Fucking Fazed

There is fazed, and the more commonly used - unfazed. This dude today was definately fazed. To protect the possibly embarraced, I am going to change the name of the hero of my story to Ed. My workspace has changed recently. It used to be a regular Office Space nightmare. Rows of efficient cubicles. No color to speak of. Uniformly uniform. Recent relocations have thrown the norm out the window and now our workspaces are a pieced together jigsaw remnicent of the the barricade built by revelutionaries in Paris. Peices of desk tacked together with lawfuly monitered space between them.

I first noticed Ed by his voice. His usual nasal monotone was now squeaky and tense. Raspy and whispering. He was hanging like a scarecrow over the top of my bosses "half cube", obviously trying to communicate with him. His shirt untucked and tie in hand. He was not okay. The Boss had him sit down in one of the shitty folding chairs. Now I could see his face. Now I could see there was a problem. The usual pale with red splotch combo was at work here, but in reverse. His face was bright red with white splotches. Lips really pale, almost bluish. His eyes looked like a fish's. Red and poppoing. His hands wouldn't stay still. Stiff like talons they tore along his scalp like a rake.
"So itchyyyy."
He sounded like he had a rat in his mouth. His breathing was laboured and he was heaving deeply into each breath, dangling perilously close to a full blown motherfucker of a panic attack.

I caught the Boss's gaze. He was wondering how he could transport himself to another dimension. A dimension that did not have Ed, his panic attack or the impending PowerPoint presentation that this little fiasco was going to fuck up. He was slack jawed and useless.