8.h.
They moved across
the carpeted runner, almost reverently, making their way along the perimeter. At the end of the walkway was a staircase
that would take them up to the second level.
The featured of
the executives gradually took on a more porcine appearance. Upturned noses and sweaty, slappy skin. The frequency of obesity and abundance of
refuse collecting in office-sized wastebaskets was on the rise as well.
As they neared
the stairs a group of portly men hovering around a snack filled table caught
Corporate Man’s attention.
“So I drafted a
report for all the major banks urging them to charge heavy service fees for cashing
checks, even their own checks, from anyone who didn’t maintain an account with
their establishment,” said a very generously proportioned man with quivering
jowls, extra chins, and a piggish nose.
“Wait. Aren’t banks the place you’re supposed to go
to cash your checks?” asked a smaller, but still body-mass-endowed man, his
brow glistening with triglycerides.
“What? For Free?” asked the bejowled man. “Next you’ll be telling me that the banks
should make change for people without getting some kind of cut.”
“Well of course,”
said the small but body-mass-endowed man.
“They’re banks. Isn’t that where
the expression comes from?”
“What expression?”
“You know. What do you think I am? A bank?”
The bejowled
man shook his head, scowled fiercely, and said, “They’ve got to pay those
tellers that are making all that change and cashing all those checks. Where do you think that money comes from?”
“Doesn’t all
that interest they collect on loans pay for all that?”
“Look asshole,
that money goes to the executives and the shareholders. What makes you think– Wait… Wait… You’re fucking with me, right?”
The small but
body-mass endowed man grinned.
“Oh man. Good one!” said the bejowled man.
The rest of the
gathered portly all broke into fits of raucous laughter.
“You know
what?” said Corporate Man. “You greedy bastards need a good ass
kicking.”
He left the
carpet and marched over to the table of grease-sweating tycoons. He poked one in the chest, his finger sinking
deeper into the swollen flesh than he thought it would.
“Where do you
want it?” Corporate Man said.
The bejowled
man rubbed at his chest, his face a swollen mix of offense and utter confusion.
“Where do I
want what?” he said.
General Apathy
set his hand on Corporate Man’s shoulder and said, “The bottles of champagne
and the whale blubber hors d'oeuvres. My
friend here has been inspired by your… accumulation and wishes to send along
his compliments.”
“Oh,” said the
bejowled man. “Thanks for the
recognition. Just have it brought to the
table.”
General Apathy
nodded and gently escorted Corporate Man back to the carpet and to the next set
of stairs where the rest of the Union awaited him.
“How gallant,”
said General Apathy. “How pointless and
futile. I do recommend that you curb
your antics and remember where you are.
Violent confrontation is nearly non existent on the fifty-second floor
and I doubt those on the upper levels will tolerate such an attack. Especially the shareholders on level
three. Do we understand one another?”
He looked at Corporate
Man.
Corporate Man looked away, hissed out a breath, and then inhaled, deep
and slow.
“Great,” said
General Apathy. “Please follow me.”
They ascended
the next flight of steps.