"Hold, friend!" bellowed the barbarian, shaking the water from his hands. "Think you that stuff grows on trees?" There was silence for a heartbeat. Then, from over the stall door, came a disembodied voice. "What do you think toiler paper is made from?"

"The pedestrian walkway staircase is undergoing maintenance tomorrow," announced the manager. "You'll all need to find an alternate route to work." "Why not climb down the scaffolding?" scoffed Conan, burly arms crossed over his massive chest. "We're not all Cimmerians," she shot back acidly.

"How many more are there?" grumbled the giant, rising to his feet as another group of nervous trainees was paraded into the room. "Just send the striplings in all at once so we can be done with these interruptions," he remarked. "By Crom I wish not to waste my whole day on repeated introductions."

Sword gripped in white-knuckled fist, Conan flattened himself against the dripping stone wall. Monday was on the prowl again.

"Think you the alignment of some celestial orb as it spins through the cosmos sets the tone of our lives?" scoffed the giant. "Mortals make our own destiny." "You could have simply said 'Happy New Year, too' you Hyborian weirdo," his coworker grumbled. But only after Conan was well out of earshot.

Conan took a long pull of coffee from his tankard, his heavy brows furrowed in thought. "Have you not tried sacrificing a goat to this Zuul?" he finally suggested helpfully. "Mayhaps a comely virgin?" "For the last time, it's ZOOM!" yelled the IT manager. "And that won't help!"

"Have I to listen to this accused song once more," growled the barbarian, the knuckles of his clenched fist standing out white against his bronzed skin, "by Crom it will be raining blood in this office!" Someone hastily snapped off the radio, silencing Toto.

"Tis no more room, by Crom!" roared the giant as yet more people tried to frantically push their way through the doors. "Lest you are all sorcerers to suddenly conjure more space in which to stand, wait for the next damned train!"

"Why not?" mused the barbarian, contemplatively stroking his stubbled chin with a huge hand. "Soldier, general, pirate, mercenary, buccaneer, chief, raider, even king have I been. Why not pope?"

"Where then is my holiday?" growled the giant, angrily kicking aside the pile of silks and sleeping furs as he rose to silence the alarm clock. "For that bearded lamb-hugger twas not the only to survive a crucifixion ." he continued, starting down the hall, "And I needed not three days to recover."

Conan scowled as he squeezed his huge frame into the tiny office kitchenette. "I know not what sorceries push water up seven stories," he rumbled, extending a calloused hand towards the faucet. "But by Crom I do know to turn the blasted tap off when I'm done using it!"

Quick as a cat, Conan was on his feet, a grin spread awkwardly across his scarred face. "Could not these curs give more warning afore they launch into one of their farewell speeches?" he muttered to himself as scattered applause broke out. He joined in, still uncertain of whom exactly was leaving.

A huge hand caught the man by the wrist, arresting the progress of noodles from styrofoam cup to his mouth. "My mood tis fouler than the latrines of the Scarlet Citadel this day." opined Conan as he tightened his grip. "So I say this but once: chew with your accursed mouth shut, dog."

"But for the color of that river — which is murkier than the fetid swill dispensed by the so-called coffee machine," opined the giant as he glanced out the window, "the view from the break room would be almost pleasant."

Conan stalked from the motel complex, the bit of bedframe still manacled to his wrist clanging stridently against the fire escape steps. "Erlik blast my soul," he grumbled, hitching up the sheet hastily tied about his waist, "to accept a dinner invitation from that She-Devil on the Day of Fools."

Sweat popped out on his bronze hide, as, straining his barbaric sinews to the utmost, Conan drove the tail spike through the monster's skull. Tuesday's wings convulsed spasmodically and it voiced an echoing death shriek as the venom did its work.

"Hear me now," snarled the barbarian, tossing the naked blade down upon his desk. "Any dog who tries to catch me with one of those 'Fool of April' jokes shall find themselves laughing down in Xandru's Hells." He swept the room with an azure gaze that held neither pity nor passion.

Reacting instantly, Conan threw himself into a forward roll, the envenomed tail spike passing a mere hair's breadth above his head. He regained his feet with sword in hand, and Tuesday's demoniac chittering in his ears.

Conan's ax was a great, glittering arc, splitting the serpentine scales of the beast's pallid underbelly. Monday gave up a gurgling death-rattle as a torrent of putrid entrails spilled out upon the paving stones.

The door hinges shattered as Conan kicked his way into the office, his eyes a pair of lambent cerulean coals smoldering with an undying hatred of Mondays.

Conan's back was a ruin of raw, red flesh beneath the rent mail links. "Is that the best you can do, dog?" he panted, gripping his ax defiantly in a white-knuckled fist. Monday's tentacles twitched hungrily as it shambled towards him.

"Friday at last, by Crom!" crowed Conan as he tossed aside his silks and furs, a smile splitting his broad face. "I have survived another week, though I make no such promises for any fools who rouse my ire this day."

"A full day of meetings, with naught decided not agreed upon?" roared Conan, slamming the door with a snarl. "There are levels of Xandru's Hells less torturous than this." Still grumbling darkly to himself, the barbarian snatched up his broadsword and stomped out.

The sun's rays illuminated an empty pile of sleeping furs, for Conan had arisen early. The weekend was nigh, and by Crom he would take Thursday head on!

Conan moved like a panther, leaping the last few steps with reckless abandon. He reached the platform just in time to see the great metal worm the locals called a train — his train! — disappear off into the darkened tunnel. His disappointed roar of fury was drowned out by its departing rumble.

"By the Black Bowels of Erlik!" bellowed the barbarian as he savagely booted open the meeting room door. "Rather would I face again the sanity-shattering horrors beneath Xathul than the utter incompetence of those trainees." He scrubbed a hand across his broad, sun-bronzed face.

Conan stood beneath the scalding stream of water, willing it to wash the weariness from his soul. He sighed, turned off the taps, and stepped from the shower. No amount of willpower would make it not be Tuesday.

The IT team scattered as, with an oath that would singe the ears of Xandru himself, Conan hurled his chair across the room. "Into the offal heap with this wretched Monday!" he roared. Dusting his huge hands, he snatched up his bag, and stalked snarling to the door.

"My temper is shorter than usual this Monday, dogs." cautioned Conan, as he stormed into the office, naked steel gripped in a white-knuckled fist. "Tread lightly, lest you finish it in the lowest depths of Xandru's Hells!"

"Crom's Blasted Bones!" grumbled Conan blinking away sleep. "Monday again already? Can no one put that thrice-dammed beast down for good and all?" He stretched, then stalked into the kitchen to brew coffee.