"Bob, you're wanted in Mister Widmore's office," said Sue, a tasty little bit of crumpet employed in the administration section of Widmore Enterprises.

Bob's heart sank. Charles Widmore never saw anyone unless it was to fire them, and judging from the confident executives leaving his office in tears on a daily basis (what with the credit crunch and all) the experience was not a pleasurable one.

"Ah, Bob." said Widmore. "You were supposed to be here at eight, and its a quarter past. That makes it eight fifteen."

"Sue only just told me." Bob looked nervously at a picture of a polar bear on a wall. There was a sort of plane shape in the background and what looked like a mysterious island.

Widmore stood and walked over to his drinks cabinet, taking out a bottle of expensive looking whiskey. "Do you have any idea how much this incredibly expensive whiskey costs, Bob?"

Bob, who knew nothing about whiskey, shook his head.

"No, me neither. But I imagine its a bloody lot. You're fired!"

"Awww, man!" said Bob, and went to pack his personal belongings away.