Bob was the Barbarian of the Mail Room. No one called him that to his face, of course. Something about the combination of his penchant for wearing leather and his grimace was enough, actually, to keep people from calling him anything but "Robert" despite his seeming aggravation at the formality. His seeming aggravation over everything seemed to overwhelm such niceties.
Around lunch time, Bob could be heard yelling and throwing pieces of mail like they were axes let loose at his enemies, landing them perfectly in the assorted bins, amidst his mighty yawps and roars. Ladies of the secretarial pool swooned as the fluttering of testosterone that accompanied Bob's foray into their harem.
Bob would bring back reams of correspondence with the kind of rictus grin that suggested they were spoils from his adventures. He thought nothing of swooping in upon a meeting of suited knights, baring his muscular torso and seething, his excuse being that he was making sure "nothing needed to be taken" to his lair. Red thumbtacks would bloodily mark incorrect addresses as if they were trophy heads displayed on the cavernous walls of his territory.
Bob could never be fired. It would come up amongst the lords of the human resources division, usually by a recent immigrant to their council. Bob was their dirty little secret, their first line of defense against the SASEs of the world.
I think I was inspired by:
"Curiously enough, though he didn't know it, he was also a direct male-line descendant of Genghis Khan, though intervening generations and racial mixing had so juggled his genes that he had no discernible Mongoloid characteristics, and the only vestiges left in Mr. L. Prosser of his mighty ancestry were a pronounced stoutness about the tum and a predilection for little fur hats." (Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams.)