The boss had seen fit to purchase a brand new Escalade in spite of it all. In spite of the depressing sales outlook. In spite of the paychecks he couldn't write. In spite of his office's noodle-thin parking lot.

And somehow parking became the rallying cry of the disgruntled. Sandwiched in an alley, the slender strip of asphalt held cars like an aircraft carrier, diagonally and wing to wing. Even before the behemoth's arrival, pulling in took precision. Backing out took ages.

But now, where the brand new Escalade stopped, so too did the parking lot. Four spots in or eight, the math was simple. None shall pass.

"What, do you expect me to park it on the street?" the boss reasoned, "it's a brand new Escalade."

He showered it with attention. Once a week, a representative from the nearby carwash would jog over -- jog -- to retrieve the keys, drive it off to a thorough cleaning, and swiftly return. Once a week, in addition to the preexisting claustrophobia, this sudsy interloper would rearrange the boundaries mid-day, trapping employees like miners in a cave-in.

During one such week, there emerged a great calamity from that parking lot. The commotion spilled into the office, bringing with it dire words like "crashed" and "his brand new Escalade". Before gawkers could even muster, the boss sped through the office and toward the side door. He was met at the threshold by a new representative from the nearby carwash: a young man with slouched shoulders, a terrified look, and an eyepatch.