Outside, the people in the office might have overheard a loud rumbling, as if from an old bike approaching. Outside, the rumbling was far louder, drawing the attention of everybody in earshot as the rider brought the chopper round into the office's car park before finally cutting the engine.

A couple of minutes later, Boris Beatup came into the scene, bike helmet under his arm and looking as 50's slick as ever - which, by modern standards, was very much not slick at all for how dated the style was. Still, he did carry himself with confidence, albeit a begrudging confidence that told everybody he didn't really want to be here; he'd learned long ago that Albert held no love for any of his co-workers other than Victoria, and he did not care to reciprocate the lack thereof.

He did, however, greet everybody else he passed with a pair of finger pistols and a perfunctory 'How you doin', fella?' or 'How you doin', toots?', depending on the recipient's genders, saving a wave and a slightly overloud 'Ayyy, what's cookin', Marko?' for the jetpack-bearing flying, until he eventually reached his desk and flopped into his chair, turning the stupid thing on and re-greasing and re-combing his hair. He and Mark had had a lot of discussion about how annoying the helmets were for keeping up your style, and yeah, Albert hated it when they did that on "his time", but so what? That square hated almost literally everything, and it wasn't Boris' fault the guy was a fat, balding middle manager.