He cleared his throat *cough cough* and stared at us all. He looked more like an English teacher with his thick glasses and neatly trimmed beard than a corporate uberboss, but any lingering doubts about his lack of humanity were erased when he began speaking.
"There will be," he began, and a stream of small black flies flew from his mouth as he spoke, "a 45 day period where those of you above the age of 55 may opt to leave the company and receive continued health care coverage for the period of one year, or until you find yourselves another job someplace else.
"Come September," he said, and a foul sulphurous stench became noticeable, "there will be significant steps made towards automation.
"Following this period of automation and early retirement," he continued, black ooze beginning to seep from his nostrils, ears, and the corners of his eyes, "positions will be merged or eliminated entirely. You will not be safe. Your families will not be safe. You will be fucked, royally and totally, especially if you make more than $30,000 a year. Not all of you will be sacrificed for greater corporate profits, however, and we won't tell you right now who will and who will not be. If we did, those of you who are going to be fired would perhaps attempt to find other jobs now, leaving us with an employee vacuum that would hurt our massive broadcasting profits. As such, we're going to string you all along for the next four months until we're prepared to lop your heads off, and then we'll carry on without you, and bathe naked in tubs of money from our bonuses.
"Any questions?" he asked. A lone hand timidly rose, and fell again as a shot rang out. The body collapsed to the studio floor, and Hop-a-Long put the smoking gun back into his shoulder holster. "Any further questions?"
"No one escapes from Stalag 17," he said. "Unless we fire your sorry asses."