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Not quite an office, but...
When I was 19, I worked in terrible, horrible, filthy bar in south London. This place was the pits. The patrons were a selection of the worst people the UK (and possibly the world) had to offer. Gypsies, chavs, and just general scum. They had no respect for the staff, or even the owner/manager. The first night I worked there, some dude glassed the assistant manager. She ended up with 13 stitches on her face. Multiple times a week (and in some instances, multiple times a day) we'd have the cops there because of some guy was beaten, or glassed, or stabbed. Or a combination of all 3.
And I was always slow in getting paid. Always.
The owner/manager was a dirty old Irish cunt that would sit in his office all day, watch porn, and call sex-chat lines. Every time I'd complain about rude pricks at the bar, or people pouring their own drinks, he'd essentially tell me "I don't give a fuck what you do, work it out yourself and don't bother me about it".
Now... a thick Irish accent can be hard to understand if spoken quickly, like he used to talk. It appears I accidentally mistook "I don't give a fuck what you do, work it out yourself and don't bother me about it" as "steal a couple of thousand pounds from me over the course of a few months, and give the scum free drinks in return for drugs".
Anyone could have made that mistake though, right? 
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