"But the fun has just begun!", Steve continued, as he brusquely pulled his black turtleneck® over his head in a practiced motion. He lunged over the thick beige desk with routed edges, not yet replaced by the rounded-edged white lucite monolith to come in the next decades.
The candidate, already disoriented, was now frozen still in shock. Burrell and I were not completely surprised, and began casually walking toward the door before being 'asked' to participate in what was to come. Burrell, known for his grace under pressure during many of our Forced Marches in marathon coding sessions for the Apple Lisa, glanced over at the minibar. Following his glance, we were assured that The MacAllan 30 was full and the rectal funnel was sterilized and wrapped, and we continued more confidently to the egress as we heard the loud 'thud' of the applicant's chair hitting the ground, pivoted under the force of a pouncing Steve Jobs.
Burrell opened the door fluidly, hoping not to draw attention. I dared a look back, not entirely unlike Lot's wife as I mused at the time; Steve's hands were already at work. His dominant right hand was wrapped around the poor candidate's throat, as his left hand reached downward, pulling at the man's pants zipper. Half mesmerized I listlessly walked through the door, my head unconsciously craning at the sight in morbid curiosity. Already, the candidate had submitted, possibly in relief and hope at a prestigious position, as his pants began to descend. Steve raised his head, and terror struck. I frantically pivoted my head forward though I knew what I had done. A chill ran down my spine.
The last I saw was Steve throwing me the thumbs-up before reaching into his own tailored jeans pocket. As the heavy door both clicked and thudded solidly behind me, I realized that I'd been holding my breath. Sighing deeply, my next thought was that the 'woomp-ka-chunk' of the door would make a fantastic System Alert sound for the new Mac OS 8. As I set myself to think about how to requisition a microphone and similar door for my own office, my thoughts strayed. The candidate was being initiated on both fronts, I thought, as my own manhood stiffened. Steve would retrieve his "Shiva" LSD from the left pocket of his custom-frayed jeans and then proceed to unbutton himself.
Like all Apple employees, I had become intimately aware of Steve's endowment. For the sake of posterity I will avoid details, but allow me only to suggest that the sledgehammer in the infamous "1984" ad was, in fact, molded after the proportions of our own dear leader.
I turned my head to Burrell and we both bowed our heads. In my case, it was mostly sympathy; the poor candidate might think that this was just a rough initiation, a baptism by fire, and look forward to more wholesome days. We knew, of course, to "think different". We'd chuckled nervously to ourselves when TBWA\Chiat\Day pitched the slogan a few weeks ago. If they'd only known how right they were.
Burrell went right, as I took the left-hand path. My erection throbbed in a revolting mixture of sympathy and schadenfreude, but by cleverly pivoting my body to the left, I was able to hide it from clear sight. I reached my office in the space of a single breath and opened the door. It was a disappointing hollow slab of beige metal, offering no resistance to my push. I thought again, and hoped fervently that my requisition order would go through. In cock or mind, I could never have a shade on our leader, but how it would buoy my weary soul to mimic him in any way... even just a similar mahogany door!
As I entered, the door fell back on itself. I heard, or maybe just imagined, the candidate's howl as his rectum collapsed under repeated thrusting. Steve would have already fed him the acid, and at this point would have worked his shaft at least half-way in. If a tree falls in the forest, does anyone hear it? In any case, the sounds would end soon. Mostly for the candidate's benefit, Steve would soon withdraw and masturbate to completion into his mouth. A minute or so was all it would take for the LSD to be mostly absorbed, and only then would could he swallow the spent piece of blotter, aided by at least 10 milliliters of semen. I recalled the taste briefly; if nothing else, Steve's diet would often grant us at least a small respite. Piney with a hint of grapefruit, it rivaled the local IPAs which flowed freely in the cafeteria, but which one was more intoxicating?
I rested myself briefly against the back of the door, before spying the 'puck' mouse attached to one of the USB ports on my prototype Bondi Blue iMac. I don't think I need to go any further here for the discerning reader to imagine what 'came' next.