6.p.
The small,
runty man fumed. There would be
firings. Oh yes. Someone wasn’t doing their job properly. If someone
had been keeping up with their assigned tasks then the Union
would be in a mess of trouble at the southern end of the building instead of
over here, standing on the other side of a cubicle wall from his position. And what were they doing? Just standing there with their mouths hanging
open for all he could tell. What’s with
that? Were they trying to piss him
off? Looking all stupid, as if to say
“duh… we know where you are,” or something like that?
He fingered
his pencil-thin moustache. He’d have to
take care of this himself. Restaff the
entire floor. Move the operation
overseas and find cheaper labor there.
But first, the Union . Yes, he’d handle them himself. In fact, he could do with some good, old
fashioned work. He still hadn’t blown
off all that steam from his airport encounter yet.
The Outsourcer
slinked down the corridor and disappeared into a small panel in the wall, and
sulked like a hungry eel waiting in a craggy rock for oblivious fish.