3.b.xiii
The bossman
was sweating. His side ached and the
over-the-counter pain killers were doing nothing to dampen the pain from his
broken ribs even after he’d exceeded the daily limit by more than a few
dosages. Still, nothing. He should have been at home in bed, recovering,
but he knew that that East Side bitch never took days
off, never slept, so he was determined to push through the pain and find a way
to best her.
The sweat,
however, was not a result of his physical discomfort. Perspiration came because of the alert he’d
received from the Big Bossman. On a
normal day he would have been unnerved by correspondence from the big guy, but
contact so soon after his failure at the Price Killers Wholesale Superstore
seemed far too coincidental. He needed
to be careful. He was, most assuredly,
being monitored.
There was a
buzz from his intercom. This had a three
fold effect. One, a yelp burst forth
from the bossman’s lips. Two, a close
call as some pee tried to escape into his pants. Three, a lurching jump that shifted his ribs
and sent a fresh surge of pain through him.
Also, there
was an increase of sweat, but since he was already sweating, this did not count
as four.
“Yes,” he spat
into the machine.
“Emily from
Human Resources is on line one.”
“Tell her I’ll
have to call her back,” he said. The
bossman reached for some papers to shuffle in order to provide the illusion of
industrious activity, but this was not his desk and so nothing was where he
thought it ought to be. This was not
even his office. His was still under
repair due to his last rampage.
The bossman
scowled and considered damaging this office.
The effort would require a great deal of movement so he thought better
of the idea. And the receptionist on
this floor seemed competent enough.
He wiped sweat
from his brow then rose, gingerly, and shuffled into the private bathroom all
upper level executives enjoyed. He
washed his hands and face and took another handful of pain pills.
