If Phil K Dick ruled over your faceless gigantic corporation, he'd weep over the photocopier and give the staff Powerpoint presentations explaining cosmic conspiracies at corporate strategy meetings. He'd arrange office furniture after hours into complicated patterns as an effort to communicate with the Gods, and he'd sidle up to you as you were doing your work and ask "Hey - got any? You know what I mean."
If Dylan Thomas ruled over your faceless gigantic corporation, he'd be busy having an affair with the secretary behind his personal assistant's back, and vice versa. He'd drink all the time, and go on a lunch break when he wanted to become sober. He'd call up random clients out of the list on the computer, and insult them in Welsh; and if they were Welsh he'd insult them in Spanish. And once, he wrote a long poem on the back of a print-out of corporate data and snarled at the company manager when she tried to take it off him.
If Dr Johnson ruled over your faceless gigantic corporation, he'd spend all his time drinking with poets at the coffee houses, and hardly come in to work at all. As the company went to pieces, he'd come into the office at random intervals and shout long and elaborate sentences composed of obscure adjectives in the ear of the person two seats away from you. He would attack the glass partition between his office and the rest of the room with his cane, and he would hurl several computers out of the window with his bare hand. When confronted by other staff and asked to leave, he would deliver off-the-cuff epigrams like "Some might say I live to drink. Others might say I drink to live. I say you are a scoundrel!" Or, more pithily, "Bugger off, ye sodding twats."
If Voltaire ruled over your faceless gigantic corporation, he'd set you all free and then go after the other executives with a blunderbuss.
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