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I am interviewing with a man named Jorgen. Jorgen has a prosthetic arm. His real arm got bitten off by a shark. I have reason to believe this is true for three reasons:
1) Jorgen himself has told me this, looking very very serious about it in a don't-joke-about-this kind of way.
2) The shark, stuffed, is hung behind Jorgen on his office wall.
3) Sally, the attractive secretary (early 30s, I'd guess) told me this information, and Sally Never Lies. She is too honest. She is from the Midwest. Nobody in the Midwest lies. It's genetic.

I hope to get this job. I would prefer not to work at [large chain bookstore deleted] anymore. I'll be working at a large Manhattan entertainment company. I can't really talk about what I'd be doing. You may not have heard of us, but you've *definitely* heard of some of the things we put out.

If all goes well--and I think it has, Jorgen seemed to like me--I may well get the job.

Jorgen looks at me. He looks deep into my eyes, smilling for the first time in our interview.

"Tomorrow," he says, "We sacrifice the goat."

I think he's kidding.

Oh God, I hope he's kidding.