"Tis no more room, by Crom!" roared the giant as yet more people tried to frantically push their way through the doors. "Lest you are all sorcerers to suddenly conjure more space in which to stand, wait for the next damned train!"

"Why not?" mused the barbarian, contemplatively stroking his stubbled chin with a huge hand. "Soldier, general, pirate, mercenary, buccaneer, chief, raider, even king have I been. Why not pope?"

"Where then is my holiday?" growled the giant, angrily kicking aside the pile of silks and sleeping furs as he rose to silence the alarm clock. "For that bearded lamb-hugger twas not the only to survive a crucifixion ." he continued, starting down the hall, "And I needed not three days to recover."

Conan scowled as he squeezed his huge frame into the tiny office kitchenette. "I know not what sorceries push water up seven stories," he rumbled, extending a calloused hand towards the faucet. "But by Crom I do know to turn the blasted tap off when I'm done using it!"

Quick as a cat, Conan was on his feet, a grin spread awkwardly across his scarred face. "Could not these curs give more warning afore they launch into one of their farewell speeches?" he muttered to himself as scattered applause broke out. He joined in, still uncertain of whom exactly was leaving.

A huge hand caught the man by the wrist, arresting the progress of noodles from styrofoam cup to his mouth. "My mood tis fouler than the latrines of the Scarlet Citadel this day." opined Conan as he tightened his grip. "So I say this but once: chew with your accursed mouth shut, dog."

"But for the color of that river — which is murkier than the fetid swill dispensed by the so-called coffee machine," opined the giant as he glanced out the window, "the view from the break room would be almost pleasant."

Conan stalked from the motel complex, the bit of bedframe still manacled to his wrist clanging stridently against the fire escape steps. "Erlik blast my soul," he grumbled, hitching up the sheet hastily tied about his waist, "to accept a dinner invitation from that She-Devil on the Day of Fools."

Sweat popped out on his bronze hide, as, straining his barbaric sinews to the utmost, Conan drove the tail spike through the monster's skull. Tuesday's wings convulsed spasmodically and it voiced an echoing death shriek as the venom did its work.

"Hear me now," snarled the barbarian, tossing the naked blade down upon his desk. "Any dog who tries to catch me with one of those 'Fool of April' jokes shall find themselves laughing down in Xandru's Hells." He swept the room with an azure gaze that held neither pity nor passion.

Reacting instantly, Conan threw himself into a forward roll, the envenomed tail spike passing a mere hair's breadth above his head. He regained his feet with sword in hand, and Tuesday's demoniac chittering in his ears.

Conan's ax was a great, glittering arc, splitting the serpentine scales of the beast's pallid underbelly. Monday gave up a gurgling death-rattle as a torrent of putrid entrails spilled out upon the paving stones.

The door hinges shattered as Conan kicked his way into the office, his eyes a pair of lambent cerulean coals smoldering with an undying hatred of Mondays.

Conan's back was a ruin of raw, red flesh beneath the rent mail links. "Is that the best you can do, dog?" he panted, gripping his ax defiantly in a white-knuckled fist. Monday's tentacles twitched hungrily as it shambled towards him.

"Friday at last, by Crom!" crowed Conan as he tossed aside his silks and furs, a smile splitting his broad face. "I have survived another week, though I make no such promises for any fools who rouse my ire this day."

"A full day of meetings, with naught decided not agreed upon?" roared Conan, slamming the door with a snarl. "There are levels of Xandru's Hells less torturous than this." Still grumbling darkly to himself, the barbarian snatched up his broadsword and stomped out.

The sun's rays illuminated an empty pile of sleeping furs, for Conan had arisen early. The weekend was nigh, and by Crom he would take Thursday head on!

Conan moved like a panther, leaping the last few steps with reckless abandon. He reached the platform just in time to see the great metal worm the locals called a train — his train! — disappear off into the darkened tunnel. His disappointed roar of fury was drowned out by its departing rumble.

"By the Black Bowels of Erlik!" bellowed the barbarian as he savagely booted open the meeting room door. "Rather would I face again the sanity-shattering horrors beneath Xathul than the utter incompetence of those trainees." He scrubbed a hand across his broad, sun-bronzed face.

Conan stood beneath the scalding stream of water, willing it to wash the weariness from his soul. He sighed, turned off the taps, and stepped from the shower. No amount of willpower would make it not be Tuesday.

The IT team scattered as, with an oath that would singe the ears of Xandru himself, Conan hurled his chair across the room. "Into the offal heap with this wretched Monday!" he roared. Dusting his huge hands, he snatched up his bag, and stalked snarling to the door.

"My temper is shorter than usual this Monday, dogs." cautioned Conan, as he stormed into the office, naked steel gripped in a white-knuckled fist. "Tread lightly, lest you finish it in the lowest depths of Xandru's Hells!"

"Crom's Blasted Bones!" grumbled Conan blinking away sleep. "Monday again already? Can no one put that thrice-dammed beast down for good and all?" He stretched, then stalked into the kitchen to brew coffee.

Conan surreptitiously tucked the uneven ends of his tie beneath the chain hauberk he wore under his shirt, hiding them from view. It was Friday, and by Crom he could not be bothered.

The mound of sleeping furs exploded outwards in a sudden frenzy of frenetic activity. "By the Teats of Derkeeta!" bellowed Conan as he rose. "Tis again Friday at last!"

"I see you, you ill-mannered cur!" roared the maddened giant through the quickly closing gap. "May Mitra have mercy on your soul, for by Crom, I shall not!" Denting the elevator doors with a blow from his huge fist, Conan spun and dashed for the staircase.

Conan rose, kicked his chair under his desk, and savagely ripped the tie from about his neck. Tuesday had not been terrible, but by Crom he was glad t'was done with all the same. He stomped towards the door and the freedom awaiting beyond.

Conan squelched back into the office, his sodden boots leaving a trail even a child could follow. "Which of you dogs tried to flush a whole roll of toilet paper?" he roared. "The slime-slicked shrine of Dagon was drier than that mens room, and by Crom it was underwater!"

"Tuesday," spat the bronze giant as he leveraged his massive frame into a sitting position. "Better than The Wheel of Pain, but only by the barest of margins."

"Here now," grunted Conan as he stepped through the doorway, "tis a sight more pleasing than all the gold in the suk of Khurusan." He tossed his cloak onto the back of his chair. "An office devoid of managers." He settled himself at his desk and prepared for an easy Monday.

Conan's bellow of barbaric laughter rattled the styrofoam ceiling tiles. "By Crom, tis not enough wine, women, nor gold in the world to make me want to work late on Friday!" Still chuckling at his manager's tenacity, he stalked out into the night.

Rolling from his pile of sleeping furs with a flourish that would have put a court tumbler to shame, Conan let out a triumphant roar. "Friday at last!" he crowed. "Only eleven turns of the glass afore the weekend!" He stalked into the kitchen, a grin upon his broad, bronzed face.

Eyes blazing, the giant thrust a spatulate finger towards the battered office clock. "My shift is over, dog!" bellowed Conan. "Ask me to stay later, and by Crom's Bones I'll varnish the floor with your brains!" The manager scuttled away, sheets of paper flying from their arms as they fled.

"Gods and Devils! I know why the curs in IT wear spectacles." growled Conan, rubbing his eyes with massive fists. "Any longer staring at this blasted screen, and my eyes are sure to fall from my head." He stomped off the break room.

The portal yawned before him like a toothless maw, a gaping pit descending to the darkest depths of Xandru's Nine Hells. Conan grunted sourly, tightened his sword belt, and stepped into the office.

A dagger sprouted suddenly from the face of Conan's foe. "About damned time!" he grumbled, pulling his dagger from the office clock on his way out.

The press of bodies broke on Conan's huge frame like water against a stone. "Are you curs all blind!" he howled, face dark with apoplectic fury. "Tis no more room on the damned train!"

"The rain has stopped." grunted Conan as he twitched aside the curtain covering the small window set in his bedroom wall. "And by Mitra, that is likely the only good thing I can say about Wednesday."

"I find naught funny about the situation," growled Conan, rising awkwardly from the rain-slicked paving stones. He stooped to recover his umbrella, the chorus of harsh laughter like knives in his back. "Not all have taloned feet", he continued. The crows perched on the fence continued laughing.

Conan dragged himself heavily from his pile of sleeping furs. "By the Golden Girdle of the goddess Ishtar, tis only Tuesday," he muttered sourly, blinking sleep from his eyes. "Whom must I slay to make this accursed week go faster?"

Snatching up his cloak, Conan dealt his desk a savage kick, toppling the shattered pieces to the carpeted floor. "By the Black Throne of Erlik, I am done with Mondays!" he roared storming out.

"Silence, cur!" growled Conan, shaking the plastic shards of his alarm clock from his huge fist. "I wish not to be awake yet." He pulled the sleeping furs over his head and cursed Monday with a zealousness that would have singed the hair of Xandru himself.

Dodging the deadly blue bolts of arcane lightning, Conan made a terrific throw. His axe spun in a glittering arc to bury itself in the sorcerer's skull, slitting it to the teeth. Blood bubbled from Friday's lips as he toppled to the floor, dead.

Delicate glass implements smashed to the floor as Conan upended the sorcerer's table. Streaking across the room, Friday's arcane lightnings smote into the wooden boards, crackling ominously.

Slick, ropey intestines spilled over Conan's sword-calloused hands as he buried his blade in Thursday's belly. "Back to the Outer Dark, you miserable cur!" he growled, glaring mercilessly up into the beast's death-glazing eyes.

"Come closer so I can kick you free of your illegitimate spine, dog!" roared Conan, tightening his grip on his ancient broadsword. Thursday screeched, its barbed spines quivering, as it circled him warily.

Conan's fingers closed like an iron vice around the fiend's throat. There was a sharp snap as Wednesday's head fell limply to the side, forked tongue lolling through shattered teeth.

Blood and teeth spattered the floor as Conan drove a massive fist into the fiend's malformed jaw. "Tis that the best you can do?" he bellowed as Wednesday staggered back to its feet.

Eyes blazing like twin orbs of bitter blue balefire, Conan crawled out from under the crumpled corpse of Tuesday. Bloody and battered, yet unbroken, he glared his barbaric defiance at the rest of the week.

"Ill-mannered mongrels," growled the giant under his breath as he threw himself down upon his chair. "I mislike Tuesdays as much as any other in this accursed office, yet I still have the grace to return a damned greeting!" He stabbed the PC on with a spatulate finger.