Figuring you should in any case court his favor, and that the wall is in desperate need of some REAL art, you grab a pen from his desk and begin scribbling down your own masterful take on the character.
VOILA.
It’s beautiful. Avante-garde. Genre-redefining. Anti-bourgeoisie. the epitome of everything art SHOULD be. No robot could ever create this.
Beaming with pride, you sign it with a flourish and stride over to the wall, ready to put it in the center. Its rightful place.
However, Cobson’s arm shoots out to stop you.
<Oh, sorry, that’s for employees’ art only.
For a moment, you think you see a flicker of anger on his face, but it is instantly replaced by the same even-tempered smile.
<I’ll gladly keep it though. I appreciate it.
He takes the picture from your hands and places it in a drawer under his desk. As he does so, you notice that he has what appears to be some kind of odd lump protruding from his rear. You feel it best not to question this.
What do you do?
