Wolf Pack Behavior

A wolf pack: the first 3 are the old, sick, sick MDs; they pass their bidding on to the entire pack. If it was the other way round, they would be incensed, chuckling in disbelief before throwing printers at the fluffiest cubs. In case of an ambush their statuses conveniently change to 'out-of-pocket'. Then come 5 """"""strong""""""ones, the VPs, the front line. They are too busy comparing hair graft procedure downtimes and sobbing alone in their empty apartments, brightly colored writing vessels still clutched in their lifeless fingertips, at 2:00 in the morning to be bothered with learning the minutiae of wolf pack etiquette (read: masking psychological defeat to keep morale in check, maintaining some sense of self respect and not jumping nose-first in the direction of their superiors' anal sphincters). In the center are the rest of the pack members [overenthusiastic Starbucks barista, creepy ER analyst with curiously clammy baby hands, cleaning ladies, gaggle of giggling, warbling EAs who literally can't even everything like seriously, post-MBA associates (in descending order of importance)] then the 5 strongest analysts following in a disoriented haze of stale coffee breath and amphetamine fumes. Last is alone, the zeta. Trailing behind because he had the audacity to slip away for 2/3 of a minute to take a piss and scream into his fist in the bathroom. Panting for breath as he slow jogs to catch up, the visceral fat wrapping around his organs tightening its grip in response to the unfamiliar jostle that is actual movement. He controls absolutely nothing from the rear. His presence means nothing. His models mean nothing. Perfectly spaced ActiveX elements? Nothing. The MD doesn't like rectangular buttons; make them all ever-so-slightly square. His emails mean nothing. Replies? Wouldn't know; never got one. Keyboard so war-torn that the One Key to Rule Them All can only be identified by a greasy fingerprint and the crumb-and-unidentifiable-hair-filled pit lying adjacent? Again, nothing. Merely a cruel metaphor for the empty space in his chest in which the F1 key that was his heart used to beat with purpose; some time has passed since it had been gouged out for serving no real purpose, just like its owner. In that position he can see everything, glare daggers into the unassuming backs of everyone, ponder to himself where he went wrong in life. He sees all of the pack. The pack moves according to the elders pace and help each other, watch each other.... until the peace is disrupted by an Associate squealing with glee and feigned horror (but really just glee). For he has spotted, this meticulous, indispensable, value-adding Associate, on slide 97, an instance of the all-too-meaningless "competitive differentiator" styled in the manner of, for the love of all that still resembles good in this harrowing world we inhabit, Times New Roman, a typographic eyesore in a sea of size 10.5 Arial, each serif hacking into the MD's wafer-thin patience like the disconcertingly sharp edge of a neglected toenail that is due for a trim. For he has "teased out", this commendable ASSSSSSSSSociate, stronghold of the center of the pack, an egregious example of a lazy and inept cub's lack of attention to detail. For he has demonstrated his worth, this noble Associate, his awe-worthy qualitative capabilities, his god-like Mastery of Business Administration that was borne on the shores of the Charles River (that is in Cambridge. Like where HBS is. HBS means Harvard; he went to Harvard. As in, Harvard Business School.) that separate barely-senior-junior-level wolf from underemployed cub.

Waiting for a turn. But love my Wolfpack, for real

Lol not. Why the fuck head hunters so slow ffs