mean your sales are infested with Lice?" said Bill.
"Ha ha," snided Mook.
"Could be worse," said Bill.
"We could be having a bad sales week?"
"Bad sales month?"
"Bad sales year?"
"What's worse than that!?!"
"No you're right, I can't think of something worse than that."
Bill left Mook fuming and went back to his paperwork, outside, The snow was letting up. Bill allowed himself a quiet whistle.