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Terror at the Graphic Design Studio

Dale owned a graphic design firm, and for the first 10 years, he never had to file a single business insurance claim. Graphic design is a clean, safe occupation, after all. One sunny spring day changed all of that.

Business had been slow for years, and Dale finally decided to lay off some of the production staff. Most of the other graphic design studios had long been using computers instead of drafting tables and X-Acto knives for production, but, with the money crunch, Dale couldn’t afford to upgrade. First on the chopping block was a staffer named Phillip, who had the short, squat build of a sparkplug and a personality to match. His nickname was “Flipper,” and it didn’t take much to flip his switch. On this lovely spring day, Dale called Flipper into the office to give him his pink slip.

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When Flipper exited the office, his face was ashen and he moved woodenly, like a man headed to the gallows. He took his seat at the drafting board in his cubicle and began to call his wife. The rest of the staff moved back to their own cubicles to give him some privacy.

Suddenly, a long scream that rivalled any in Psycho drowned out the usual office noises. The staff turned their heads as one in the direction of the scream, horrified to discover that it came from Flipper’s cubicle. A moment later, Flipper emerged—still screaming, glasses hanging by one ear, holding an arm that was spraying what seemed to be pints of blood in all directions. Had he sliced his wrist in despair over the impending layoff?

The staff hung back, most of them ready to faint from the sight of blood. Finally, the office manager, who’d had some first-aid training, fashioned a tourniquet from one of the company’s promotional T-shirts. Another layout artist drove him to the hospital a half-block away.

Slowly, Dale and his staff made their way into Flipper’s cubicle. It looked like the set of a slasher film. Blood splatters made nightmarish patterns all over the cubicle walls, carpet, bookshelves, drafting table and chair, and even the acoustical-tiled ceiling. All that was missing was the crime-scene tape.

Two business-insurance claims were filed that day, one for workman’s compensation and another for property damage. When the adjuster from the insurance company came, Flipper was back in his blood-stained office, a large bandage on his stitched wrist. The adjuster’s eyes bugged.

“W-what happened here?” the adjuster sputtered.

“I was on the phone with my wife, and my X-Acto knife came rolling off the top of my drafting table. My arm was in my lap, and I didn’t see the knife coming. It made a deep slash in my wrist just at the wrong place.” Flipper answered.

No amount of professional cleaning would completely remove the traces of Flipper’s dried blood, so insurance paid for new cubicle partitions, ceiling tiles and carpet, plus the reupholstering of the drafting chair. Soon, a truck arrived and began unloading computer equipment for all the production staff. Dale was finished with X-Acto knives.