Out of the frying pan, into the fire. . .
From bad to worse . . .

Is this the situation Chance "Cash" Register finds himself in?
It soon becomes evident: he'd left the backbreaking factory job for a position as shipping clerk in a smut warehouse––that was closer to being stuck in a lunatic asylum, as opposed to an easier way to pick up a paycheck. It's 8-to-4. Monday-through-Friday. Forty mentally-taxing hours a week. In a bug bin.

The job itself seemed stress-free initially, the owner sane, decent . . . so this was not the issue. Problem was the downright psychotic and mentally skewed coworkers. But this is the way it is throughout the land for most non-monied peeps without connections and/or silver spoon advantage. You took abuse to stay alive, put grub on the table, make rent. Register knew he was fu*ked, but needing to make a dream happen, without having to go through the rigamarole of dealing with a big publishing entity and the BS that very often goes with it, he had to endure somehow, put up with the sadistic loons and their insanity . . . long enough to see his beloved anthology printed and out there . . . his way.

Question is: Will 'Nam vet Register be able to take the craziness long enough to scrape the funds together before he either suffers a serious breakdown and ends up in the VA nut ward . . . or slammer––for confronting a venal bully or two.