Four men in suits stood menacingly outside the patent office. They worked for The Man - as any besuited foursome would - and were monitoring the office for the presence of a local inventor. Rumor had it the amateur engineer had crafted something that could prove innovative and cost-saving, two of the most treasured words to any marketing department, and therefore something Big Corporate would obviously want squashed because, as we all know, if there's something corporations don't want more of, it's sales. 

It was then the bespectacled nerd came shuffling out of the front doors, loose papers slipping out of his cradled arms like confetti. One fell to the ground before the men in suits. They gave it a quick glance: a patent application. No, this simply wouldn't do. One of the men in suits tucked his arms around the inventor from behind, while the other three punched his guts out. They ripped his papers up and ate the pieces so that he couldn't tape them back together. One threw his briefcase through a third-story apartment window. 

"Now you get outta here!," they barked at him in unison. 

Another job well done. 

"Mr. Fareham, there is almost nothing in this world that can be achieved by eight men that cannot also be done by four, and that includes the beating up of eight men.

I recall a quote from a famous bear-hunter: "What one man can do, another can do". 

Extrapolated, what eight men can do, four men can do.

If anyone steps out of that patent office with as much as a penny saved in prospective manufacturing costs, we are going to use their kidneys as speed bags."

The corporate world is a strange beast, full of busy bodies jostling for the next rung on the executive ladder. Some people used their smarts to gain an advantage, others used cunning, and others still used four men in suits to do their dirty work. Charged with keeping a tight lid on local development, they were to regional inventors what the onion was to Fresno County: inevitable.

Having spent the afternoon pumping a gaseous sulphuric compound into the basement of a consumer getting dangerously close to redeeming a warranty, they were back outside the patent office making sure there was no funny business afoot. A source amongst the clerks had tipped them off to a grizzled old scientist on the precipice of discovering how to make pen ink last longer. This, of course, was unacceptable. 

As luck would have it, he exited the doors just then, fresh new patent application in his hand. The men sprung into action. The first to reach him launched the man into the wall with a bone-crunching shoulder charge, knocking his shoes clean off. Two others grabbed the shoes and began to beat him with them. The fourth viciously tore every paper, blueprint and application in the man's possession up like a crazed animal, shoving the pieces into his mouth and swallowing them so that he would not be able to tape them back together, as was protocol. 

A vintage effort, the execs were going to be very happy. 

A telegram came in for the four men in suits from the head office. One read aloud to the other three:

"Hello gentlemen,

Don here, SVP Industrial Operations. I've just left a huddle with Tim and George where the great job you guys were doing was a priority topic on the agenda. After I've aligned with Jerry later today, I'd love to get together for a catch-up and discuss next steps. I'll be in Geneva next week for a workshop but I'd love to block out 30 minutes on my schedule for you four when I return (if I'm not already booked up to my ears - ha ha ha!). 

Best regards,

Don"

The positive mumbling from the men indicated morale had risen. They had been taking the hammer to provincial brainpower with outstanding results and the execs were taking notice.

If there was one thing they had learned from their careers as long-time servants of a demanding corporate structure, it was the magic of iteration. You repeat the process, analyze the results and do it more efficiently the next time around. The men had turned beatdowns into an art form.

Their stomachs had grown so used to digesting paper they'd trained their digestive systems to extract a full course of nutrients from a folder of blueprint sketches. 

Their fists could shatter reinforced steel after a decade of punching carburetors into asphalt and reducing garages to ash with the power of uppercuts and windmilling. 

Their palms were permanently indented with the curvature of briefcase handles, from the amount of them they had swung into rivers, windows, fires and trash compactors. 

They'd constructed a kitchen island at their clubhouse out of the collective dentures of the municipal science & engineering association. 

They were extraordinary.

They were God's chosen four.