What happens when you combine Moliere's the misanthrope, Huysmans Against the Grain, Dostoevsky's bureaucratic nightmares and a whole heap of junk stored in the mind of a wayward writer hell bent on divine literary creativity?

You get this bad mama-jumbo of a stream of conscious novella about a man who's superb at a job that only requires five minutes of work an eight hour day, see's doppelgängers who do not look like him everywhere and fails to look after a turtle.

The jewel encrusted turtle being the only one he can have a joke with.

Let's face it, we know he's gonna blow something up, time to guess what?