A Novel and A Play AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL LAMENT OF WORKING MAN, ORESTE CIRIOLA (PROFESSIONAL SLACKER), ALSO KNOWN BY HIS FRIENDS AS "ORI," WHOSE BALLS HAVE LITERALLY BEEN BUSTED BY EVERYONE AND ABOUT EVERYTHING THAT HE IS SLOWLY REALIZING WORK IS TIRING, AND IT WOULD BE BETTER... MUCH, MUCH BETTER, TO CALL IN SICK - PREFERABLY FOREVER. CHAPTER ONE Jump To It! The Boss has been closely watching Ori for a while. He's being a wise ass, he thinks, or else he's just an idiot. Why is he working so hard? Who asked him to work so hard that the shovel would create calluses on his hands? The Boss ordered Ori to dig a hole, that's all, but that dimwit has burrowed a fucking endless pit. "Damn, what a hole! It reminds me of your sister's... never mind!" the Boss mumbles to Ori, biting his lip. Actually, the Boss is not completely wrong. First, Ori broke through the asphalt with a pneumatic hammer, then he started wielding a pick - better than King Arthur wielding his sword during the Crusades - and finally, he started shoveling out mounds of dirt until he disappeared into the pit altogether. This is insane, who the hell asked him to do that, where on God's earth does he want go? is the Boss's Hamletic query. (Translation by Marco Remo Zanelli)